Chapter Summary: After a a fight that leaves too much unsaid, you spend the day trying—and failing—to outrun the weight of it. Jack Abbot shows up with a tea, a toolbox, and a bad habit of not being bale to stay away.
CW: Discussions of death, and fluff.
a/n: Chapter 6 is upon us and just in time!! for those who have been following along, I think you'll enjoy this one. chapters are typicallyposted first on my ao3 first, so feel free spread some love over there. I've got nothing else to say, except bon appètit!
wc: 5.8 k
Not a lot, just forever
Intertwined, sewn together
As the rock bears the weather
Not a lot, just forever
—Adrianne Lenker
Jack Abbot stands, rooted to the stone roof beneath his feet as night bleeds into day. The wind is pleasantly warm where it hits his cheek, but all he feels is cold. It’s pressing and deep—starting from within and leeching out onto his bare skin.
His eyes are glued to the door, utterly taken by your absence. The aftermath of your fight has left him off kilter—like gravity shifted just enough to be noticeable.
He’s been on the receiving end of your irritation before—in fact, he thinks ends up there at least once a shift. But your genuine, unadulterated anger is something he is not overly familiar with. Not something he has ever had to navigate.
He said too much. Or not enough, coming out in all the wrong ways. It just got away from him, slipping through his hands like water before it spilled over the ground. He’s left with the conflicting feelings of irritation and regret pooling at his feet, soaking his shoes and threatening to pull him under.
The irritation burns, scorching a chorus of ‘Why can you understand?’ loud and suffocating in his ears.
The regret stings, reminding him he should have gone after you—shouldn't have let you leave it like this.
He’s your attending, he’s yours—
Jack sucks in a breath around the thought.
Do you not trust me?
You are my business.
It would save us a lot of time if you just stopped lying to me… To yourself.
Jack scrubs a rough hand through his hair, sinking into the dull, grounding tug of his fingers as they catch his curls.
Fuck.
~~~~~~
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand for what feels like the hundredth time in an hour, rousing you from sleep.
It takes you a moment to orient yourself, your hand moving blindly on the surface of the table until it comes in contact with your phone. The harsh, blue light has you wincing, your eyes still adjusting from the total darkness that has shrouded your room.
There’s a malicious pounding behind your eyes—the kind of pain that has you passing a second thought over pain killers or curling up under your thick duvet to never be seen again—but you hold focus on the screen.
Various notifications fill it—instagram, email, pinterest—but your eyes snag on the two message notifications: one from Ellis, and one from—
Jack Abbot: Hey, I’m sorry about this morning. Can we talk?
You freeze, feeling suddenly more awake than you were moments ago.
The fight on the roof this morning was…brutal, to say the least. You’d like to blame it on your exhaustion, but you know better. Anger still simmers under your skin, but it’s tangled now—knotted in something that feels like regret.
You wish you could take the whole morning back, go into the past and do it differently. Say less. Say more. Just something that doesn't have it end the way it did.
Jack meant well—he always does—but with Luke Myers breathing down your neck the last thing you needed was for Jack to try and fix it, to tell you how to handle it.
The whole thing just felt so…suffocating.
You hadn't needed him to fix it. Just to stay.
And still, you were the one that left. Storming off the roof and out of the hospital, leaving a trail of dust in your wake. You needed space—to get out of the confining hospital walls, out from everyone's sight, out from under it all.
You’re angry with him, so categorically angry with him. But you’re equally as angry with yourself.
It’s why you scroll past his message and click on Ellis's instead.
Ellis: What did you do to Abbot? He’s in a mood.
You scowl at her text and begin to type.
You: Are you working?
A few minutes pass, and you start to debate going back to sleep when—
Ellis: Yes, covering for Santos. Don’t ignore the question.
You: What makes you think I did anything?
Ellis: Because you practically flew out of here this morning after coming down from the roof, then Abbot followed you down looking like a kicked puppy.
You: I didn't even see you come in.
Ellis: How about you try answering the question?
You groan, warring over the consequences of blocking her number, but she’ll find out eventually, she always seems to.
You: We may have had a small fight.
Ellis: Small my ass, Abbot’s been running this place like a boot camp.
You: I don’t know what you expect me to do here?
Ellis: Kiss and make up. If not for your sake then for everyone that has to deal with him.
You: I’ll do one of those things.
Ellis: I’m sure you will ;)
Jesus fucking—
You: I’m going back to sleep now.
Ellis just sends a close up photo of herself making a smooching face at the camera in return. Despite yourself, you smile—small but bright. You toss it over for a few seconds, before swiping over to Jack’s contact. Your thumbs stall over the keyboard for the lack of anything to say.
You do need to talk—to apologize, to forgive. But your head is still pounding, and embers still burn in your gut, so you toss the phone onto your other pillow, and try to get back to sleep.
It doesn't come easy.
It’s fitful, fractured. You drift in and out, sheet tangling around your legs, the same thought circling back no matter how many times you try to outrun them. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back on the roof—his voice, the look on his face when you called him a dick.
Guilt settles in your chest, persistent and impossible to shake.
By the time you finally give up, morning has bled into the afternoon. Your head still aches, but the restlessness is worse, crawling under your skin.
You can’t stay here.
You throw on whatever you can find, leave without thinking too hard about it, and let the city swallow you whole. You don't have anywhere specific to be—the supermarket, the pharmacy, the corner store—no general direction to guide you, you just walk from one place to the next, anything to keep you moving.
Anything to fill the space.
Eventually, you find yourself standing in front of a bookshop
It sits tucked between two louder storefronts, its windows lined with books that block any real view inside. Warm light spills faintly onto the sidewalk, soft but contained—like it can’t quite reach far enough.
The sign on the door is slightly crooked, the windows slightly fogged. The whole place seems to shrink into the back alley: like it’s trying to hide from the rest of the street.
You catch your reflection in the glass before you push the door open, warped slightly from the stacks behind it. You pause, hand hovering over the door handle as you take in your appearance.
To say you look tired would be an understatement, your eyes are puffy and dark, hair flat and a little mussed from the wind. Your face is a little pale, like life has been slowly leeched out.
It’s probably the three back-to-back night shifts. Or maybe this Myers stuff is getting to you more than you’ve let yourself realize.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in, and step back from the shop, continuing down the street.
On the way back to your apartment, you decide to cut through the park as the first signs of the setting sun peak through the trees. You wrap your coat tighter around yourself as a gust of cool wind brushes up against your skin.
It’s quiet for a Wednesday afternoon—a few dog-walkers, Moms pushing their kids in strollers, teenagers walking home from school.
You feel a little less confined here. People pass you by, completely off in their own worlds, and the space they leave has you feeling small—but freer, in a way that makes it easier for you to breathe.
In the near distance, you spot an older lady behind a pastel yellow cart adorned with flowers. The colours burst bright and vibrant against the park's muted greens, and you can’t help but walk towards them.
When you approach, the woman looks up, offering a warm, easy smile.
“You looking for anything in particular, hun?”
You huff a quiet breath, eyes drifting over the bouquets. “I’m not really sure.”
She hums like that doesn't much matter.
“A little colour never hurts,” she says, moving around the cart to stand in front of you. “Even when you don't think you need it.”
The words land before you can stop them from meaning something.
You swallow, nodding once, though your throat feels tight.
Your fingers brush over an assortment of petals, delicate and unassuming. The bouquet is a cluster of wild flowers: white daisies, pink dahlias, yellow peonies, and a few others you can’t name.
“Yeah,” you murmur, “I guess.”
You end up purchasing that bouquet of wild flowers, cradling them carefully in your tote bag the entire walk back to your apartment. The heaviness in your chest eases when you fill a vase with fresh water, trimming the stems of the flowers so they fit inside. The sunlight catches the petals, softening the room from where they sit on the kitchen table.
After that, you keep going. But this time, you’re not in a rush—not trying to out run anything. Just…moving.
You haul a pile of clothes to the washing machine, wipe down the counter, sort through a stack of mail by the door. Small things. Manageable things.
Things you can control.
After you’ve straightened the living room, you find yourself in the shower, letting the warm water soak into your muscles and bones. The water eventually runs cold, so you make quick work of soaping yourself and your hair before jumping out, wrapping your cold frame in a thick robe.
Later, you settle on to the couch with a plate of leftover pasta in your lap, legs tucked beneath you. The sweater you pulled on hangs loose at the wrists, the sleeves slipping over your hands when you reach for your fork.
A blanket is draped over the back of the couch, and you tug it absently down across your legs. The fabric pools around you, trapping the last bit of warmth from the shower.
The TV hums in the background, something you’ve seen before playing without really grabbing your attention.
You take a few bites of pasta, not really tasting it—just going through the motions.
For a while, it's easy. It’s enough.
The room stays still, the kind of still that doesn't press in.
Then—
The sharp buzz of the intercom cuts through it.
You pause, fork hanging half way to your mouth, the sound echoing through the apartment.
Your gaze flickers towards the wall, to where the small intercom sits by the door.
No one ever comes by unannounced.
Your stomach drops, a million thoughts racing through your head.
What if he found you here?
He found your car, could he have followed you home?
Shit, what if he saw you out today—
Slowly, you set your plate down on the coffee table, wiping your hands absently against the hem of your sweater as you stand. The blanket slips from your lap, leaving your bare legs exposed to the cool air of your living room.
You cross the apartment, hesitating only a few seconds before pressing the button.
“Hello?”
There’s a beat—just long enough to make your chest tighten—
“Hey.”
Your breath catches.
You’d know that voice anywhere.
“...Jack?”
“Yeah.” A pause. You can hear it in the way he exhales, like he’s been standing there longer than he wants to admit. “Sorry. I know this is probably crossing so many lines but you weren’t answering your phone.”
Something in your chest loosens.
Just like that. All at once.
The heat, the subtle anger you’ve been harbouring all day—it slips, quiet and sudden, like it was never even a solid to begin with.
“I can go, if this is—” He cuts himself off, voice rough as gravel, like he’s been thinking about this all day. “I’ll go.”
You don’t even hesitate.
“Come up.”
The words leave before you can think them through.
There’s a pause on the other end—surprise maybe. Then, softer, “Okay.”
You buzz him in.
The single minute it takes him to ride the elevator and cross the short hallway to your door is agonizing. It simultaneously feels like seconds and hours have passed by the time his knuckles rap softly on the door.
Your hand rests on the handle of the door for a moment longer than it needs to.
You don't know what you are going to say. Not really. You haven't even figured out where to start, or how to untangle any of it into something that makes sense.
Somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being easy. Stopped being just another person you worked alongside, joked with, leaned on when it was convenient. He became something steadier than that. Something constant.
Not in a way that takes from you—but in a way that lets you breathe.
Your jaw tightens faintly, because you know what it is like when it is the opposite. When a presence lingers too long, presses too close. Turns every decision into something that isn't yours anymore.
Jack never takes anything from you. If anything, he gives it back.
You hadn’t noticed how much space he held open for you until it closed. Until this morning. Until the silence stretched too far and everything felt like it was harder to carry on your own.
It had only been a day.
Your grip tightens on the handle.
Long enough.
Long enough to realize that maybe you weren't the one that felt it.
He showed up.
He’s here, on the other side of this door, for better or for worse.
He’s here.
You pull open the door, and find Jack a step away from the threshold. A plain black long sleeve clings to his wrists, pushed up just enough to reveal the watch you’ve seen a hundred times. His jacket hangs open, worn brown, the fabric creased like he hadn't bothered to fix it since shrugging it on. Dark, blue jeans. Boots still dusted from the outside.
A coffee cup rests loosely in his hand, like he forgot it was there.
There’s the faintest glint at his collar when he shifts, something silver catching the light before disappearing again.
But it’s his face that stops you.
He’s tired. Not just from the shift—you’ve seen that look before. This is different. Heavier. Like it’s been sitting behind his eyes all day. He’s drawn in a way that you just know mirrors your own exhaustion.
For a second, neither of you say anything.
You just stand there, looking at each other.
Then—
“Hey.” Your voice comes out softer, quieter than you mean it to. Like your body knows how fragile this moment is.
“Hey,” he returns. His mouth twitches—not a smile, but something in him seems to relax.
You stand there for another moment, just watching him, when you realize he’s still waiting in the hall.
“Sorry,” you say, stepping to the side and pulling the door with you. “Come in.”
He steps just inside the door, as you close it behind him.
Neither of you say anything for a moment.
The lingering tension from earlier is palpable. It’s not as sharp as it was on the roof—but it's still there, not quite settled.
Your gaze drops briefly to the coffee cup in his hand.
He seems to notice a second later.
“Oh,” he huffs out a quiet breath, almost sheepish, as hold the cup out to you. “I got this for you. It’s tea. From that place you like.”
It’s light, careful. You recognize it for the olive branch it is and a small smile creeps up on your face.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, reaching out to take the offered cup from his hands. Your fingers brush as you do, sending sparks up your arm.
“Well, I have a bet to uphold, don't I?”
You are fully aware that’s not why he did it, but you let him deflect anyway.
You watch as his eyes scan you, and you're suddenly all too conscious of yourself. The shorts that barely cover the tops of your thighs, the thick butter-yellow sweater hanging loose at your hips, your still damp hair clinging to your neck.
“Sorry, I, uh—” You look down at yourself, shifting your weight a little. “I just got out of the shower.”
He smiles, a little more genuine this time. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. I’m the one that came over unannounced.”
“Did you come from work?” you ask, eyeing his attire and noting the lack of scrubs.
“No, I went home. Showered,” he says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “I decided to go for a walk and—I don't know. Found myself here.”
You nod, eyes glued to the warm cup in your hand. The faint aroma of mint rises with the steam.
Mint tea. Your favourite.
“I’m really sorry,” you blurt, looking up at him. “About this morning. I was—” You hesitate, shaking your head a little. “I don’t really have an excuse. I was angry, and I took it out on you. You were just trying to help.”
Jack exhales slowly. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells you. “I was being a dick. I made the whole thing about me—about what I thought you needed. I didn't ask you what you needed. And I’m sorry.”
You swallow, something loosening in your chest.
“Thanks,” you nod, rocking back on your heels slightly. “I appreciate that.”
He dips his head in return, then, suddenly—like he’s just remembered it’s there—gestures to the bag at his shoulders. “I brought tools,” he says, “For your cabinet. The one without the door.”
Your eyebrows rise on your forehead, and you smirk. “And you just ‘ended up here’, right?”
“Do you want me to fix it or not?” he retorts, shaking his head.
You chuckle, before stepping back and giving him space to come in properly.
He exhales, almost imperceptibly, before moving past you. He strips off his coat, tossing it over the back of the kitchen table chair, and slipping his bag from his shoulders to the ground, like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Your eyes follow him without thinking.
The fabric of his shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders as he moves, the hem riding up just enough to reveal a small patch of freckled skin at his lower back.
You stare at the exposed skin longer than you need to.
He turns around, catching you off guard. You look away too quickly to be subtle and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Bastard.
“These are nice,” he says—mercifully not pointing out your staring—gesturing to the vase of flowers in the center of the table.
You blink. “Oh, yeah. There was a lady selling them in the park today.” You close the distance between you two, bracing one hand on the back of the chair next to him. “I couldn’t resist.”
“You were in the park?” He asks, like it's the strangest thing in the world.
“Yeah,” you say slowly, eyebrows bunched in confusion. “I was running errands, and decided to cut through the park on my way home.”
He frowns. “Have you slept at all today?”
“A few hours this morning.” You shrug.
He raises his eyebrows at you, pinning you with a look.
“What?” You ask incredulously. “I’m off ‘til Saturday. I’ll catch up.”
“Uh-huh,” he nods, sounding entirely unconvinced.
“Don’t ‘Uh-huh’ me,” you huff, crossing your arms. “You’re not exactly setting a great example, chief.”
“Wow,” he says in mock offense, “I trek all the way here after my long, gruelling shift—
“It’s a five-minute walk,” you deadpan.
“—I bring you tea, and all I get in return is attitude.”
“You're going to get more than attitude in a minute if you keep going," you warn, narrowing your eyes.
“Is that a promise?” he murmurs, leaning ever so slightly into your space.
You lean in too, the space between you shrinking by the minute. “In your dreams, Jack,”
You hold his gaze for a moment longer, before turning away, heading towards the row of shelves that you had tucked the cupboard door behind. Jack mutters something you can't quite make out as you bend down, pulling the door free.
When you rise, he’s there behind you, accepting the offered cabinet door, examining it.
“Where are the hinges?” he frowns, flipping it over in his hands.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” he asks, brows furrowing. “You want to elaborate?”
“What’s there to elaborate on?” You shrug. “They’re gone.”
He shakes his head, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. “You're lucky I came prepared.”
Jack turns from you, picking up his discarded bag from the ground and moves towards the kitchen.
You follow, slowly this time, resting your hip on the counter as unzips his bag.
He works with easy familiarity, pulling tools from his bag, setting them out with a kind of absent precision that tells you he’s done this before—maybe not here, not for you—but enough that his hands know what to do without thinking.
And shit, his hands.
The way his fingers move. Steady. Sure. The slight flex in his forearms as he adjusts the hinge, testing the alignment before reaching for a screwdriver.
It should be nothing.
You’ve watched his hands countless times as he guides you through a tough procedure, or demonstrates a different way to save a patient. But in those moments, your focus is always somewhere else. On the patient. On the outcome. On doing your job right.
Here—
There is nothing else to look at.
It’s such a simple thing. And somehow, it isn't.
You shift slightly, your grip tightening around the edge of the counter.
“You know,” you start, voice coming out quieter than you intend, “I could've lived without that door.”
He huffs softly, not looking up. “Well, I’d hope so.”
Your gaze drops again—back to his hands as he pulls out a drill.
“You don't have to do this.”
That gets him to pause.
He glances up at you, for just a second.
“You don't do well with help, do you?”
You huff quietly, pushing yourself up to sit on the counter. “I do just fine,” you say, a little more defensive than you need to be.
You’ve always been an independent person—moved far away young, paid your own way through school, solved your own problems—never needing to rely on anyone. It was easy, comfortable.
But whatever this is between you and Jack has settled into something…different.
You find yourself reaching for him—and, somehow, he’s always there when you do.
The woman’s words from earlier come flooding back.
A little colour never hurts, even when you don't think you need it.
A little colour…
He lifts a single brow.
“What?” you say, nudging his hip with your leg. “I’ve lived this long.”
He chuckles, before turning back to the broken door. “And ain’t that a miracle.”
You nudge him again, your foot connecting with his hip as you try to push him back. Instead, his hand comes up, quick and sure, wrapping around your ankle, giving it a firm tug.
You slide forward with a startled yelp, hands flying out to brace the counter on either side of you.
“Jack—”
You try to tug your foot free, but his grip tightens slightly—just enough to keep you there without hurting you, his thumb shifting lightly against your skin.
“Jack, let go!” you demand, though it’s void of any real bite.
Your eyes are glued to where his hand circles your ankle, his hold warm against your bare skin. The contact sends a flutter low in your stomach, sharp and unexpected.
“Keep your feet to yourself,” he says, voice low, a hint of amusement sitting just beneath.
You huff, shifting your weight, before pulling sharply against his grip. It just causes you to slide closer to the edge.
“Fine!” you yield, loosening the tension in your leg, letting him support the weight of it. “Feet to myself, I swear.”
His eyes remain fixed on you—hand staying exactly where it is. The look is charged, full of heat that reflects the one in your stomach.
Your hands grip the counter a little tighter than necessary.
The air shifts into something heavier. You can feel it—him holding you there just a second longer than he needs to.
Like he knows exactly what he is doing.
Then—
His fingers loosen, letting your ankle slip carefully out of his grasp.
You draw your leg back slower this time, tucking it in closer to yourself as you sit up straighter on the counter.
Jack turns back to the cabinet like nothing happened.
“Hold that,” he says, handing you a small screw.
You take it from between his fingers, rolling it absently in your own.
You pass him what he needs when he asks—screws, the drill, the hinge—your fingers brushing his every so often, neither of you acknowledging it. He works with quiet focus, tightening, adjusting, testing the alignment until the door sits flush. The silence is broken by the low hum of the drill and the occasional offhand comment.
When he’s done, he gives it a final push, satisfied, as you slide off the counter, crossing to the fridge. You pull out two beers from the case you purchased earlier today and hand him one.
“For your efforts,” you say, as he takes the offered bottle from your hands.
“No problem,” he responds, lifting the bottle to his lips.
You lean back against the counter, raising a hand to gently swing the cabinet open, then closed.
“Not bad,” you admit. “Might have to keep you around.”
He huffs, shaking his head. “Careful. I’ll start charging you.”
You smile into your drink. “My company is your payment. And my beer.”
“I guess that will have to do,” he says, a smile also playing on his lips.
After a moment you push off the counter, gesturing vaguely to the living room. “C’mon,” you say. “I’ve got a movie on.”
Jack murmurs something behind you that you can’t quite make out, before following you to the sofa. He situates himself down next to you, closer than the last time you found yourselves in this situation. This time, he doesn't hesitate when he reaches for his prosthesis, removing the limb entirely before slipping off his boots.
You reach for the TV remote on the coffee table, and rewind the previously forgotten movie back to the beginning.
“What are we watching?” Jack asks after he’s gotten himself comfortable.
“The Devil Wears Prada.” You lean back, pulling a blanket over your legs.
“Oh god,” he says, though it’s soft, threaded with something fond, “my wife used to—”
He cuts himself off.
Too late.
The words land with a heavy silence.
Your head whips towards him, eyes wide.
“Your what?” you breathe.
Your mind scrambles to catch up, tripping over itself.
Wife?
The word echoes, sharp and disorienting, like you’ve missed something—like there’s been a whole part of his life sitting just out of reach and somehow you never saw it.
For a split second, something ugly twists in your chest.
You don't know him. Not really. Not if you’ve been standing here—doing this—with someone who belongs to someone else.
The thought hits hard. Fast. Unfair.
Jack’s shoulder tense beside you.
“My—” he starts, then exhales, running a hand through his hair, before sliding it to his neck, tugging up on the silver chain that rests there.
What he pulls free is not something you expect.
They’re his dog tags—a chain of two resting in his hands. But it’s not the tags themselves that grabs your attention, it's the two rings that are looped through the metal.
One gold. One black.
They catch the light when he shifts, glinting faintly between his fingers.
You can't look away.
Your stomach drops, the earlier thought—sharp, accusatory—twisting into something else entirely. Something colder.
Oh.
Jack doesn't look at you at first.
His thumb runs absently over the rings, a quiet, practiced motion. Like he does it a thousand times a day.
“She used to make me watch it with her,” he says, voice quiet. “I could probably recite every line.”
There’s a faint hint of something in his voice—a wistful edge.
He finally glances up at you.
“She died,” he adds, more plainly this time. “Years ago.”
The words settle into the space between you, heavy and unmoving.
Your chest tightens.
You don’t know what to say.
You don’t even know what you’re feeling—shock, guilt, something else curling underneath.
Your gaze drops back to the rings.
“When I told you about my brother,” you start, practically whispering, “I knew that you understood.”
You swallow.
“But I didn't realize that you…understood.”
He looks down at the chain, letting it slip past his hand to rest on his chest.
“Jack, I’m—” You suck in a sharp breath. “I’m so sorry.”
He smiles, a small thing. “It was hard. But, I’m learning to…grow.”
His eyes lift to yours.
“To let things be good when they are.”
Tears well in your eyes, but you blink them back.
“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding tightly. “Yeah.”
He reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder, his thumb tracing lightly where it meets your neck.
The touch is grounding.
You cover his hand with your own, squeezing lightly.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Nothing needs to be said.
He gives your shoulder a final, gentle press before letting his hand fall away.
“C’mon,” he murmurs after a beat, nudging his chin towards the screen. “You’re missing the best part.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, and lean back into the couch. “I’m pretty sure we’re still in the opening credits.”
“Yeah,” he says, settling beside you, his voice taking on a lighter edge. “Best part.”
You shake your head, picking up your beer and taking a long swig.
The movie plays on, scenes blurring together as time slips by.
At some point, the distance between you disappears entirely—your shoulder brushing his, then settling, like it was always meant to be there.
The rhythm of it becomes easy. Comfortable.
He gestures towards the screen now and then, not really explaining, just enough that you understand—small fragments of stories slipping through. A memory here. A detail there. Nothing heavy. Just pieces, offered and let go.
You wonder how often he talks about her. If this is maybe the first time he’s allowed himself to.
You find yourself doing the same.
Not everything. But enough that the space between you fills, soft and warm.
Laughter comes easier than it has all day—quiet at first, then less restrained. It spills out of you without warning, catching you off guard in the best way.
At one point, you nudge him with your foot again, aiming for his side—
He catches you again, utterly effortless.
Your foot barely makes contact before his hand closes around your ankles, guiding it to his lap without even looking.
You huff, but don't pull back.
He lets your legs drape across his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. There’s no hesitation. No comments. He just lets them stay there, one hand resting absentmindedly against your calf, thumb brushing slow, idle patterns against your skin.
The motion is subtle. Unthinking.
But it’s all you can focus on.
You both sit there for a while, even as the final credits come and go, and the TV goes dark. If it weren’t for his thumb’s constant motion against your leg, you’d think he’d fallen asleep.
You’re the first to move, reaching for your phone on the coffee table to check the time.
Shit, it's late. And Jack’s just been on a twelve hour shift.
You wiggle your legs against his hands. “Jack, it's 11:30,” you say, keeping your voice low, as if the bubble you have found yourself in is fragile enough to shatter. “You must be exhausted.”
He blinks, then nods, lifting his hands from your legs so you can tuck them under yourself.
“Yeah, I should get going.” He leans forward, and busies himself with securing his prosthetic.
You stand from the couch, grabbing the discarded beer bottles in one hand, moving to dump them in the kitchen.
When you return, Jack is securing his coat around his shoulder, adjusting the tools in his bag before zipping it up.
“Can I drive you home?” you offer, as you both make your way to the front door.
“It’s all good,” he says, turning to face you. “It’s a nice night. I’d like to walk.”
“Okay,” you nod, still lingering.
There’s a pause. Not awkward—just…full.
“Well,” you say, a little quieter now. “Goodnight, Jack.”
You step forward before you can think too much about it, arms coming up around him.
For half a second, you're not sure—
And then he’s there.
His arms wrap around you easily, settling across your back, pulling you tightly against him.
You exhale against him, the tension you didn't realize you were still holding slipping out all at once.
He smells like soap— fresh, citrusy, and something deeper underneath, warm and grounding. Cedar, maybe.
His body curves against yours, molding against you like a perfect fit.
You didn’t know a hug could feel so…right.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, bracing for him to pull away.
But he doesn't.
If anything, his hold tightens, drawing you closer when he feels your grip at his back.
You stay like that, unmoving, until your breaths begin to fall in the same rhythm.
In.
Out.
You don’t feel pulled in, or held down. Just…held. And somehow, that feels different. Your cheek presses a little closer against him, your eyes drifting shut.
Slowly—almost reluctantly—he pulls back.
Not far.
Just enough.
Your hands stay fisted in his shirt, unwilling to let him go completely, and he doesn't move to create anymore distance.
His face hovers inches from yours.
Closer.
Close enough that your breath catches as it mixes with his, warm and uneven.
His flick between yours, then down to your mouth—searching for…something.
Your noses brush.
Once.
Twice.
It sends a quiet jolt through you, your grip tightening instinctively.
The space between your mouths disappears, despite the stillness that has overcome both you—until your lips are barely there, just grazing. A whisper of contact that isn't quite a kiss.
Your heart skips a beat, stutters and flips all in the same breath. But you can’t pull away.
You don't want to.
“Jack—” you breathe, the word barely forming before it brushes against his lips.
TW: kidnapping, prolonged captivity, physical abuse, severe trauma, PTSD, panic attacks, dissociation, medical trauma, hospitalization, malnutrition, dehydration, suicidal ideation, interrupted self-harm attempt (no graphic detail), emotional distress, loss of identity, recovery themes.
Michael’s thumb traces idle circles into your hip, slow and absentminded, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the kind of soft light that makes time feel optional.
You shift slightly, just enough to get comfortable, and his arm tightens around you in response.
“You’re awake,” you say quietly.
“Mm,” he hums. “Have been.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to decide I don’t want to move.”
You smile, tilting your head back so you can look at him. His hair is a mess, sleep-soft, eyes still heavy but warm. He looks younger like this. Less like a doctor who’s seen too much. More like the man who fell asleep with his forehead pressed to yours sometime after midnight.
You kiss him once, light and lazy.
He smiles into it. Kisses you back.
It’s unhurried. No urgency. Just mouths fitting together because they know how. His hand slides up your side, warm, familiar, grounding. You sigh softly against him, melting closer without thinking about where it might lead.
There’s nowhere to be yet.
Michael pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. “You smell like my soap.”
“That’s because you used all of mine,” you reply.
“Lies.”
You laugh, the sound quiet and loose, and kiss him again—longer this time. His fingers curl slightly at your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he always does.
The apartment is still. No phones. No alarms. Just breathing and sheets and the faint sound of the city outside pretending not to exist.
You shift, draping a leg over his, and he exhales, amused. “Dangerous game.”
“Relax,” you say. “We survived last night.”
He laughs softly at that, nose brushing yours. “Barely.”
You’re about to say something back—something teasing, something pointless—when there’s a faint sound down the hall.
Scratch.
You both freeze.
Scratch. Scratch.
You pull back, eyes widening slightly. “Oh no.”
Michael groans, dropping his head back against the pillow. “We locked him out.”
“We had to,” you say, already laughing. “He kept trying to climb on the bed.”
The scratching grows more insistent, nails clicking rhythmically against the door like he’s keeping time.
Michael rolls onto his side, still holding you, and presses a kiss to your temple. “He’s never going to forgive us.”
“Neither am I,” you say solemnly, then ruin it by laughing again.
The dog lets out a very put-upon huff from the other side of the door.
“Okay,” Michael calls, voice warm with affection. “We’re coming.”
You both sit up reluctantly, the cold air immediately unwelcome against your skin. You fumble for clothes, tugging on leggings and a hoodie, still grinning as Michael pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt.
He opens the door and the dog barrels in like he’s been personally betrayed, circling the bed before skidding to a stop in front of you.
“Good morning to you too,” you say, scratching behind his ears. His tail thumps violently against the mattress.
Michael watches you for a second, something soft crossing his face. “You walk him today?”
You nod. “Your turn was yesterday.”
“Fair,” he says easily. “I’ll make breakfast.”
You perk up. “Eggs?”
“Eggs,” he confirms. “And coffee. Strong.”
You kiss him again, quick and affectionate, already reaching for the leash by the door. “You’re perfect.”
He snorts. “Don’t tell anyone.”
You step out into the hallway with the dog, keys in hand, phone sliding into your pocket out of habit. Behind you, the apartment fills with familiar sounds—cabinet doors, the kettle, Michael humming under his breath.
It feels like a promise.
The morning outside is cool and quiet, the sky still undecided. You let the dog lead, already thinking about coffee, about coming back inside, about how ordinary and good everything feels.
——
You settle the AirPods into your ears as soon as you clear the building.
They click into place with a familiar little chime, sealing you off just enough from the morning. You don’t even look at your phone when you hit play—whatever you were listening to last night picks up where it left off, loud and immediate, filling the space behind your eyes.
The dog tugs forward, eager now that you’ve committed to the walk. You adjust the leash around your wrist, zip your hoodie a little higher, and fall into step with him.
The beat is steady. Comforting. Something you know by heart.
You pass the first row of houses, curtains still drawn, porches dark. The music drowns out everything else—the distant hum of traffic, the soft scrape of your own footsteps, the world reduced to rhythm and breath and the gentle pull of the leash.
Your thoughts drift easily. To Michael in the kitchen. To the smell of coffee that’s probably already filling the apartment. To nothing in particular.
The dog stops to sniff. You slow automatically, scrolling absently on your phone while you wait, not really reading anything. A song change slips in without you noticing. Louder. Faster. You smile faintly, tucking the phone away again.
“Okay,” you say aloud, though you can’t hear your own voice. You give the leash a small tug and start walking again.
The sidewalk narrows ahead, the familiar stretch where the trees grow closer together. You angle slightly toward the street without thinking about it, making room where you always do. The music swells in your ears, bass vibrating lightly against your skull.
You make it half a block before the song changes.
The new one is fine—familiar enough—but it isn’t right. You slow a little, letting the dog drift ahead while you pull your phone back out of your pocket.
You scroll without really looking, thumb moving on muscle memory. Past songs you’ve overplayed. Past things that don’t fit the mood. Then you see it.
A song you haven’t heard in years.
You pause.
“Oh,” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. You’d forgotten about this one. Forgotten how much you used to love it, how it used to live in your bones during a completely different version of your life.
You tap it.
The first few notes bloom in your ears, warm and immediate, and something in your chest loosens. The dog stops, distracted by a smell, and you don’t rush him. You stand there for a second longer than usual, letting the song settle in, letting the memory wash through you.
Michael would hate this one, you think fondly. Too slow. Too sentimental.
You tuck your phone back into your pocket and start walking again, the music swelling just a little louder as you do. The world narrows the way it always does when you’re really listening—beat, breath, leash in your hand.
You don’t hear footsteps behind you.
You don’t hear the change in pace, the subtle closing of distance. The song is doing its job too well, filling every corner of your attention.
There’s no warning.
No voice.
No shout.
No chance to turn around fully.
Just the sudden presence of someone too close—space collapsing in a way that doesn’t make sense—and then something presses hard over your mouth and nose.
The smell hits you first. Sharp. Foreign. Wrong.
Your body reacts before your thoughts do. You gasp instinctively, the sound muffled immediately, panic flaring hot and bright in your chest. Your free hand flies up, fingers clawing at fabric, at air, at anything.
Your phone slips from your pocket as you twist, clattering against the sidewalk near the curb. The screen lights briefly, the song still playing, bright and oblivious.
The leash jerks as the dog senses the sudden tension, startled by the change. He pulls forward hard, confused, trying to keep moving the way he always does.
Your feet stumble. Your balance goes. The song in your ears becomes too loud, too close, pounding against your skull as your thoughts scatter instead of lining up.
You try to breathe.
You can’t.
Your grip on the leash loosens as your body betrays you, strength draining too fast, limbs turning heavy and uncooperative. The world blurs at the edges, streetlights smearing into color.
The leash slides free.
The dog bolts, nails scraping as he takes off down the street, the sudden absence of his weight almost louder than the music still blasting in your ears.
Your vision tunnels. The pressure at your face doesn’t let up. Everything tilts, slips out of sequence, fragments breaking away before you can hold onto them.
You catch one last clear image before it all dissolves—
your phone on the pavement, face down, the song you’d almost forgotten still playing to no one—
and then the morning disappears completely.
——
The dog scratches at the door first.
Michael barely looks up. He’s flipping an egg in the pan, coffee already brewing, the apartment warm in that early-morning way that feels earned. He checks the clock on the stove out of habit.
Too fast.
“That was quick,” he calls, distracted. “You cut it short?”
The scratching turns frantic.
Michael frowns and sets the spatula down. He wipes his hands on a towel as he crosses the kitchen, already pulling the door open—
—and the dog barrels inside alone.
Leash dragging. Breathing hard. Eyes wide and unfocused.
Michael stops short.
“Hey,” he says automatically, scanning the hallway, the kitchen, the bedroom beyond. “Where is she?”
The dog spins once, nails skittering on the floor, then bolts back toward the door like he expects it to open again if he tries hard enough.
Michael’s stomach tightens.
He crouches and grabs the leash. It’s twisted, scuffed near the handle, cold like it’s been outside longer than it should have been.
“She probably ran into someone,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He grabs his phone and calls you as he steps outside, barefoot on the cold concrete.
It rings.
Voicemail.
He doesn’t stop moving.
Michael starts down the block, following the route you always take—past the houses with the porch lights still on, past the corner where you always slow because the dog pulls. He keeps the phone to his ear, calling again before the first call has even fully ended.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Pick up.”
Nothing.
His pace quickens, eyes scanning the sidewalk automatically. He tells himself a story as he walks: maybe you dropped your phone. Maybe it died. Maybe you took a call and set it down without thinking.
Then he sees it.
Your phone is lying near the curb, face down, right where the sidewalk narrows.
Michael’s heart jumps, sharp and sudden—but not panic yet. Just surprise. Relief, even.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “Okay.”
He bends and picks it up, already thinking about how you’re going to be annoyed you have to come back for it.
His thumb hovers over the glass. He flips it over, checks the case. There’s a fresh scrape along the edge. Small. Easy to miss. Not there yesterday.
He looks up.
The street is empty.
No open doors.
No people at the windows.
No movement except the dog pulling anxiously at the leash, whining low in his throat.
He turns in a slow circle, scanning harder now, eyes sharp, heart starting to pound. “Hey!” he calls, louder. Your name echoes down the block and comes back to him unchanged.
Nothing answers.
Michael pulls his phone back out with hands that are no longer steady. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t run. He stands exactly where he is, staring at the empty stretch of sidewalk ahead like it might correct itself if he waits long enough.
It doesn’t.
He dials three numbers without looking.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My—” His voice breaks on the first word. He swallows hard and tries again. “My girlfriend is missing. She was walking our dog this morning. The dog came home alone, and I just found her phone on the sidewalk.”
There’s a pause. The operator’s voice stays calm.
“Sir, can you tell me your address?”
Michael gives it automatically, eyes still locked on the road you always take, the leash wrapped too tight around his wrist.
“Yes,” he says, breath shaking now. “Yes. She—she wouldn’t leave her phone. She wouldn’t do this.”
The dog whines again, tugging forward like he wants to keep going.
Michael doesn’t move.
He stands there, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the quiet street, already knowing—without having language for it yet—that something is very, very wrong.
——
The first patrol car arrives fast.
Lights, but no siren. It pulls up slow at the curb like it doesn’t want to startle anything that might still be nearby. Michael doesn’t remember stepping back onto the sidewalk, only that suddenly there are two officers in front of him and the dog is tangled anxiously around his legs.
They ask his name.
They ask hers.
They ask what she was wearing.
Michael answers automatically, voice steadier than he feels. He hands over her phone when they ask for it, watches one of them turn it over in his hands, thumb hovering just like Michael’s had.
Unlocked.
The look they exchange is brief, professional. Controlled.
One of them radios something in. Another starts walking the block slowly, eyes on the ground, scanning the curb, the street, the spaces between parked cars.
“Has she ever left before?” one of them asks gently.
“No,” Michael says immediately. “Never.”
They nod. Write it down.
They ask about the route. Michael walks it with them, pointing without thinking—here, this corner, this stretch where the sidewalk narrows. The dog pulls ahead, insistent, confused, like he’s trying to finish something that didn’t get finished.
They find very little.
No witnesses.
No cameras that catch anything useful.
No answers that stick.
By the time more units arrive, the morning has fully woken up around them. Neighbors come out onto porches. Someone offers Michael a jacket. He doesn’t remember taking it.
They tell him they’ll keep searching. They tell him they’ll be in touch. They tell him what they can without saying what they can’t.
No one says dead.
They say missing.
——
The first night is the worst because there’s nowhere to put the waiting.
Michael doesn’t sleep. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back against the headboard, the dog curled tight against his thigh like he’s guarding something. Every sound outside makes his head lift. Every car door. Every voice in the hallway. He keeps his phone in his hand, screen dimmed but on, battery draining slowly because he won’t let it die.
He tells himself he’s just staying alert.
At midnight, he gets up and checks the lock.
At one, he checks again.
At two, he realizes the porch light is still on and leaves it that way.
Her side of the bed is cold.
He doesn’t move her pillow. He presses his palm into the empty space where her shoulder should be and keeps it there longer than makes sense.
Around three, he stands in the kitchen staring at the whiteboard on the fridge.
back soon.
He doesn’t erase it.
⸻
Morning comes anyway.
The dog wakes him by licking his hand, tail wagging cautiously, hopeful. Michael startles awake like he’s been dropped into the room from somewhere else. For half a second, his brain insists that you’re in the bathroom, that this is all delayed, that he just has to wait a moment longer.
Then the quiet settles back in.
He pours coffee and forgets to drink it. He pours another and leaves it on the counter where yours always goes. The dog sits by the door, leash in his mouth, eyes bright.
Michael swallows hard and clips it on.
He walks the route slowly. Painfully. Every step feels like trespassing on something that isn’t his anymore. People pass him and don’t look twice. The world keeps its schedule.
When he gets home, there’s a voicemail from a detective. Neutral. Polite. Nothing new.
He deletes it by accident and panics for a full minute before realizing he remembers every word anyway.
⸻
His first shift without her feels wrong before he even gets there.
He stands in the locker room longer than usual, staring at his badge like it might have changed overnight. Langdon finds him there, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed.
“You don’t have to be here,” Langdon says.
Michael shakes his head. “I do.”
They don’t talk about it again.
In the ED, muscle memory takes over. Charts. Vitals. Orders. He functions because he has to. He keeps expecting his phone to buzz in his pocket with a message that starts with they found her.
It doesn’t.
Dana hands him a coffee halfway through the shift without a word. He almost thanks her and stops himself when his voice doesn’t come out right.
A patient asks him if he’s okay.
He lies without thinking.
⸻
At home, the nights stretch.
He leaves the TV on for noise. For company. He flips past shows you watched together and can’t stop his hand fast enough. He eats standing up because sitting at the table feels like admitting something.
The dog sleeps on your side of the bed now.
Michael lets him.
⸻
A week passes. Then another.
The café down the street still remembers his order. They still ask, “Two today?” and then wince when they see his face. Eventually, they stop asking. They leave the extra mug on the shelf behind the counter like they’re saving it for later.
Michael keeps sitting at the same table. The one by the window. He watches the door open and close until he can predict the rhythm of it.
⸻
The first time your favorite show comes on without you, he doesn’t realize what day it is until the theme song starts.
He’s halfway through folding laundry when he hears it from the living room. The sound freezes him in place. He stands there holding one of your t-shirts, fingers digging into the fabric like it might anchor him.
You were excited for this season. You’d talked about it for weeks. You made him promise not to watch it without you.
Michael turns the TV off.
He sits on the couch in the dark with the dog’s head on his knee and stares at the blank screen until the episode would have ended.
He doesn’t turn it back on.
⸻
The cops call less often.
When they do, their language shifts in small ways Michael pretends not to notice. Still looking. No new leads. We’ll keep you updated.
Dana never asks if he’s holding up. She just keeps his schedule light and his coffee full.
Langdon snaps at anyone who uses the past tense.
The dog keeps waiting by the door.
⸻
Two months pass like this.
Not in a straight line. In fragments. In habits that refuse to die. In mornings where Michael wakes up reaching for someone who isn’t there and nights where he doesn’t bother turning the lights off anymore.
He doesn’t stop believing.
He just gets quieter about it.
And then, on an ordinary afternoon in the ED, The radio crackles while Dana is mid-sentence.
“Inbound trauma—Jane Doe—ETA three.”
Dana’s hand stills on the desk. She doesn’t look surprised. She never does.
“Say again,” she says, already turning.
“Adult female. Found roadside. Altered mental status. Severe dehydration and malnutrition. Multiple contusions. Hypotensive and tachycardic.”
Dana nods once. “Copy.”
She’s already moving—calling it without ceremony. “Trauma One. Clear it. Warm fluids. Rapid infuser ready. Lab, respiratory, ICU page now.”
She turns and finds Dr. Robby right where she expects him to be—too close, too still, listening too hard.
“This is ugly,” she says, low. “You want in?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Dana replies.
The gurney clears the ambulance bay doors and everything clicks into place at once.
Dana is at the foot of the bed. Dr. Robby is right beside her. They both see the same thing at the same time.
It doesn’t take a second look.
Even bruised. Even swollen. Even hollowed out.
It’s Y/N.
Dana doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t need to. The recognition moves through the room like a current—silent, immediate, undeniable. Hands don’t stop moving. Voices don’t rise. The trauma doesn’t pause.
Dana turns on her heel.
“Dr. Robby—off the case.”
No explanation. No softening. Just protocol.
Robby doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t step away either.
Dr. Langdon is already moving, sliding into place like this was rehearsed. He takes the position without comment, voice steady, eyes sharp.
“I’ve got it,” Langdon says. Not to Robby. To the room.
The attending nods once and keeps going.
“Airway?”
“Patent,” respiratory answers immediately. “Protecting, but sluggish.”
“Oxygen stays. Monitor closely.”
Dana is back in motion, snapping orders like muscle memory. “Trauma One continues. Two large-bore IVs. Warm fluids. Bair Hugger. Labs now.”
Robby is still standing where he was.
“Robby,” Dana says again—firmer this time. “Step back.”
“I’m not leaving,” he says quietly. Not defiant. Not emotional. Just factual.
The room tightens—but it doesn’t fracture.
Langdon steps between them just enough to block Robby from the bed without making it a scene. “Corner,” he says low. “You stay. You don’t touch. You don’t speak unless spoken to.”
A beat.
Robby exhales through his nose and moves to the corner of the room, back to the wall, hands clenched at his sides.
The trauma keeps moving.
⸻
“BP?” Langdon asks.
“Seventy-six systolic,” a nurse answers. “Heart rate one-thirty-eight.”
“Minimal output,” the nurse reports moments later. “Dark.”
“Pre-renal AKI until proven otherwise,” Langdon says. “Watch creatinine. Watch CK. She’s at risk for rhabdo.”
“Temp thirty-five point one,” respiratory adds.
“Keep warming.”
Robby watches every number from the corner, jaw locked so tight it aches.
⸻
Her eyes flutter open.
Not awake. Not oriented. Just enough.
Her breathing spikes instantly—sharp, panicked, shallow. Heart rate jumps.
Before anyone can redirect her, her gaze finds him.
“Michael,” she whispers. Hoarse. Fractured. “Michael—”
The room stills for half a breath.
Robby takes one step forward and stops himself.
“I’m here,” he says, voice low and steady because it has to be. “I’ve got you.”
Her breathing stutters. Slows—just a little.
“BP eighty-four systolic,” a nurse calls.
“She’s responding,” Langdon says. “Low-dose anxiolytic. Gentle. Don’t drop her pressure.”
Medication is given carefully. Precisely.
Her eyes close again, lashes wet.
“She’s not stable for recall,” Langdon adds. “We don’t push questions.”
Dana nods. “SANE is here.”
The SANE nurse stands back, calm, unobtrusive. “We’ll document injuries. Evidence collection waits for consent.”
“Pregnancy test?” Langdon asks.
“Sent.”
“Baseline STI labs?”
“Sent,” Dana confirms.
“CT head and C-spine as soon as she can tolerate transport,” Langdon orders. “Then ICU.”
Robby doesn’t move from the corner.
He watches her chest rise and fall.
Alive.
And that is enough—for now.
——
They don’t move her until her pressure holds.
Not perfect—just enough.
“BP ninety-two systolic,” the nurse calls after the second fluid bolus finishes. “Heart rate one-twenty-eight.”
“Good enough to travel,” Langdon says. “Barely. Respiratory, you’re with us. Dana, I want eyes on the monitor the whole time.”
Robby stays in the corner as they prep her for transport. He watches them secure lines, double-check tubing, tuck blankets back around her like they’re afraid of losing heat if they blink.
She doesn’t wake again.
The CT hallway is quieter than the trauma bay, the chaos replaced with a low mechanical hum. The scanner waits like a mouth held open.
“Head and C-spine only,” Langdon reminds the team. “We don’t pan-scan unless she crashes.”
They slide her over carefully. The table moves. The machine whirs to life.
Robby stands just outside the room, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes never leaving the window. He watches the images scroll across the monitor in gray slices that don’t mean anything to him unless someone tells him they do.
The radiology tech’s voice is calm. Routine. “Hold still. You’re doing great.”
She doesn’t respond.
The scans finish quickly.
Langdon leans in to review the images as they load.
“CT head negative for acute bleed,” he says after a moment. “No midline shift. No skull fracture.”
Robby’s breath leaves him in a rush he can’t control.
“C-spine?” Dana asks.
“Alignment intact. No acute fracture. We’ll keep the collar until she’s more awake, but this looks clean.”
They move her back onto the gurney.
“Okay,” Langdon says. “Back to the bay. ICU’s ready.”
⸻
The labs start coming back as they roll.
Dana reads them off the screen, voice steady but clipped.
“Lactate four point two.”
Langdon grimaces. “Consistent with hypovolemia.”
“Creatinine one point nine,” Dana continues. “Baseline unknown.”
Langdon nods slowly. “Refeeding risk confirmed. Thiamine on board before we give her anything substantial.”
“Coags normal,” Dana adds. “CBC shows mild anemia. White count slightly elevated.”
“Stress response,” Langdon says. “No signs of infection yet, but we watch.”
They wheel her toward the ICU elevator.
The doors open.
Robby hesitates.
Dana looks at him once. “You’re allowed upstairs.”
He nods, mute.
⸻
The ICU is colder. Quieter. Every sound feels amplified.
They transfer her into the bed with practiced care, hooking her back up to monitors that beep softer here—less frantic, but no less watchful.
The ICU attending listens to Langdon’s handoff without interruption.
“Adult female, prolonged starvation and dehydration, hypovolemic shock,” Langdon summarizes. “AKI, rhabdo risk, hypoglycemia corrected, hypothermia improving. Head CT negative. High risk for refeeding syndrome. She’s also a staff member.”
The ICU attending nods once. “Got it.”
Orders flow smoothly:
• Continuous cardiac monitoring
• Strict I&Os
• Electrolytes q6h
• Thiamine daily
• Slow nutrition initiation when appropriate
• Psych consult when medically stable
Robby stands at the foot of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake.
“She can have one visitor,” the attending says, glancing at him. “If she tolerates it.”
Robby doesn’t answer. He just moves closer, stopping at the bedside like he’s afraid to cross an invisible line.
⸻
She wakes hours later.
Not all at once.
First her fingers twitch—subtle, almost imperceptible. Then her brow furrows, confusion knitting across her face before her eyes open.
The ceiling isn’t the one she expects.
Her breath catches instantly.
Her heart rate jumps on the monitor.
“Hey,” Robby says softly, leaning in before anyone can stop him. “Hey. It’s okay.”
Her eyes dart wildly—lights, machines, unfamiliar walls—panic climbing fast.
“No,” she whispers, voice barely there. “No, no—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. Just look at me.”
Her gaze snaps to his face.
For a second, she just stares at him like he might disappear if she blinks.
“Michael,” she breathes.
He nods, tears spilling freely now. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Her chest heaves. Her hands shake weakly against the sheets.
“He—” she starts, then breaks off, shaking her head hard like she’s trying to dislodge something. “I can’t— I can’t—”
“I know,” Robby says again. “You don’t have to tell me anything. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. I’ve got you.”
She swallows hard, eyes shining. “I thought—” Her voice fractures. “I thought you stopped looking.”
Robby’s chest caves in.
“I never stopped,” he says. “Not for a second.”
Her breathing slows—not normal, but steadier.
A nurse watches the monitor closely. “Heart rate’s coming down.”
Robby reaches out, hesitates, then looks to the nurse.
She nods once.
He takes her hand gently, like she might shatter if he grips too hard.
She squeezes back with what little strength she has.
“Don’t leave,” she whispers.
“I won’t,” he promises, voice thick. “I’m right here.”
Her eyes close again—not from medication this time, but exhaustion finally overtaking panic.
Robby stays where he is, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles into the back of her hand, counting her breaths with his own.
She’s alive.
She’s here.
And now—finally—the hard part begins.
——
The first few days home feel almost manageable, in the way things do when you’re running on adrenaline you don’t know is borrowed.
Michael stays with you constantly. He sleeps light, wakes at every sound, keeps his phone face-up on the table like he’s waiting for a call that never comes. You follow instructions because following instructions is familiar. You take the meds when he hands them to you. You eat when he sits across from you and doesn’t look away until you do. You let him sit in the bathroom while you shower, the door cracked open, the curtain never fully closed.
You tell yourself this is temporary.
You even correct him once, automatically, when he misreads a label on a bottle. The words come out before you can stop them, clinical and precise, and for a split second something like relief flickers across your chest.
See? You’re still here.
The nights are bad, but survivable. You wake gasping, heart racing, sheets tangled around your legs, and Michael is there every time—already moving, already grounding you. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t say too much. He just anchors you until your breathing slows enough to count again.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper afterward, every time.
He always shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”
You almost believe him.
⸻
By the end of the first week, the pattern settles in.
The panic attacks stop needing a reason.
Sometimes it’s the shower—water hitting tile too loud, too close, your chest tightening until you’re crouched on the floor with your arms wrapped around yourself, breath coming in sharp, useless bursts. Sometimes it’s the dark. Sometimes it’s nothing at all.
You’ll be standing in the kitchen and suddenly the room feels wrong. Too far away. Too sharp. Your hands go numb. Your vision tunnels.
Michael learns the signs before you do.
He’ll be beside you before you realize you’ve stopped breathing properly. “Hey,” he says, low and steady. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’ve got you.”
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes you end up on the floor anyway, shaking so hard your teeth chatter, staring at the same spot on the wall because it’s the only thing that feels solid.
You hate that he sees this version of you.
You hate that you need him to.
The nights get worse. You fall asleep for minutes at a time, then jolt awake convinced you’re not alone. Your heart slams so hard it hurts. Sweat soaks the sheets. You cling to Michael’s shirt like he might vanish if you let go.
He never complains.
He just gets quieter.
⸻
Around day eight, something shifts.
It isn’t dramatic. Nothing explodes.
Michael gets an email while he’s making coffee. You don’t see the screen, but you see his shoulders tense, just slightly. He turns his phone face down when he notices you watching.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he says immediately. Too immediately. “Just work stuff.”
Later, you hear him on the phone in the bedroom, voice low. You’re not trying to listen, but your brain catches words anyway.
“Extended leave… yeah… no, I understand… reassess later.”
Reassess.
The word sticks.
That afternoon, you try to read a medical article. Just one. Something familiar. You make it three paragraphs in before your chest tightens and the words start blurring together. Your heart rate spikes for no reason you can name, and suddenly you can’t remember what you just read.
You close the tab.
Your hands are shaking.
Michael comes home early that day. He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t have to. You see it in the way he moves—slower, heavier, like gravity’s been turned up.
That night, you sit on the couch while he showers and realize you can’t remember the last time you felt competent.
Not calm. Not safe.
Competent.
The thought lands quietly and doesn’t leave.
I will never be a doctor again.
It isn’t hysterical. It isn’t loud.
It feels factual.
⸻
After that, everything reframes itself around the loss.
You watch Michael get dressed for work and feel something twist in your chest—not jealousy exactly, but grief. He has a place to go. A role that still fits. A version of himself that still makes sense.
You stay on the couch.
You start apologizing more.
“I’m sorry,” when he cancels plans.
“I’m sorry,” when he reheats dinner because you couldn’t eat it the first time.
“I’m sorry,” when you wake him from another nightmare.
He tells you to stop.
You can’t.
One night, you wake up and find him asleep sitting upright, head tipped back against the couch, phone still in his hand. You stare at him for a long time before gently taking it from his fingers and setting it on the table.
He looks exhausted.
Not resentful. Not angry.
Just tired in a way that scares you.
Something settles in your chest then, heavy and unmoving.
I am what’s wrong now.
You don’t say it out loud. You don’t cry.
You just carry it.
⸻
The night it becomes too much is quiet.
No nightmare. No argument. No obvious trigger.
Michael falls asleep on the couch beside you, one arm draped loosely over your legs. The apartment hums softly around you—the fridge, the heater, the distant sound of traffic.
Your heart starts racing anyway.
You press your palm to your chest, try to ground yourself the way you’ve been taught. Name five things you can see. Four things you can touch.
It doesn’t work.
Your thoughts don’t spiral. They flatten.
This isn’t recovery.
This is just existing forever.
He deserves better than this.
You stare at the wall until it feels unreal.
Slowly, carefully, you ease yourself out from under Michael’s arm so you don’t wake him. He shifts but doesn’t open his eyes.
You stand there for a moment, steadying yourself.
Then you walk down the hall.
——
The bathroom light hums faintly overhead.
It’s too bright. Too quiet.
You sit on the closed toilet lid with your elbows on your knees, staring at your hands like they belong to someone else. They’re shaking—not violently, just enough to notice. Enough to make you press them together, fingers lacing tight.
Your thoughts are still calm.
That’s the part that scares you.
There’s no panic. No racing heart. Just a deep, bone-heavy certainty settling into place.
I will never be a doctor again.
I will never be me again.
It doesn’t feel like grief anymore. It feels like a conclusion.
You stand slowly, careful not to make noise, and turn toward the sink. The mirror catches you by accident—too thin, too pale, eyes too large for your face. You look like someone who survived something, but not like someone who gets to keep living afterward.
Your gaze drops.
The blade is already there.
You don’t remember when you brought it in. You don’t remember deciding. You just know your fingers close around it, metal cool against your skin, grounding in a way nothing else has been lately.
Your breathing stays shallow. Measured.
I don’t want to die, you think distantly.
I just can’t live like this.
You raise your hand.
Just a little.
That’s when the quiet breaks.
“Hey.”
Michael’s voice is soft, but it lands like a shock through your entire body.
Your arm jerks back instinctively, the blade clattering against the sink as you spin toward the doorway. Your breath rips out of you in a sharp gasp, heart slamming violently now, panic flooding in too late.
He’s standing there barefoot, eyes locked on you—not angry, not loud, just utterly terrified.
For a second, neither of you move.
Then his gaze drops.
To your wrist.
To the blade.
“Oh my god,” he breathes.
Your knees buckle.
You slide down the wall before you can stop yourself, sob tearing out of your chest as everything you’ve been holding together finally collapses. Michael crosses the room in two strides, dropping to the floor in front of you, one hand gently but firmly closing around your wrist—not restraining, just anchoring.
“Hey,” he says again, voice breaking now. “Hey, look at me.”
“I didn’t—” You can’t get the words out. You shake your head hard, tears blurring everything. “I wasn’t— I just—”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know.”
He carefully takes the blade from your slack fingers and sets it out of reach without a word, without making it a thing. Then his arms are around you, solid and warm and real, pulling you into his chest as you break completely.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you sob into his shoulder. “I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t be alone—I’m never going to be me again.”
Michael’s grip tightens just enough for you to feel it. “You don’t have to be her right now,” he says, voice rough. “You just have to be here.”
“I’m ruining your life,” you choke. “You’re exhausted. You’re giving up everything for me.”
He presses his forehead into your hair, breath shuddering. “You are not ruining anything. You’re alive. And I want you alive—even like this. Especially like this.”
You cling to him like a lifeline, body shaking uncontrollably as the reality of what almost happened crashes over you. Michael rocks you gently, murmuring your name over and over until your breathing slows enough to count again.
“I don’t want to die,” you whisper finally, voice small and broken. “I just don’t want to live like this.”
“I know,” he says softly. “And we won’t do it alone. Not tonight. Not ever.”
You stay there on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in him, tears soaking his shirt, the world narrowed down to the sound of his heartbeat and the fact that you’re still breathing.
tw: sudden medical emergency, stroke, panic, hospital/ambulance, medical procedures
The restaurant isn’t fancy in the intimidating way. It’s warm. Intimate. The kind of place that feels like it’s meant for people who already know each other well — low lights, soft music, tables close enough that you can hear quiet laughter from strangers without it feeling intrusive.
Michael sits across from you, jacket slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way that still sometimes surprises you, like he’s forgotten to keep his guard up because he doesn’t think he needs it tonight.
Three years does that.
You’re midway through your second drink, ice clinking softly as you set the glass down. He watches the condensation slide down the side, then looks back up at you.
“Hard to believe we’re here,” he says, not loud, not trying to make a moment out of it. “Three years.”
You smile. Not big. Not dramatic. Just real.
“I know,” you say. “Feels like we blinked and suddenly… here we are.”
He hums, thoughtful. “And somehow we didn’t kill each other.”
“Yet,” you add, deadpan.
That gets a laugh out of him — an actual laugh, head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. God, you love that sound. You always have.
“You know what’s wild?” he says. “I still remember thinking you hated me.”
You snort. “I did hate you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says, smiling into his drink.
“I absolutely did.”
“You were intrigued,” he corrects. “Which is different.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Okay, maybe. Slightly intrigued. Annoyed. Confused about why you kept showing up.”
“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “here we are.”
Here we are.
You let the silence stretch for a second, comfortable and full. The candle between you flickers, reflected in his eyes.
“You were such an ass at first,” you say fondly.
He pretends to look wounded. “I was reserved.”
“You were emotionally unavailable.”
“I was cautious.”
“You ghosted me for three days.”
“I was busy.”
“You were scared.”
That one lands.
He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles a little, softer now.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”
You reach across the table without thinking, fingers brushing his. He lets you take his hand, thumb pressing gently against your knuckles.
“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say.
“Me too,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think I would’ve forgiven myself if I had.”
You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You would’ve survived.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have you.”
That still hits, even three years in.
You talk about everything after that — your favorite memories, the moments that feel small until you say them out loud.
The night you stayed up until four in the morning talking about nothing and everything.
The first time he fell asleep on your couch.
The way he always pretends he doesn’t care which movie you pick but absolutely does.
The way you hum without realizing it when you’re focused.
“I love that you do that,” he says at one point, smiling.
“Do what?”
“That thing,” he says. “When you’re concentrating. You hum. Like you’re tuning yourself.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“You’re lying.”
He laughs. “I swear. It’s my favorite thing.”
You shake your head, embarrassed but pleased, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love that you notice dumb stuff like that.”
“It’s not dumb,” he says. “It’s you.”
The waiter comes by at some point — you barely notice — refilling water, asking if you want dessert later. Michael says yes without looking at you, already knowing the answer.
Eventually, conversation drifts the way it always does when you’ve run through the past and lingered there long enough.
Michael leans back slightly, studying you.
“So,” he says, casual again. “Hawaii.”
Your face lights up immediately. “Oh my god.”
“We keep saying we’re going to do it,” he continues. “I feel like if we don’t actually plan it, it’s just gonna stay hypothetical forever.”
You nod enthusiastically. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”
He smiles. “So when?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“Okay, so if we go in October instead of September—”
The words come easily at first. Familiar. Comfortable. You’re leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands moving as you talk.
“—it’s still warm, but not like… unbearable. And it’s less crowded. Plus flights are cheaper.”
Michael watches you the way he always does when you get excited — fond, amused, completely present.
“Because then we’d have more—”
You pause, just barely.
“—more—”
Your mouth stutters on the word.
You don’t stop.
“Oh jeez,” you mutter under your breath, waving it off, already pushing forward. “Anyway—”
Michael’s smile flickers, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t interrupt.
You keep going.
“We could stay near the—uh—the place with the—”
You gesture vaguely, fingers circling as if the word might appear if you coax it hard enough.
“And then we could do, like… the whole island thing from there.”
You laugh lightly, automatically, the way you always do when a thought slips away.
Michael nods, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”
Encouraged, you continue — because talking has never been something you’ve had to think about before.
“And if we do it when the—”
You stop.
It’s subtle. Just a hitch. But it’s there.
“If we do it when the…”
The sentence doesn’t finish.
You blink, frown slightly, then try again.
“We could, um—if the—if we go when the—”
Your brow furrows. You shake your head once, like the thought is right there and you just can’t quite grab it.
Michael leans forward a little.
“You good?” he asks, gently.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just—”
The word catches.
“—I’m just—”
You trail off, laugh softly, a little breathless. “Sorry. My brain’s just jumping ahead.”
You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then set it down and try again.
“The flying—no—the car—when we—”
The words come out wrong.
You stop mid-sentence.
This time, you don’t laugh.
You open your mouth again, determined — and what comes out doesn’t sound like what you meant at all.
Michael’s chair shifts quietly as he moves closer, concern sharpening behind his eyes.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him, relief flickering through you, and try to answer.
Your voice betrays you.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something cold begins to spread.
Michael doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. He leans in instead, forearms resting on the table now, his voice dropping until it feels like it’s meant only for you.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me for a second.”
You do. Of course you do.
“Can you squeeze my hands for me?”
You blink at him.
There’s a flicker of irritation, instinctive and sharp, cutting through the fear. This feels like too much. Like he’s being dramatic. Like he’s slipping into work when you need him to just be him.
“C’mon,” you say — or you try to. It comes out mostly right. Close enough. “Really?”
You give him a look, half exasperated, half pleading. Not now.
Michael doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue.
“Squeeze them,” he says, quiet but firm.
Something in his tone makes you do it.
You reach across the table and curl your fingers around his hands. His skin is warm. Solid. Familiar.
You squeeze.
You don’t notice anything wrong.
Michael does.
His thumb presses gently into your knuckles, like he’s confirming something he already knows. His face doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Good.”
That alone makes your stomach twist.
He lifts his gaze back to your face.
“Smile for me?”
You just stare at him.
Flat. Unamused.
He gives you a look — not annoyed, not panicked. Just steady. Waiting.
You sigh, a sharp breath through your nose, and humor him.
You smile.
Only one side of your face moves.
You feel it immediately.
The wrongness of it. The pull that isn’t there. The way your cheek doesn’t answer the command the way it always has.
Your smile drops.
Your breath stutters.
You try again — smaller this time, tentative.
Still wrong.
Your hand tightens around his, fingers trembling now.
“Oh—” you try to say.
Nothing coherent comes out.
Your chest tightens, panic slamming into you all at once, hot and suffocating. Tears spring to your eyes as you shake your head, like you can physically undo whatever is happening if you just try hard enough.
Michael is already moving.
He reaches for your wrist, grounding, firm but gentle, thumb pressing into your pulse.
“Hey,” he says immediately. “Look at me.”
You do. Desperately.
“It’s okay,” he continues, slow and controlled. “I’ve got you. Don’t try to talk.”
You try anyway. Instinctively. Fearfully.
It only makes it worse.
Your breathing turns shallow. Fast. Your vision blurs.
Michael squeezes your hand once — a promise, not a test this time.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He lifts his head just long enough to catch someone nearby — a waiter, a stranger, you don’t know.
“Can someone call an ambulance,” he says, calm and unmistakably serious. “Now.”
Then his attention is right back on you.
“Stay with me,” he says softly. “Just stay with me.”
Michael’s hand is still on your wrist when the room begins to rearrange itself around you.
Chairs scrape back. Someone’s voice rises, sharp with urgency, then another, quieter, trying to soothe. The candle on your table wobbles as the surface vibrates with movement, the flame guttering but refusing to go out.
You’re aware of everything and nothing at the same time.
Michael keeps his body angled toward you, like a shield, his thumb pressing steady into your skin — a rhythm. A tether.
“Look at me,” he says again, low, deliberate. “Just me.”
You try to nod. You’re not sure if it works.
Your mouth opens. Something broken spills out.
Tears blur your vision.
“It’s okay,” he says, immediately. “You don’t need to talk. You’re doing great.”
The sirens arrive before you realize someone actually called. Distant at first, then too loud, then suddenly right there — red light bleeding through the restaurant windows in uneven pulses. The noise slices through the haze in your head, sharp and wrong.
Michael squeezes your hand once.
“They’re here,” he says. “You’re okay.”
Two paramedics move in quickly, efficient, already assessing before they even speak. One crouches beside you, eyes kind but focused. The other looks to Michael.
“What’s going on?”
Michael doesn’t hesitate.
“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” he says, voice steady despite the way his jaw tightens. “Acute onset aphasia. Started with stuttering, progressed to word-finding difficulty, then nonsensical speech. Right-sided facial droop. Right hand weakness.”
You hear yourself described like a case. Like a chart.
You want to interrupt. To say you’re right here. That you can hear them. That you’re scared.
Nothing usable comes out.
“No known allergies,” Michael continues. “No prior medical history. No history of strokes. Only known family history is maternal grandfather — single ischemic event in his seventies.”
The paramedic nods, already slipping a blood pressure cuff around your arm.
“When did symptoms start?”
Michael glances at his watch. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago.”
You feel the squeeze on your arm, the tightness, the pressure. Numbers are exchanged above your head. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger. Someone shines a light in your eyes.
You flinch.
“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’m here.”
They lift you gently, carefully, onto the stretcher. The movement makes the room tilt again, nausea rolling through you, panic spiking as the floor pulls away.
You grab at Michael’s sleeve.
He’s right there. Always.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’m coming with you.”
The ambulance doors close with a final, hollow thud.
Inside, everything is brighter. Louder. Cold.
The siren starts again, vibrating through your bones as the vehicle lurches forward. One of the paramedics is talking to you now — asking simple questions, voice exaggeratedly calm.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You try.
The sound that comes out is wrong.
The paramedic glances at Michael. He nods once.
“It’s okay,” the paramedic says gently. “Just relax.”
An IV goes into your arm. You barely feel it. Your body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Blood sugar check. Oxygen. Repeated questions. The words float past you, impossible to catch.
Michael stays close, hand never leaving you, eyes tracking every movement, every intervention.
“Any headache?” the paramedic asks.
Michael answers. “No reported headache.”
“Vision changes?”
“None noted.”
“Seizure activity?”
“No.”
You want to scream that you’re still here. That you’re not unconscious. That you understand them.
Your tongue won’t cooperate.
The ambulance slows. Turns.
“ETA two minutes,” someone says.
Michael exhales sharply, just once.
The doors open.
The night air hits you like a slap.
You’re rushed through automatic doors, fluorescent lights flooding your vision as the world shifts again — this time into a place Michael knows too well.
Voices layer over each other. Footsteps echo. Someone calls out vitals.
As they wheel you in, Michael’s gaze lifts — and lands on a familiar face.
Dana.
She’s mid-step, clipboard tucked under her arm, expression neutral until she sees you.
Until she sees him.
Michael doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.
“Dana,” he says, and his voice finally cracks. “Dana… help.”
Her eyes sharpen instantly. Clipboard forgotten. She’s moving before the stretcher even stops.
“What happened?”
“Stroke,” Michael says. “I think she’s having a stroke.”
Dana’s hand is already on the rail, walking alongside you, eyes scanning your face, your chart, the paramedic relaying information rapid-fire.
Summary: Robby’s always kept his five daughters close to his chest, but a serious accident sends them all out of orbit. An exploration of family dynamics, forgiveness, gratitude, and connection.
Tags/Notes: kidfic, aged down robby (early 40s), wife!mom!reader, girl dad robby, angst/whump, hurt/comfort, siblings fighting and making up
Content: descriptions of various injuries, car accident, also a couple rated M scenes
A/N: after the absolute numbers my last fic did (thank you!!) i know this one’s gonna flop but I LOVE HER she is very beautiful TO ME. and i’m proud of myself for finishing a wip i started literally months ago regardless. and also i forgot langdons son is called tanner bc im dumb <3
Word Count: 8.7k
Part One: I’m Sorry
You wake up to the feeling of your husband kissing your shoulder and neck softly, no urgency or pressure on his lips. He’s whispering sweet nothings into your skin – I love you, you’re beautiful, you’re everything to me – and the soft scratch of his overgrown beard tickles your skin. He hasn’t been trying to wake you, but you don’t mind. It’s perfect compared to the alarm that’s going to blare within the next hour, based on the sunrise beginning to threaten the winter horizon.
“Mmm. Morning, baby.” You stretch your arms above your head and Robby responds by wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you tight against his body. Realizing you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep, you lace your voice with gratitude, roll your ass against his morning wood, and purr, “You did the overnight all by yourself? That’s hot.”
“Ain’t my first rodeo,” he teases against your ear. Robby tugs down your sleep shorts and massages his way over your hips and ass, his hand greedy but still lazy and sweet. He slips his fingers between your thighs, toying with your pubic hair, and murmurs, “I know there’s no better way to earn morning sex than to take care of the baby while you get your beauty sleep.”
“You’re a very smart man, Dr. Robinavitch,” you praise as you shift your hips back to give him better access. Your eyes flutter closed as he slowly circles your clit, knowing just how to touch you after so long together. It’s not long before your body warms up and you let out a breathy moan, keeping your volume low.
Robby feels your pussy getting slick and coos, “Fuck, I’ve missed this pussy so goddamn much.”
“Since when?” You roll your eyes even as you encourage his every touch. “We had sex before bed.”
He kisses the curve of your shoulder and murmurs as he pushes his first two fingers slowly inside of you, “I can’t miss my favorite girl overnight? She’s so wet for me. Clearly missed me, too.”
You start to melt as he curls his fingers against your walls, methodical and steady. “Can’t argue with you there.”
Then the sound of your two older daughters hissing at each other down the hall interrupts your happy floaty thoughts.
You groan in defeat, “Why are they up so early?”
“It’s already six,” Robby whispers back, not wanting to alert the girls that the two of you are awake lest they try to involve you in their fight. He reluctantly removes his fingers from your pussy, licks them clean, and tentatively begins, “Should we go and…?”
“It doesn’t sound too bad yet,” you reply, flipping over to snuggle into his chest, where he immediately wraps you up in a familiar embrace. “I wanna be with you a few more minutes before your double.”
He kisses the top of your head and sighs contentedly, “You’re such a sap.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
You manage to steal away three full, blissful minutes of cuddling with your husband before the teenage tornado in the hall picks up to lethal speed, threatening all structures in close proximity. Two high-pitched screeches pierce the relative quiet in tandem, both wielding the one word they think can rain terror on their opponent: “Mom!”
You lean your head back and sigh heavily, “Do I have to go out there?”
“On the plus side, we made it to-” Robby checks the alarm clock “-6:07 before the start of today’s war.”
“Better than last week.” Groggily sitting up and grabbing your discarded pajamas off the floor while the girls’ argument grows in volume, you gripe, “Do you think it’s too late to put them up for adoption?”
Robby sighs and laughs as he tugs on his sweats. “I’m sure there are orphanages that take 16-year-olds somewhere. Might even give us a tax benefit or something if we throw in the 14-year-old, too.”
“But then who would we embarrass in public? Each other?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“Me neither. I’ll take the baby, you take the teens?”
Faux-exasperated, he pouts, “I have to take the teens just because you have the breastmilk?”
You pat his chest affectionately and give him a quick kiss, perching on your tiptoes. “That’s just how the cookie crumbles, daddy. We can ask our lactation consultant about switching roles if you want; you’d be amazed how far science has come.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Robby heads through the bedroom doors in his sweats and you follow just behind him, ducking into the nursery instead of down the hall to the teens’ shared bathroom where the first front of WWIII is playing out.
Seeing their dad instead of you, the girls shut their mouths and look at their feet.
Robby speaks low and gently, “I’m not gonna suggest peace, but can we at least keep it down out here when we fight? Your little sisters don’t have to be up for school for another hour and your mom pushed out a human person twelve weeks ago, so she should get to sleep in, but now the baby’s up because of the yelling.” They both mutter something close to an apology to him, still glaring at each other. Arms crossed over his chest, Robby puts on his best Serious Doctor Robinavitch face and asks, “So what’s going on here?”
Tanner clenches her jaw and gestures dramatically to Maggie. “Kind of obvious, isn’t it?”
He looks at her flatly. “Humor me.”
“Her clothes.”
Robby inspects them carefully and realizes both teenagers are wearing jeans, a white tee, and a black silky camisole layered over it. He remembers you wearing similar outfits back in the naughty aughties. He’s not crazy about the inch of midriff exposed on Tanner, but you’ve put in a lot of time convincing him that it’s developmentally appropriate clothing and it’s not her fault she had to inherit his height, so he bites his tongue on that front. Slowly, after a minute of consideration, he offers, “You…match.”
“Exactly!” Tanner groans, “She saw me in this and immediately put on that.”
“And?”
“Dad, seriously? I know you’re fashion blind, but I can’t go to school wearing the exact same thing as my freshman baby sister.”
Robby sighs, “So go change.”
Tanner scoffs again; Robby’s wondering when her sounds of exasperation started sounding so much like his. “Why should I change? She’s the one who copied me in the first place.”
“How about you both change?”
Maggie crosses her arms over her chest and bites back, “I’m not changing. I like this outfit. I look better in it than you anyway.”
Before Tanner can freak out at that one, Robby raises his voice and both his sands slights. “Woah, there, let’s not launch the nukes at this hour.”
You emerge from the nursery with Daisy sleeping against your chest, her mouth open and her expression totally content. Both the teens love the baby, so they soften slightly. Relief washes over Robby; this isn’t really his area.
Unable to resist and seeing a clear path to resolution, you smile at your eldest daughters and say, “You two look adorable. I remember when we used to put you in matching outfits all the time. Aw, maybe we should pick something like that out for Daisy and take pictures before school!”
Maggie shrieks defiantly, shoves into her bedroom, and slams the door.
Tanner crosses her arms over her chest, glares, shakes her head, and then ducks back into the bathroom.
Robby loops his arm around your lower back, plants a kiss on the top of Daisy’s head, and chuckles, “That was a diabolical move, hon.”
“They’ll both change,” you reason with a shrug.
The closest bedroom to you creaks open slowly, a tiny figure emerging from the dark that’s interrupted only by her nightlight. Rubbing sleep from her eyes as she clutches her tattered baby blanket, seven-year-old Susanna pushes open her door and asks, soft and sleepy, “Why are they mad today?”
Robby sighs and tells her, “They’re teenagers. They’re made of being mad.”
She nods her head and reaches up for her dad’s arms. Robby’s getting too old for it, but he still pulls her up onto his hip. She leans on his shoulder and mutters, “I’m never gonna be a teenager.”
Robby kisses the top of her head. “Good plan, mouse.”
You give him a look and then tell Susanna, “Yeah, you will be. You’ll fight with Evie over stupid stuff the same way Maggie and Tanner fight, but then you’ll hug and make up and be best friends again by the end of the day because we’re family. And what does that mean to us?”
She yawns and mumbles, “Hope-oh-no-no.”
Robby laughs but smiles tenderly, correcting, “Ho’oponopono. What’s that mean, princess?”
She snuggles into his chest, props her thumb in her mouth (a habit you’ve been unsuccessfully trying to get her to kick for the better part of five years), and mutters around it, “I’m sowwy. I wove you.”
After another yawn, her voice drifts off into nothing and her breathing gets heavy again. Robby’s always had a magical ability to get anyone to fall asleep in his arms. He takes a deep breath of her feathery dark hair, cherishing the few remaining moments he’ll have of picking her up, and then takes her back into her bedroom, tucking her in for another hour of sleep.
Tanner emerges from the bathroom with her hair sleekly parted, sharp eyeliner and glossy lip applied. She’s always been much cooler and more stylish than you ever were at her age; Robby worries about her becoming conceited, but you see the artistry and skill behind her interest in fashion and makeup. As she stuffs her backpack right in the entryway to her bedroom, you walk up behind her and muse, “Maggie just thinks you look cool, T.”
“Because I do,” she huffs back. “But that doesn’t mean she can copy me; she should grow her own personality.”
“She’s trying to. Right now, she’s looking around at everyone else trying on little pieces of their personalities to see what fits. Remember when you were her age and you wanted to wear my perfume and my shoes all the time?”
“Well, yeah, I thought you were the prettiest woman in the world.”
You narrow your eyes teasingly. “Thought?”
Tanner snorts. “I think you’re the prettiest woman in the world, mom, and I wanted to be like you.”
“So what do you think that means about your sister copying you?”
Tanner purses her lips rolls her eyes — but then she crosses the call, knocks on Maggie’s door, and calls gently, “Hey, Mags, I’m sorry, alright? You looked really cute. You want me to help you pick out something to wear? You can borrow one of my shirts.”
After a minute of shuffling around, Maggie reappears with shiny eyes and red cheeks. Swallowing hard as she pretends to still be mad, she offers, “Fine.”
An hour later, with the older girls ready to go out the door and the younger two just waking up, you’re a whirlwind. You set the table for the whole family, make lunches, and half-supervise Susanna and Evie’s morning routine. They’re generally speaking old enough now to pick out their own clothes, but you still check in to make sure they don’t grab anything that would lead to a call from a teacher. Robby has the baby strapped to his chest, looking far too hunky in his black scrubs as he scrambles eggs for seven, while you make sure all the girls have what they need for the day in their backpacks. It’s routine now, practiced, but you’re still methodical about each step.
As the girls pile into the kitchen, Robby plates up eggs and hasbrowns and fruit for each of them, handing over your plate first. One thing he’s always insisted on is eating breakfast as a family since it’s the only time of day you’re all reliably at home. Once everyone’s sitting down and relatively quiet, you give the day’s marching orders: “Dad’s working a double, so I’m on chauffeur duty tonight. Tanner has yearbook club after school, so Maggie, you’ll have to find some way to entertain yourself before I can pick you up after.”
Maggie grumbles some sort of annoyed approval; they all know the drill when Robby has long, unavoidable shifts.
You go on, “Evie’s school has a half day today, so-”
“What?!” Susanna’s mouth falls open from the injustice of it all. She’s adorable and cute when she’s all sleepy, but once she’s had a hit of orange juice, her personality is the size of a semi truck. “How is that fair? I have to go to school all day and then still go to my soccer game? That’s bullshit!”
Robby chokes on his juice, trying not to laugh. “I told you to stop saying that, kiddo.”
“Uncle Jack says it all the time!”
“Uncle Jack is a grown-up.”
“Uncle Jack says that-”
You clear you throat and say, “Uncle Jack isn’t your father. You’ll get in trouble at school if you talk like that, and if you get in trouble you can’t do soccer.”
She pouts but nods. You haven’t yet explained to her that Evie goes to a different school because she’d been bullied at the public school for being autistic. It’s not an easy thing to explain to a bubbly, protective seven-year-old who thinks her nine-year-old sister is the coolest person alive because she can name every type of bug native to Pennsylvania.
You take a deep breath and continue with morning announcements, “Like she said, Susanna has a soccer game tonight and we will all be going, so we’re-”
Tanner scoffs and protests, “I have plans with Luke and-”
“And you should’ve checked the family calendar before you decided on that,” you interrupt, pointing to the whiteboard covered in sticky notes that rules everyone’s lives. “We’re all going to your photography showcase this weekend, so you’re going to Susanna’s soccer game. We show up for each other here. I’m even gonna take everyone to dinner beforehand, so it’s not the end of the world.”
Mischief flickers in Tanner’s eyes. A bargaining chip. She asks, “If I have to flake on my friends, can I at least drive us to the game?”
You glance over at Robby; he’s the one who’s always hesitant to let her log practice hours now that she has her permit. He gives a reluctant, tight-lipped grimace with his nod. “Sure, it’s not far.”
“Hell yeah.”
Robby narrows his eyes. “Tanner.”
“Heck yeah,” she amends with a cheeky smile.
Susanna gives her oldest sister a punch on the arm and a gap-toothed smile. “I’ll even score a goal for you.”
Maggie snickers, “Your team’s actually gonna score a goal for once?”
Susanna’s next punch to her other sister’s arm is much less friendly. She furrows her brows, looking way too much like Robby, and screams, “That’s such bullshit!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose as Daisy starts to squirm against Robby’s chest. He just looks at you and smiles softly while they start arguing back and forth. Next to you, Evie tugs on your tee’s sleeve and asks quietly, “Can I take my breakfast and go watch Bluey?”
Knowing she just needs some peace and quiet, you brush some butter from her cheek and sigh gently, “Yeah, sweetheart, go ahead.”
The other three don’t even notice her making a silent escape to the living room, too wrapped up in complaining at one another. It’s amazing how Susanna can match wits and volume with the girls who are twice her age. It only ends when Robby’s watch beeps. He starts collecting empty plates as he announces, “Alright, Team High School, get your butts in the Audi. I won’t be participating in any arguments about who gets shotgun. You have two minutes before I drive to the hospital without you.”
Tanner and Maggie both launch out of their chairs and toward the door, already definitely arguing about who gets the heated seat, which comes with control of the radio. The ability to turn off Robby’s favorite station that mainly plays Rush and Eagles is a huge privilege.
As their voices receded into the garage, Robby places the dishes in the washer and then turns to you. He touches the top of Susanna’s head and offers, “Wanna hold your sister for a minute, Suz?”
Susanna wrinkles her nose. “So you can kiss Mommy?”
Robby raises up his hands like he’s been caught. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, buy only because she’s being cute right now.”
“Same rules I follow,” you chuckle while Robby relocates Daisy from his chest to her big sister’s arms. He’s careful to remind Susanna how to support her head and neck, always protective and anxious as a dad even when they’re sitting perfectly still. When he stands up straight, you lean up on your toes and link your arms behind the back of his neck. “My turn?”
“Your turn,” he laughs, bending down to kiss you fondly. “Love you. Be safe today.”
“Yeah, sure,” you reply with an eye roll, “I’ll be safe on the couch with my baby while you deal with gunshot wounds and scalpels for twelve hours straight.” You cut off his response with another kiss and then poke him sternly in the chest. “Eat a full lunch and a full dinner. Snacks every other hour. Actually take bathroom breaks and your fifteens.”
He sighs at your sweetness, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I know, I know, gotta take care of myself so I can take care of everyone else.”
“That’s right. See you tomorrow, Dr. Robby.”
Part Two: Please Forgive Me
Jack Abbot shoves into the Pitt an hour before he’s scheduled with panicky eyes that expertly scan the entire area. He jogs up to the nurse’s station where Dana’s about to question him when he demands, “Is Robby here? Did he leave early or something?”
Dana touches his forearm and searches his face. “Dr. Abbot, are you alright?”
Jack rambles out, still looking over her shoulders in case his best friend walks by, “I couldn’t sleep and I had the scanner on and I heard about a multi-vehicle with a light blue Lexus TX.”
“Yeah, EMS called it in. Sounds like it’s gonna be gnarly. Multiple casualties in the field. A handful of ambulances are a couple minutes out, but we’re fully staffed and- What? What’s that face about? What’s going on?”
“That’s just- that’s what Robby drives.” Jack lets out a deep breath as he sees Robby’s lumbering form cresting around a corner, snapping off exam gloves and beelining for the closest vending machine. “Just a coincidence, I guess.”
Dana snorts as she goes back to charting. “Robby drives a Lexus?”
“Yeah, and I thought- I was worried that- You know how I get.” He shakes his head dismissively and Robby walks toward him with a curious look in his eyes. Jack pulls him into an unexpected hug, clapping him on the back and muttering, “Jesus, brother. Anxiety had me thinking you got in a car crash; sorry about the hug.”
“I’ll never say no to a free Jack Abbot hug,” Robby jokes. Pulling back, he offers Jack a cup of coffee and presses, “I heard there’s a crash coming in; why’d you think I’d be out driving when you know I’m scheduled today?”
Jack shrugs, takes the cup, and tells him, “Crash has a light blue TX in it; I know yours is a custom wrap, so I figured the odds there’s more than one here are-”
Deathly quiet, Robby interrupts, “I didn’t drive the TX today; I took the pickup. Tanner has the Lexus. Tanner has the Lexus.” As that settles hard on Jack’s shoulders, Robby grips him by the arms, fingers digging in, and asks, “Did they say the plate on the scanner?”
Jack’s stomach turns as he whispers back, “JKA-”
The blood drains from Robby’s face as he turns around, jogging out of earshot before Abbot can even finish. Dana looks curiously at Jack and clarifies, “Someone’s borrowing Robby’s car and crashed it? Who’s Tanner?”
“Tanner’s his oldest daughter,” Jack explains, barely able to move himself. His first goddaughter, who he helped deliver in the middle of a snowstorm during med school. “Robby’s wife always- She makes all of them go to Susanna’s soccer games and sometimes they let Tanner drive. I should- I should go out there and get ready. He’ll want me to take care of them if he can’t.”
Dana’s mind reels as two of her senior attendings run off.
Robby has always been incredibly private. Says it makes it easier for him to be the boss if nobody knows what’s going on at home or in his head. But, like everyone else at the hospital, she’d assumed he was a single hermit from the…everything about him. No wedding ring, no leaving early for parent-teacher conferences, nothing to make anyone believe he has a very, very full life at home. It’s surprisingly easy to keep things incredibly vague in an environment full of chaos and constant teaching, brushing off questions and never revealing anything. He wasn’t legally required to explain that his vacation time is for anniversaries, that his sabbaticals are paternity leave, that his strict adherence to leaving on time is to make it home for family dinners and helping the girls with math homework. So he didn’t. The one time he’d made a comment about kids – saying Jake was the son he never had – it made everyone think he didn’t have a family instead of the reality that, in fact, he was just drowning in daughters.
The transponder crackles again on her deck, repeating the message for the entire ED to prepare.
Multiple casualties in the field. Ambulances en route.
Dana yanks Shen to the nurse’s station as he’s strolling by, sipping his third coffee of the night. “John, you’re going to have to run point tonight, okay?”
“Is Robby-”
“His wife and daughters were in the crash, apparently. Don’t know if he’ll be working.” She takes a long breath and scans the shift board, mentally filling in gaps and making decisions. “We’re going to have to keep our shit together no matter what.”
Robby’s been in the ambulance bay with Jack for a count of 78 when the first two ambulances wail to a stop at the far end of the concrete, leaving plenty of room for the coming onslaught. He tries to process the scene in front of him. His brain seems to have shifted out of doctor mode. None of it makes sense. The EMTs are moving fast, too fast, for him to follow. The sirens and noises take over his mind. His heart slams over and over and it’s louder than anything else.
Seeing her dad before she sees him, Tanner launches out of the first ambulance. As the EMT tries and fails to grab her, she sprints toward the Pitt’s doors and tumbles into Robby’s arms, practically knocking the wind out of him with the force of her body. She's already babbling as he blinks hard to recognize her presence, “I’m so sorry, dad, I- I don’t know what happened and- and now the car is totally wrecked. I swear I used my blinker and checked my blind spot and-”
“Honey, hey, it’s alright.” He kisses the top of her head over and over, clutching her hair like he’s waiting for her to slip through his fingers. She’s the first thing that’s felt real since he heard about the incoming crash. Unable to release her, he assures, “None of that matters right now. We’ve got insurance; it’s just a hunk of metal. Now where are your sisters? Where’s your mom?”
She collapses into tears again and Robby holds her tight, heart slamming against his ribs as he scans the incoming ambulances while they stop and unload. The EMT gives Robby a pointed look and he nods, pulling back from Tanner and meeting her eyes. “You need to go back to the ambulance so they can check you out some more and decide what the hospital needs to do, okay?”
“What? No!” She clutches Robby’s sleeve in a stubborn hand and says, “I’m fine; I need to help you find everyone and make sure they’re okay.”
Robby’s stomach drops to his feet when she confirms what he’d feared; the accident had been on the way back from Susanna’s soccer game, all the Robinavitch girls in the stands cheering her on.
Which means you were in the car.
You were all in the car.
His whole world in that $90,000 pile of crumpled metal he’d bought for you because it was the safest SUV on the market last year.
Robby takes one slow, deep breath. It’s time for him to be brave for his girls, no matter how impossible that feels. He cups Tanner’s cheek and insists again, “Sweetheart, you need to go with the EMT now. So many invisible things can happen during accidents and- and I need to know you’re safe. I need to know where you are. Everyone else is going to be coming right here, okay? You don’t have to look for them; you just have to listen to the doctors and do what they say.” He presses a soft kiss to her forehead and urges, “Please, T. I promise I’ll come find you as soon as I know anything. I love you.”
Tanner nods slowly and sniffles back her unending tears. “I love you, too, Dad.”
She hasn’t said that in a long time – too ‘grown up’ and easily embarrassed – and Robby’s heart splinters even more. His brave girl, his first baby, who’s always tackled the world head-on, is scared and small and searching for his strength. He gives her one more hug before sending her away while another set of ambulances arrives.
Then pieces of his world start to roll by on gurneys. Everything moves in slow motion while Robby stands there in the bay, useless, not a doctor right now. Evie goes by first, her eyes open and frantic but her head held down with a strap across her bloody forehead. Suspected concussion. She makes eye contact with Robby but doesn’t speak, rolled by too fast for either of them to process. Then it’s three strangers in various states of distress and injury. And then Susanna, tiny and frail in her green soccer uniform when she’s usually larger than life. She’s not conscious as far as Robby can tell and that’s what brings him back to the present.
Robby unfreezes and follows the gurneys even though his legs feel like lead. Suddenly Jack’s by his side again and he’s talking rapid-fire and Robby isn’t hearing anything as the EMTs start telling him what’s going on. All he can see is the unnatural angle of Susanna’s shin, cracked and bleeding, and something sharp sticking out of her abdomen. The lack of expression on her face. He can’t stop picturing Daisy, so small despite being overdue, and her ‘baby on board’ sticker on the back bumper that wouldn’t do anything but let them find her body faster than-
No.
No, don’t go there.
He hasn’t even realized he’s stopped moving, Evie’s gurney going through the floppy doors toward the imaging wing. He’s still floating in space, lost and out of orbit with his family flung on different paths. Where’s Maggie? She probably would’ve been in the front seat, always fighting over getting to sit there. Multiple casualties in the field. Robby can’t breathe. Where are you? Where’s Daisy? Multiple casualties in the field. There are too many people here and it’s too loud and too bright. And he sees Susanna on the other side of the ED, conscious now but wailing in pain and covered in blood and surrounded by Robby’s students. The sound of her pain alone is enough to strangle him.
Jack’s hand crashes across Robby’s face.
Hard.
Ears ringing, skin burning.
Jack’s eyes are serious and dark and urgent. “Stay with me, brother. We need you right now. Your girls need you.”
Robby can barely form a coherent sentence and he feels his knees starting to give. He’s only seen half his family alive so far. And he can’t think about anything else. His voice sounds foreign, far away, aching. “Where’s Maggie and where’s- where’s-”
Jack guides him to the ground instead of trying to keep him on his feet. “Breathe, Michael. Breathe.” His pager is going off non-stop; he’s needed for another trauma, another body, another family falling apart. He shoves his water bottle into Robby’s arms and says, “We’ll send someone with an update about everyone as soon as we can. I know this is a fucking nightmare right now, but I swear I’ll-”
“Dr. Robinavitch?”
It’s Mohan, who looks even more scared and unsure than Robby, holding six clipboards stacked on top of each other.
Six.
Six charts.
Six people.
Robby’s chest finally begins to loosen. Six charts means six living patients. No matter what, you’re all here. You’re all in his hospital being cared for by his people.
Mohan goes on, “I’m so sorry, but we need you to sign some consents so that we can-”
Robby takes the clipboards and pen from her hand. He swallows hard and manages to find Dr. Robinavitch somewhere inside the shrapnel of his gut. “Walk me through it, kid.”
Jack gives one more squeeze to Robby’s bicep and then jogs back across the ED to wherever he’s needed next as Mohan joins Robby on the floor instead of asking him to stand up. She could use the moment of rest, too. “I’m really sorry it’s me talking to you instead of someone more senior, but they’re all busy with-”
“Walk me through it,” he repeats, “like any other family member, alright?”
She whispers, “You’re not any other family member.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll critique your bedside manner after.”
“That might help,” she admits with a nervous laugh. “Okay. We’ll go from most to least urgent.”
“Good. Take the consents from me as you get them; never waste time.”
Mohan swallows and nods. “The car was hit squarely on the passenger side. Margaret-”
“Maggie.”
“Her, ah, her school ID says Margaret. Maggie was sitting in the area of highest impact, and her injuries correspond with that. She’ll need multiple casts, but, ah, but the big thing is that we need to start a craniotomy right away. She has a brain bleed known as an intracerebral hemorrhage; we need to drain the bleed and repair the vessels.”
Robby goes white and sweaty. His brain switches into autopilot because he can’t dare process how serious that is. What it could mean. How, in a few hours, he may not have five daughters anymore. “We can’t do a stereotactic aspiration?”
“Unfortunately, the size and location of the bleed rule out less invasive treatment methods. We need to be aggressive in treating this.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Your delivery. Good.” He scribbles his signature across five pages on Maggie’s chart. Samira runs it to central and the machine of the hospital takes over. “Next.”
Mohan continues on, fatigue thick in her voice, “When it comes to Evelyn-”
“Evie.”
Mohan gives a sad sort of smile. “Right. Evie. She was sitting directly behind Maggie, so she got the next most impact. There’s still lots of imaging to do, but we’re looking at a myriad of fractures, mostly minor, but she does have a break in one of her forearm growth plates that could impact long-term development of the limb.”
“A little stiff, Samira,” Robby tells her. “Try again.”
“One of Evie’s breaks could lead to her arm growing abnormally, so we’ll need to monitor that closely over the next year. Most growth plate fractures do heal normally, though.”
“Better. Other breaks?”
“On the right side of her body, she has different levels of fractures from her shoulder down to her hip, essentially. We’ve located four fractured ribs, a break in her collarbone, and several through her wrist and forearm. One of the consents is for an ortho specialist to come down and fit her for a custom cast; she’s going to have to be out of school for a while.”
Robby sighs and rubs his hands over his face. Exhaustion weighs his features down, but there’s nothing he can do except go through. He signs.
It feels never-ending as Mohan continues, “Susanna is conscious, responsive, and generally in good condition, but she’s going to need surgery to remove multiple foreign bodies and to set the bones in a complex tibial fracture.”
The part of his brain that wants to teach is keeping him occupied from the horror of it all, stabilizing his voice and increasing his focus. Dr. Robby asks absently, scratching away at each form, “What are the foreign bodies? You should usually just say the object if it isn’t privileged or, y’know, embarrassing.”
“It’s mainly glass pieces. The largest is a few inches, but there are a lot of smaller shards. It’s going to be an intricate debridement.”
“Which means?”
“It’s going to be a lengthy, very precise surgical process to ensure we successfully remove all pieces,” she corrects, letting out a relieved breath when Robby nods his approval. “We’re very lucky that there don’t seem to be punctures to any of her organs, but we won’t know for sure about some of the larger pieces until we have a sterile field.”
Robby looks up at Mohan for the first time since she started. “How’d she get punctured by so much glass from the backseat?”
“The sunroof fell inward under the weight of another vehicle,” she explains quietly. Mohan stills Robby’s shaking hand and tells him, gentle and human, “The EMT told me that she was in the lowest impact part of the car. Her injuries were sustained after the crash.”
Robby’s brow furrows. For the first time, he actually doesn’t follow. “What does that mean?”
Mohan touches his shoulder, comforting and sure, as she explains, “Susanna maneuvered herself however she could over the baby’s car seat when she saw part of the car about to collapse. She knew her leg would get crushed and that she was going to get covered in glass. But she moved to save the baby’s life.” Wiping a quick, unexpected tear from her cheek, Mohan murmurs, “You should get her an ice cream or something for that.”
Robby gets choked up. When did he start crying? The sob is aching. How could he have raised someone so brave she would do that? So brave she would put her life on the line? Scared and hurt and seven years old and already saving lives. When Mohan gives the next chart to Robby, he steadies himself with a few deep breaths.
“For the other three, I just need some basic forms signed.”
“Thank god,” Robby mutters, flipping through the pages and signing haphazardly. He always cringes when family members don’t take the time to look at their consents, but now all he cares about is getting this done. Getting to his family.
“Tanner mainly has soft tissue injuries – bruises, some sprains – and she needed stitches on a few cuts. Otherwise, she was incredibly lucky. My main concern for her is psychological; it’s incredibly difficult for such a new driver to feel safe again after something like this. She’s going to be dealing with a lot of guilt. Make sure she gets the help she needs as soon as possible.”
“That’s a good thing to say, kid. Really good. A lot of doctors would skip that.” Robby makes a mental note to ask his therapist for recommendations for an adolescent specialist. Then he asks, softer than Samira’s ever heard her boss, “My wife? The baby?”
“Daisy was in the low-impact zone as well, thankfully, and clearly your wife’s a pro mom because she was properly secured to protect her head and neck. We only suspect a concussion, which is really the best possible outcome for an infant so young in an accident this serious. We have her in a private room for observation.” At last, Samira smiles, just happy to have a little good news to share. “And your wife is over there with her. We took some imaging and bloodwork to be safe, but for now the worst seems to be a few minor lacerations from helping the girls.”
Robby sighs, gratitude and grief in equal measure through his body. “Can I head up there and see them now?”
“Of course, Dr. Robby. Room six,” she tells him, trying to seem sure. “Keep your pager on; we’ll keep you updated on everyone’s treatment.”
“Thanks, Samira. Good job.”
Before she can say anything else, he’s jogging across the ED floor, dodging gurneys and triage stations and questions. The pediatric rooms have never felt so far away, but his legs manage to keep carrying him even as every step shakes.
The hospital is quieter with each foot away from the chaos of the emergency room. The moment he pulls open the door to pediatric six, that eerie quiet is replaced by the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard. Singing.
It’s you.
It’s you and you’re holding his kicking and screaming and beautifully alive baby in your tired arms.
Sitting on the loveseat that overlooks the infant-sized vitals setup Daisy's been removed from to nurse, you gaze up at him with so much emotion in your expression. Relief, he realizes. Relief that he’s here with you. You’ve been crying and so has he, all your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He surges forward as you whimper, “Michael.”
Your breathless voice is a mitzvah in and of itself. Robby falls to his knees in front of you and presses his head into your thighs and feels the realness and the life of you. Daisy is screaming her little head off and it’s pure music, the melody of her lungs working and her heart beating. Robby envelops you both on the loveseat, taking the baby’s weight from you, and weeps.
And weeps.
Late that night, you try to sleep with your head on Michael’s shoulder on the couch in Maggie’s and Evie’s shared hospital room. Susanna’s fast asleep, her head in your lap, neon green leg cast propped up, mouth lolling open. Daisy is in a hospital bassinet with Jack watching over her. Visiting hours are over, but it turns out some people are willing to look the other way for the chief attending and his family.
Tanner hasn’t left Maggie’s side since she came out of surgery. The doctor had spoken too fast to you and Robby out in the hallway, leaving Tanner straining to hear even snippets. Brain bleed. Surgery as successful as possible given the extent and severity. No timeline on when she’ll wake up. If she’ll wake up.
If.
It’s the worst word Tanner’s ever heard.
You’re the only one awake to hear what Tanner’s whispering, over and over, to her little sister: “I’m sorry, Mags. I’m so sorry. Please wake up. Please, please forgive me.”
Part Three: Thank You
You’ve been home for five days now with Daisy and Susanna, doing almost nothing but sleeping, eating, pumping, and crying. Jack’s been staying over, too, helping out with making the house accessible for Susanna and for Evie when she’s able to come home.
In the evening, you hear the garage open and close.
You look up at Robby with broken hope in your eyes. Did Maggie wake up?
He shakes his head.
You tilt your head to the side. Is Tanner with you?
He shakes his head again and crawls onto the couch next to you, taking Daisy onto his chest and breathing slowly until he can speak. His fingers twine with yours as he tells you, “Evie can come home tomorrow if we’re ready.”
“We’re ready,” you reply, somehow still sounding eager in your constant exhaustion. “Jack and I finished with her new bedroom setup downstairs today.”
“Good. That’s good.” Robby kisses the side of your head and murmurs, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything and then some,” he replies softly. Daisy grips his beard with her grabby hands and he lets her, smiling sleepily at her wide eyes. He brushes some of her wispy dark curls and adds, “Thank you for this perfect baby. Thank you for our family. Thank you for-”
“I already spent the whole day crying, Michael,” you cut him off, wiping your wet cheeks. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“Never doubted it for a second.” His warm brown eyes flick over to you before returning to Daisy’s, a mirror of his own. “I love you so much. All of you.”
Jack appears in the living room archway, silhouetted by the hall light. “Susanna’s out after four grueling rounds of Slow Mo The Soccer Sloth. Now give me that baby and go to bed.”
Robby frowns. “I just got her. Wait your turn.”
“Nuh uh,” Jack protests, stretching out his arms for his tiny niece. “You have access to cute baby time whenever you want; this is my vacation. You need to rest with your wife. The kid and I will enjoy Goodnight Moon on our own, thank you very much.”
Robby nods and hands off Daisy, who immediately yanks Jack’s earlobe. Bless him for not minding or complaining.
As Robby helps you to your feet, you start to tell Jack for the hundredth time, “There’s fresh breastmilk in-”
But Jack raises his hand to cut you off. “I’m a pro, mama, don’t worry. You two get as much sleep as you can; I’ve got breakfast set, too.”
“You’re an angel,” you sigh sweetly, giving both Daisy and Jack a kiss on the cheek. “You should think about switching careers.”
He smiles as Daisy gives him a wide-eyed, wondrous giggle. “If I could make six figures entertaining this munchkin, I’d consider it.”
Robby clasps his shoulder and says, voice deep and true, “Thank you, Jack. You know how grateful I am for you?”
Jack nods slowly and then gives Robby a one-armed hug. “Yeah, I do. Get some sleep, brother.”
As Jack takes the baby to the kitchen to warm up her next bottle, Robby walks just behind you up the stairs. Even though you’ve felt totally fine since day three, Robby continues to be protective, keeping a hand low on your back to stabilize you. He helps you get ready for bed and you let him dote and spoil, savoring his adoration and tenderness.
While Robby works lotion into your back, sitting behind you in bed, you ask him, “Did Tanner say anything today?”
“Not to me,” he replies softly. “Dana told me that she took a shower and ate all the food the nurses brought her, so that’s good.”
“Still talking Maggie’s ear off?”
“About everything and anything,” he confirms. “If I were in a coma, listening to Tanner talk about Luke’s cute butt when he plays lacrosse would definitely wake me up so I could puke.”
You let out a barking laugh and slap his thigh hard. “Michael!”
Pressing his forehead to the curve of your shoulder, he mutters, “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”
“I know,” you sigh. “Me too. How long do we let her stay at the hospital?”
“Until Maggie wakes up.”
“What if-”
He shakes his head and snakes his arms around your stomach, insisting, “Until she wakes up.”
“Okay. Until she wakes up.” You turn around, adjusting so you’re in his lap instead of between his legs, and time your breaths with his. “She’s a good sister.”
“Yeah, she is. They’re all so good. Like their mother.” He kisses your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You ready to go to bed?”
With a slightly pained look, you sigh and nod.
Robby sees right through you, of course. Twenty years together will do that. “What is it?”
You sigh and admit, “My boobs are swollen and my haakaa is downstairs and my baby is having a bottle in her nursery.”
Robby chews on that for a second and then smirks a bit. His cheeks going red, he rubs your back and says, “It’s funny; I feel like it would be weird to offer to suck on your nipples like I haven’t done it a million times before.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not sure,” he replies. As you lift your tee up and toss it to the side, baring your naked breasts to him for the first time since the accident, he mutters, “Something about it being wrong to think about your boobs while our kids are-”
You shut him up with a kiss, warm and firm and begging. “My therapist told me this morning that it’s more important than ever to focus on our relationship.” As Robby groans, throwing his head back so you can kiss up his neck, you breathe out, “She said that couples who prioritize intimacy during stress and tragedy have significantly reduced rates of divorce.”
He almost laughs. “Were you worried about us getting divorced?”
“No, obviously,” you huff as Robby tugs his own shirt off and begins kissing across your chest, staying a few inches away from where you need most. “I just missed you. I need you. We need each other.”
Gripping your hips and grinding up against your ass, he teases, “So this ‘swollen breasts’ thing was just a ruse to get me to pay attention to you?”
You give him a conspiratorial smile and suggest, “How about you start sucking and find out?”
Amid your teasing and gasping and knowing, Robby finds a perfect escape in worshipping every healing inch of your body. The intimacy is a lifeline, an anchor, a need. It lets him sleep. Lets him rest.
You wake with a start to the sound of Robby’s phone. His hand shoots out to stop the piercing sound as you groggily flip to your side. He mutters, speech thick and slurred with sleep, “It’s the hospital.”
He turns on speaker phone and a woman’s clear voice comes through: “Dr. Robby?”
With the phone on his chest, Robby rubs his hands over his face and sighs as you snuggle up against his arm, “Mohan? What is it?”
“Maggie’s awake.” Without saying a word, Robby launches out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and starts snatching clothes for both of you from the closet. While he’s shimmying on sweats and brushing his teeth, Samira asks, “Robby? You still there?”
You pick up the phone with teary eyes as Robby pelts a cozy sweatshirt at you. “Yeah, he’s- he’s getting ready to go. We’ll be there soon. Is she scared?”
“No, actually.” You hear the tentative smile in her voice. “I think Tanner’s got that covered.”
That makes your heart so warm it might burst. “Thank you, Dr. Mohan.”
While tugging on shoes, Robby asks, “Is there anything we need to know about her condition before we get there?”
“She wants to see her sisters,” Samira replies tenderly. Then, she adds, “And she’s asking for pancakes.”
Dressed now, you ask her, “Can we have those ordered to the hospital?
“I think we can make that happen, Mrs. Robinavitch.”
An hour later, you’re all hugged and cried out while Maggie examines herself in the handheld mirror Samira offered her. Robby’s next to her, unable to stop touching her arm or her back to prove to himself she’s awake and alert. You’re at the end of the bed with Daisy knocked out on your chest and Susanna’s between Maggie’s legs, half-asleep but smiling. They even helped Evie transfer to her new transport chair so she could hold Maggie’s hand.
With a teary pout, Maggie observes, “They shaved half my head.”
“You had a pretty serious surgery,” Robby sighs, rubbing her back and once again checking over the intense line of staples holding her scalp together. “You’ve got battle scars now.”
“It looks badass,” Tanner tells her, expression serious and full of a kind of agony Robby had hoped he could protect her from forever. Then she pulls her dark hair up and reveals the undercut she’d given herself in the hospital bathroom four days earlier, claiming she knew it would help. It’s choppy and you know you’re going to have to clean it up with her dad’s electric clippers, but the way Maggie stares at it does wonders. “Look, I did mine, too.”
Maggie breaks into a small smile as she reexamines her hair in a new light, this time envisioning herself being the girl with the undercut and survival story. “Badass.”
After a few moments of silence, she sets the mirror down, chews on her words for a second, and then tells Tanner, “One of the last things I remember is fighting with you. I don’t ever wanna fight like that again. Not if- not if it’s the last thing we might get to talk about.”
Tanner shakes her head vehemently and replies, “I’ve been thinking about that too, Mags. And I- I wanted to say thank you for being so annoying. Thank you for fighting with me.” Tanner laughs through tears, brushing Maggie’s hair out with careful fingers to avoid tugging her scalp staples, absently braiding it just to be with her sister. “I get now that you bug me because you want my attention and that you want my attention because you think I’m-” her voice breaks but she keeps smiling through it “-you think I’m worth something. So thank you.”
Maggie winces as she pulls Tanner into a tight hug. “Let’s keep fighting forever, then, okay?” Then she turns to Susanna and Evie and points to them like a Disney villain. “And don’t think the two of you are getting out of that, either.”
You and Robby make knowing eye contact over your daughters’ heads. Ten thousand more quiet mornings interrupted with screaming matches.
You can’t imagine anything better.
Part Four: I Love You
The next morning, Robby’s going over a mountain of discharge paperwork with Dana as she finally scoffs and shakes her head. “Five daughters, huh, cap?”
He just smiles and shakes his head, expression fond. “Yup.”
“A 16-year-old and a three-month-old?” She looks down the bridge over her nose, over her glasses. “At the same time?”
“Yup.”
“How many of them did you plan?”
Robby cuts her an amused, almost conspiratorial glance. “Two.”
“So did you need someone to explain how condoms work? We’ve got that sexual health presentation series coming up for the local middle schoolers; it’s a popular show, but I bet I could swing you a ticket.”
“Alright, alright.” Robby crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the nurse’s station. “Look, we had Tanner way too young. I wasn’t even out of med school, but we decided to figure it out. Thought we were done after Maggie, but sometimes you take your wife on a trip for your ten-year anniversary and the timezones make her forget the pill and, y’know, Evie happened. We thought she should have a sibling closer to her own age.”
“And the new baby almost a decade later at, what, 45? Another accident?”
Robby shrugs and tells her, “I thought we were way too old for another baby, too, but…Well, look at her. Look at them.” He gestures affectionately at you across in the waiting room, nursing Daisy while Susanna sleeps with her head on your shoulder. Tanner’s pushing Evie around until she laughs and Maggie’s giving the directions. All his girls getting antsy, ready to go home. You catch his gaze and give him a wink. Robby squeezes Dana’s shoulder and explains, “You find a woman like that and there’s no such thing as an accident. There’s only love that keeps growing.”
Summary: When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as he confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint flutter aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
I'm trying out posting this without a taglist to see how it performs! So if you see it, please engage so I can get a sense of whether or not I need to keep my taglists going!
Summary: you meet Jack when he’s dressed as Cinderella for a hospital visit. Your little brother is the one in the bed. You’re the one barely holding it together. He notices both. What starts as a chance encounter in a pediatric oncology ward becomes something else entirely — something built in waiting rooms and hockey arenas and the quiet spaces between crisis and hope. He shows up. Again and again. Not like a hero in a story, but like someone who’s decided your fight is his fight too (or in which Jack Hughes falls completely in love with a girl who’s too tired to believe in fairy tales anymore)
The air in the Devils’ training facility locker room smells less like sweat and tape and more like hairspray and a glitter bomb detonation. It’s chaos. A beautiful, sequined, tulle-filled chaos.
Timo Meier, broad-shouldered and built like a Swiss Alp, is struggling with a delicate red ribbon in his wig. He’s Snow White. His reflection in the mirror is a surreal juxtaposition of brute strength and fairy-tale innocence.
“I can’t get this stupid thing tied,” he grunts, his thick fingers fumbling. “How do women do this?”
“You’re supposed to have woodland creatures help you, man,” Luke Hughes says, not looking up from his phone. He’s already fully transformed into Elsa, a shimmering blue gown pooling around his skates-off feet. He looks uncannily good, which is irritating to everyone else. “Or, like, a dwarf. Got any of those?”
“Shut up, Luke.”
Nico Hischier is methodically putting the finishing touches on his Belle costume. The golden ball gown is surprisingly well-fitted. He adjusts a stray curl of his brown wig with a seriousness usually reserved for a power play strategy meeting. “Remember the plan. We go in, we pass out the gift bags, we spend time in the common room, and then we visit the individual rooms for the kids who can’t be moved. Low and slow. No scaring anyone.”
“I think Timo as Snow White is gonna scare people regardless,” Luke mutters, finally looking up to film Timo’s struggle for his Instagram story.
Jack stands slightly apart from the mayhem, staring at his own reflection. He’s Cinderella. Not the pre-fairy godmother version, but the full-on, ball-ready, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo Cinderella. The powder-blue gown is a masterpiece of satin and chiffon. A delicate black choker circles his neck, and a matching blue headband holds back a surprisingly flattering blonde updo. The only things that betray the illusion are his sharp jawline, the light scruff he didn’t bother to shave, and the unmistakable confidence of a first-overall draft pick.
“You’re quiet,” Luke says, pointing the phone at his brother. “Feeling pretty, princess?”
Jack smooths down the front of the gown. “Just mentally preparing,” he says, his voice dry. “It’s a big day. Got a ball to get to. Gotta be home by midnight or my chariot turns back into a Honda.”
“It’s a pumpkin,” Nico corrects without turning around.
“Whatever, Nico. Don’t ruin the fantasy.” Jack catches Luke’s eye in the mirror. “You know, for someone making fun of me, you look way too comfortable in that dress.”
“It’s because I’m letting it go,” Luke deadpans, wiggling his fingers like he’s shooting ice from them. “Get it?”
“We all get it,” Timo groans, finally managing a lopsided bow. “You’ve made the joke seventeen times.”
Jack turns, the gown swishing dramatically around his ankles. The sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and a genuine smile breaks across his face. He feels ridiculous. He also feels a strange sense of purpose. It’s Halloween. They’re about to walk into St. Joseph’s Children’s Hospital, and for a few hours, they won’t be hockey players. They’ll be whatever these kids need them to be. Even if it’s a six-foot-tall Cinderella.
“Alright,” Jack says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go charm some kids. Try not to trip, Timo. You’ll cause a seismic event.”
***
The hospital hallway is a symphony of quiet beeps and the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes. It’s a sterile, unnervingly calm environment, a world away from the roaring energy of the Prudential Center. The four of them walk in a tight pack, their gowns rustling, drawing stares from staff and passing family members. The stares aren't mocking, they’re filled with a sort of delighted disbelief.
The common room is a burst of activity. Kids in various states of health, some in wheelchairs, some tethered to IV poles, look up as they enter. A collective gasp ripples through the room, followed by a wave of giggles.
For the next hour, they are fully in character. Luke signs a kid’s cast as ‘Elsa,’ Nico waltzes with a little girl who can’t stop staring at his golden gown, and Timo, despite his earlier complaints, proves to be a natural Snow White, his gentle giant persona winning over even the shyest toddlers.
Jack finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor, his massive blue skirt creating a protective circle around a group of small children. He’s deep in a debate about the best Disney sidekick with a seven-year-old girl named Emmy who is passionately arguing for Pascal from Tangled.
“But Gus Gus is a classic,” Jack argues, trying to sound regal. “He’s loyal. He helps make the dress.”
“Pascal can change colors!” Emmy insists, her eyes wide. “And he’s funny. Gus Gus just eats.”
Jack is about to offer a rebuttal when a nurse with a kind, tired face approaches him. “Cinderella? There’s a boy in room 308, Caleb, who wasn’t able to come down. He’s a huge fan. Of you, I mean. The Devils. Not … well, maybe Cinderella, too. Would you mind paying him a visit?”
“For sure,” Jack says, gathering the yards of satin to stand up. “Lead the way.”
He follows the nurse down a quieter corridor, the gown whispering against the linoleum. The door to room 308 is slightly ajar. A sticker of Captain America’s shield is stuck to the wood.
The nurse pushes it open gently. “Caleb? You have a visitor.”
The room is small, dominated by a hospital bed and a host of humming, blinking machines. A boy is sitting up in the bed, thin and pale, with a soft beanie covering his head. He can’t be more than nine or ten. He’s focused intently on a Nintendo Switch in his hands, and he doesn’t look up immediately.
“Don’t want a visitor,” he says, his voice soft but firm.
“Even if it’s royalty?” Jack asks, stepping into the room.
The boy’s eyes finally flick up from his screen. They travel from the hem of the blue dress, up past the bodice, to Jack’s face and the blonde wig. His expression doesn’t change. There’s no awe, no giggle. Just a flat, analytical stare.
“You’re Jack Hughes,” he says. It’s not a question.
Jack blinks, surprised. “Yeah. I am. But today you can call me Cinderella.”
The boy, Caleb, gives a tiny, unimpressed shrug. “Why are you in a dress?”
“It’s for Halloween. We’re visiting all the kids.” Jack walks closer to the bed, carefully maneuvering his gown around an IV stand. “What are you playing?”
“NHL 24,” Caleb says, his thumbs still moving over the controls. “I’m playing as you. You just missed the net on a breakaway. It was pretty embarrassing.”
Jack laughs, a real, genuine laugh that echoes in the quiet room. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. Let me see.”
He leans over, and the sweet, cloying scent of the wig’s hairspray fills the space. On the small screen, his own digital avatar is skating back to the bench. “Who are you playing against?”
“The Rangers. Obviously.”
“Good man.” Jack pulls a visitor’s chair closer to the bed, the dress making the simple action a complicated logistical maneuver. He sits, his knees bumping up against the plastic frame. “So, you’re a fan?”
“My sister is,” Caleb says, finally pausing his game and setting the Switch down on his lap. “She got me into it. She says you have silky hands.”
Jack feels a slight blush creep up his neck. “She’s got a good eye for the game, then.”
“She’s okay.” Caleb picks at a loose thread on his blanket. His eyes, a deep, startling green, are full of a weariness that doesn’t belong on a child’s face. “Today’s a bad day.”
He says it so matter-of-factly, with such finality, that it stills the air in the room.
“Oh,” Jack says softly. “I’m sorry, man. Is there … is there anything I can do?”
Caleb shakes his head. “Nah. My sister went to get me something. From the cafeteria. They have this mac and cheese that’s the only thing that doesn’t taste like … hospital.” He looks around the room, at the machines that are his constant companions. “She always knows. When it’s a bad day.”
There’s a universe of love and history in those simple words. Jack feels a pang in his chest, a strange mix of sadness for this boy and awe at the bond he shares with his sister.
“She sounds like a good sister,” Jack says.
“She’s the best,” Caleb says, his voice suddenly thick. He blinks hard, looking away from Jack and toward the window, where the late afternoon sun is casting long shadows. “It’s just us. So we gotta … you know. Be the best for each other.”
The unspoken weight of that sentence hangs between them. Jack doesn’t know what to say. All the easy charm, all the practiced media training, it all evaporates in the face of this small boy’s reality.
So he just sits there. He doesn’t offer platitudes or false cheer. He just sits, a hockey star in a princess gown, and keeps a little boy company.
They talk for a few more minutes about the team, about the upcoming season, about Caleb’s favorite players (besides him, apparently it’s Dougie Hamilton). Caleb’s voice gets stronger, his posture a little less slumped. He’s smiling a little.
The door swings open, and you walk in.
And Jack’s world tilts on its axis.
You’re holding a small styrofoam container, and your face is a study in exhaustion. There are faint purple smudges under your eyes, and your hair is pulled back into a messy bun that has long since given up trying. You’re wearing a worn-out university sweatshirt and leggings, and you look like you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a decade.
But when your eyes land on Caleb, your entire being softens. A smile, real and radiant, transforms your face. It’s the most beautiful thing Jack has ever seen.
“I have acquired the goods,” you announce, your voice warm and tired and lovely. “They tried to give me Jell-O as well, but I told them you were a sophisticated man with a refined palate, and that palate demanded only the finest cheesy noodles …”
Your voice trails off as you finally notice him. Sitting there. In all his Cinderella glory.
Your eyes widen. You stop dead in your tracks, one hand still holding the mac and cheese aloft. You blink once, then twice, as if trying to recalibrate your vision. Your gaze travels from the poufy shoulders of the gown down to the scuffed sneakers peeking out from under the hem, then back up to the blonde wig and Jack’s face.
A slow, bewildered smile spreads across your lips. “Oh,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Wow. Okay. That’s … new.”
Caleb grins, a full, proper grin this time. “This is Cinderella,” he says, his tone grand. “But he told me his name is Jack.”
You take a hesitant step into the room, your eyes locked on Jack’s. He feels suddenly, intensely self-conscious. He’s acutely aware of the glitter on his eyelids and the tightness of the corset. He stands up, a gesture of politeness that feels absurd under the circumstances. The gown rustles around him.
“Hi,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Jack Hughes.”
Your smile widens. You look from him to Caleb and back again. “Of course it is,” you say, and there’s a note of gentle humor in your voice that makes his stomach do a weird little flip. “My brother has been summoning you with his mind for months. I guess it finally worked.”
You walk over to the bed and hand the container to Caleb. You brush a hand over his beanie, a simple, loving gesture. “Eat up, bug. It’s still hot.”
Then you turn your full attention back to Jack. He feels like he’s under a spotlight. Your eyes are intelligent and direct.
“Thank you for visiting him,” you say, your tone shifting from amused to genuinely grateful. “It’s … this is the most he’s smiled all day.”
“It’s no problem. At all,” Jack says, stumbling over the words. “He was just telling me about your taste in hockey players. Very discerning.”
A faint blush colors your cheeks. “Oh, God. What did he say?” You shoot a playful glare at Caleb, who is now happily shoveling mac and cheese into his mouth.
“He said you have good taste,” Caleb mumbles around a mouthful of pasta.
“He told me you said I have silky hands,” Jack clarifies, a smirk playing on his lips.
You groan and cover your face with your hands for a second. “Caleb! You are a traitor to this family.” You drop your hands and look at Jack, your expression a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. “In my defense, it’s an objective, analytical assessment of your puck-handling skills.”
“Of course,” Jack says, his smirk growing wider. “Purely academic.”
“Strictly,” you confirm, your eyes sparkling.
The room falls into a comfortable silence for a moment, punctuated only by the scrape of Caleb’s fork against the styrofoam. The beeping of the machines seems to fade into the background. There’s an energy in the room now that wasn’t there before you arrived. A warmth. A lightness.
“So,” you say, gesturing vaguely at his entire ensemble. “Cinderella. Did you lose a bet?”
“No, it was a team decision,” Jack says. “Community outreach. Halloween cheer, you know?”
“And you drew the Cinderella straw?”
“I volunteered,” he admits. “Go big or go home, right?”
“Bold choice,” you say, a genuine smile gracing your lips again. “It’s working for you, surprisingly. The color brings out your eyes.”
Jack has had thousands of people compliment him. On his skill, his speed, his vision on the ice. But the simple, teasing compliment from you, the tired girl in the worn-out sweatshirt, makes his heart beat a little faster.
“Thanks,” he says, feeling ridiculously pleased. “I was going for a look.”
“You achieved it.”
Luke appears in the doorway, a majestic, glittering Elsa. “Jack, Nico is trying to … oh.” He stops, taking in the scene. He looks at you, then at Jack, then at Caleb, who gives him a cheesy wave. Luke’s eyes light up with mischief.
“Hey,” Luke says, striding into the room with a confident swish of his sequined train. “I’m Elsa.”
You just stare at him, your mouth slightly agape. “Right. Of course you are.”
“Is this Cinderella bothering you?” Luke asks you, completely ignoring his brother. He leans in conspiratorially. “He can be a real diva before the ball.”
“Luke, shut up,” Jack says, but there’s no heat in it.
You laugh, a full, throaty sound that is the best thing Jack has heard all day. “I think I can handle him. It’s an honor to meet you both. Seriously. Thank you for doing this.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Luke says, all charm. He winks at Caleb. “Get better soon, man. We need you cheering for us.”
“I’ll try,” Caleb says seriously.
Nico and Timo appear in the doorway behind Luke, a vision in gold and primary colors. The small hospital room is suddenly very crowded with Disney princesses.
Nico smiles warmly. “We have to go, Jack. Visiting hours are almost over.”
“Right,” Jack says, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment. He doesn’t want to leave. He looks at you, at the way you’re standing guard by your brother’s bed, a protective and weary guardian.
“It was really nice to meet you, Caleb,” Jack says, turning his attention to the boy. “Stay strong, okay?”
“You too,” Caleb says. “Tell Dougie his beard is awesome.”
“Will do.” Jack’s eyes meet yours one last time. He wants to say something else, something more than just ‘goodbye.’ He wants to ask for your name. He wants to ask how you’re doing, how you’re really doing. He wants to know if he’ll ever see you again.
But the words get stuck in his throat. He’s surrounded by his teammates, by the beeping machines, by the weight of the moment.
“It was nice to meet you,” he says to you, his voice softer than he intends.
“You too, Cinderella,” you reply, your smile a little sad around the edges.
As he follows his teammates out of the room, he can feel your eyes on his back. He risks a glance over his shoulder. You’re watching him go, a thoughtful, unreadable expression on your face. You give him a small, almost imperceptible wave.
He waves back, and then he’s gone, the swish of his gown the only sound left behind.
***
The ride back to the arena is loud. Luke is recapping the entire visit for his social media followers, Timo is complaining that his wig is itchy, and Nico is quietly scrolling through photos on his phone, a small smile on his face.
Jack is silent. He stares out the window, the ridiculous blonde updo tickling his ear. The city lights blur past, but he’s not seeing them. He’s seeing a small hospital room. He’s seeing a brave little boy with green eyes. He’s seeing a tired, beautiful girl with a smile that could light up the darkest of rooms.
He doesn’t even know your name.
The thought is a stone in his stomach. How could he have walked out of there without asking for your name?
“You were in there a while,” Luke says, finally putting his phone down. He nudges Jack’s satin-covered shoulder. “The kid’s room. What happened?”
Jack shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just talking to the kid. He was cool.”
“Uh-huh,” Luke says, his eyes narrowing. He’s known Jack his whole life, he can read him like a book. “There was a girl in there when we came to get you. She was … she was there.”
“It was his sister,” Jack says quietly.
“Right. His sister.” Luke grins, a slow, dawning realization spreading across his face. “Ohhhhhh. His sister. Was she the one who said you have silky hands?”
Jack’s head snaps toward him. “How did you … Caleb. That little snitch.”
Luke howls with laughter. “No way!” He leans back, looking immensely pleased with himself. “So? What’s her name?”
The stone in Jack’s stomach gets heavier. “I don’t know.”
Luke’s laughter cuts off. He stares at his brother. “What? Are you kidding me? Jack. You were in there for like twenty minutes, dressed as a Disney princess, bonding with her sick brother, and you didn’t get her name? Or her number?”
“It didn’t feel right,” Jack says, his voice defensive. “It’s a hospital. Her brother … he’s really sick, Luke. It wasn’t the time to be like, ‘Hey, sorry your life is falling apart, can I get your digits?’”
Luke’s teasing expression softens into something more understanding. “Yeah, okay. I get that. But still, man. The universe doesn’t just hand you meet-cutes like that. A damsel in distress, and you’re literally dressed as a fairy-tale character. That’s primo rom-com material.”
“My life isn’t a rom-com,” Jack mutters, but even as he says it, it feels like a lie. The whole encounter felt … significant. Like a scene from a movie. The way you walked in, the way your eyes met his, the easy, instant chemistry that crackled in the sterile air.
“You’ve gotta find her,” Luke insists. “You can’t just let that go.”
“How? Am I supposed to call the hospital and ask for the hot, tired sister of the kid with cancer in room 308? That’s a great look.”
“No, you …” Luke trails off, thinking. “We could … we could send something to the room. From the team. A jersey or something. And you could put a note in it.”
Jack considers it. It feels a little high-school, but it’s better than nothing. It’s a lifeline. “Maybe.”
The rest of the way, he’s lost in thought. He replays the entire conversation in his head. The way you called Caleb ‘bug.’ The way you defended your ‘silky hands’ comment. The way you looked at him, not like he was a hockey superstar, but just like a guy in a really, really ridiculous dress.
When they get back to the locker room, the spell is broken. They change back into their normal clothes, the gowns discarded in heaps of satin and glitter on the floor. Jack scrubs the makeup off his face, but he can’t scrub the image of you from his mind.
He picks up his phone. He has a hundred notifications. Texts, social media mentions, emails. None of them matter. He opens his reminder app and types a sentence.
Ask someone from community relations to find out the name of the boy in room 308 at St. Joseph’s.
He stares at the words. It feels clinical. Invasive. He deletes it.
He can’t do it. It feels wrong to use his position to track you down. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. He has to believe that. It’s a flimsy hope, but it’s all he has.
**^
Two days pass. Two agonizingly long days. The Devils have a practice, a team meeting, a video session. Jack goes through the motions, his body on the ice but his mind miles away in a hospital room. He keeps thinking he hears your laugh in the crowd, or sees your eyes in a stranger’s face. He’s going crazy.
Luke keeps giving him knowing looks across the locker room, raising his eyebrows in silent question. Jack just shakes his head.
On the third day, his phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. He almost ignores it, assuming it’s another group chat someone added him to. But something makes him open it.
Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Y/N. Caleb’s sister. From the hospital. I hope this is okay, one of the nurses is a huge fan and gave me your number from the community relations list. She said you wouldn’t mind. Please tell me if this is weird.
Jack’s heart stops. And then it starts again, hammering against his ribs like a drum solo.
Your name. It’s Y/N. It’s a beautiful name.
He reads the text again. And again. He can’t believe it. The universe, it seems, isn’t done with its rom-com plot.
He drops onto the bench in the locker room, ignoring the curious looks from his teammates. His fingers feel clumsy as he tries to type a reply. What does he say? ‘Hey’? ‘Hi’? ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you’?
He settles for something simple. Something cool.
Jack: Hey Y/N. Not weird at all. I was hoping you’d text. How’s Caleb doing?
He hits send before he can overthink it. The three little dots appear almost instantly, and he holds his breath.
Y/N: He’s doing okay. Better. I think meeting Cinderella and Elsa might be a better medicine than chemo. He hasn’t stopped talking about it. He’s currently explaining to me in great detail why your power play is so effective.
Jack smiles, a wide, genuine smile that reaches his eyes.
Jack: He’s a smart kid. How are YOU doing?
He emphasizes the ‘you.’ It’s a deliberate choice. He wants you to know he sees you, not just as Caleb’s sister, but as a person.
The dots appear and disappear for a full minute. He watches them, his stomach in knots.
Y/N: I’m okay. Tired. But okay. Thank you for asking. It really meant a lot to both of us, what you guys did.
Jack: It was our pleasure. Honestly, meeting you guys was the best part.
He cringes slightly after sending it. Too forward? Too much?
Y/N: Meeting a six-foot Cinderella was definitely a highlight of my week 😉
The winky-face emoji sends a jolt through him. It’s playful. It’s an invitation.
Jack: I’m glad I could provide that for you. For the record, I look much better without the wig.
Y/N: I find that hard to believe. You wore that blonde updo with such confidence.
Jack: Confidence is key in this line of work. Both on the ice and as a princess.
The banter is easy, effortless. It feels as natural as it did in the hospital room. They text for the rest of the afternoon, in between his training and your hospital vigil. You tell him about Caleb’s diagnosis, about taking a semester off from college to be with him. You talk about your life in snippets, a mosaic of sacrifice and fierce, unwavering love for your brother.
He tells you about the pressures of the game, about living up to expectations, about how much he misses just being a normal twenty-something sometimes. He finds himself telling you things he doesn’t usually share, the vulnerability of the conversation in the hospital room bleeding into their texts.
Finally, he decides to take a leap.
Jack: I have a day off tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d let me take you away from the hospital for an hour or two. For coffee? Or dinner? Or whatever. Just to give you a break.
He stares at the sent message, his thumb hovering over the ‘unsend’ button. It’s bold. Maybe too bold.
The reply comes back almost instantly.
Y/N: I’d like that. I’d really, really like that.
***
He picks you up the next evening. You’d insisted on meeting him somewhere, but he was adamant. He pulls up to your apartment building, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs.
You get in the car, and you look … stunning. You’re not wearing a worn-out sweatshirt. You’re in a simple black dress, and your hair is down, falling in soft waves around your shoulders. You’re wearing a little bit of makeup, and the exhaustion is still there in the back of your eyes, but tonight, it’s overshadowed by a nervous, hopeful energy.
“Hi,” you say, your voice a little breathless.
“Hi,” he says back, his voice equally unsteady. “You look … wow.”
You blush, a lovely shade of pink that spreads across your cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up nice, too. No ball gown tonight?”
“It’s at the dry cleaners,” he jokes, and the familiar ease settles between you.
He drives to a quiet, low-key Italian place he knows on the outskirts of town. It’s the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles. It’s private. It’s perfect.
The conversation flows even more easily in person. You laugh at his stories about his brothers, and he listens, completely captivated, as you talk about your passion for architecture, the career you put on hold.
“It’s just for a while,” you say, twisting a piece of pasta around your fork. “Caleb comes first. Always.”
“I get that,” he says, and he does. He understands the loyalty of family, the unspoken pacts you make to protect each other. “But you have to take care of yourself, too, Y/N.”
You look up at him, your fork paused mid-air. Your green eyes are impossibly deep in the candlelight. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?” You say softly. “A break.”
“I hope it’s a little more than that,” he says, the words coming out before he can stop them. His heart is in his throat.
Your expression softens. You put your fork down. “Me too.”
He reaches across the table and takes your hand. Your fingers are cold, and he wraps his own around them, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels monumental. A current passes between you, warm and electric.
After dinner, he drives you home. He parks the car but doesn’t turn off the engine. Neither of you wants the night to end.
“I had a really good time tonight, Jack,” you say, turning in your seat to face him.
“Me too,” he says. “The best.”
He searches your face in the dim light of the dashboard. He sees the worry, the exhaustion, but he also sees the strength, the humor, the incredible warmth that drew him in from the moment you walked into that hospital room.
He leans in, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don’t. Instead, you meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft at first, tentative. It’s a question. And then, as you lean into him, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, it deepens. It’s not a kiss of frantic passion, but something far more profound. It’s a kiss of recognition, of relief. It tastes of hope and red wine and the promise of something real.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.
“Wow,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” you breathe back.
He opens his eyes, looking into yours. “I’m not letting you go, you know.”
A real, beautiful smile spreads across your face. “Good,” you say. “Because I don’t think I could handle another six-foot princess sweeping me off my feet.”
He laughs, a happy, carefree sound. In the quiet of the car, with you beside him, he feels more like himself than he has in a very long time. Not Jack Hughes the hockey player, not Cinderella the princess, but just Jack. And he has a feeling that’s exactly who you see.
***
The first few months are a whirlwind painted in the muted colors of hospital waiting rooms and the brilliant white of the ice rink. Your life finds a new, strange rhythm, a delicate dance between two vastly different worlds. There are days spent under the hum of fluorescent lights, memorizing the cadence of beeping machines, your hand clasped in Caleb’s. Then there are evenings spent in the quiet luxury of Jack’s apartment, the glittering skyline of Jersey City laid out before you, his arm a warm, solid weight around your shoulders.
He fits into the cracks of your life so seamlessly it scares you sometimes. He learns the names of Caleb’s nurses. He knows which days are for chemo and which are for blood work. He never flinches when you have to cancel a date at the last minute because Caleb spiked a fever, simply texting back, Okay. I’ll bring dinner to you. What does the bug want?
He becomes a fixture. A constant. He’ll show up at the hospital after practice, still in his sweats, his hair damp, and spend an hour getting annihilated by Caleb in NHL 24. They have an easy, familiar rapport now, the initial hero-worship on Caleb’s part having evolved into a genuine friendship filled with brotherly jabs.
“You’re holding the controller wrong,” Caleb says, not looking up from the screen. It’s a Thursday afternoon in late January, and you’re all crammed into Caleb’s hospital room. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and the pizza Jack had delivered.
“I’m not holding it wrong,” Jack retorts, his brow furrowed in concentration. His digital avatar has just been unceremoniously flattened against the boards. “This is my signature grip.”
“Your signature grip sucks,” Caleb says matter-of-factly. “You’re lucky you’re better on actual ice.”
You’re curled in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, a book open on your lap that you haven’t looked at in over an hour. You’re just watching them, a small, secret smile playing on your lips. Seeing Jack with Caleb, seeing the way he makes your brother forget, just for a little while, where he is and what he’s going through … it’s a feeling so potent it makes your chest ache.
“Hey, turn up the TV,” Caleb says, pointing his chin towards the small screen mounted on the wall. A real NHL game is playing on mute. “It’s the pre-game show for the Boston game tomorrow.”
You grab the remote, and the tinny sound of sports commentators fills the room. They’re showing B-roll footage of the Prudential Center, sweeping shots of the packed stands, the sea of red jerseys, the electric, tangible energy of the crowd.
Caleb puts his controller down, his eyes glued to the television. He’s completely captivated.
“It’s so loud there,” he says, his voice soft, almost reverent. “You can, like, feel it through the screen.” He looks at Jack, his green eyes wide and wistful. “Man, I wish I wasn’t sick. I’d love to see you play for real. Just once.”
The words, so innocent and full of longing, land like a punch to your gut. It’s a sharp, familiar pain. The crushing weight of all the things this disease has stolen from him, from you. It’s not just the hockey games. It’s school plays, birthday parties, sleepovers, the simple, sacred rites of being a kid.
You force a bright smile onto your face, a practiced mask of maternal cheerfulness. “Maybe one day, bug. When you kick this thing’s butt, we’ll get season tickets.”
“Really?” His face lights up.
“Absolutely,” you lie, and the word tastes like ash in your mouth.
Season tickets. The thought is laughable. Every spare dollar, every penny you’ve scraped together from your part-time remote job, is funneled into a gaping black hole of medical bills. Your student loan deferments are a ticking time bomb. Even if Caleb were perfectly healthy, a single ticket to a Devils game would be an indulgence you couldn’t afford. Telling him that feels like a cruelty beyond measure.
Jack is quiet. He’s watching you. He sees the smile you’re giving your brother, but he also sees the flicker of raw pain in your eyes, the subtle tightening of your jaw. He sees the lie, and he sees the love that powers it. He doesn’t say anything. He just picks up his controller and bumps Caleb’s shoulder with his own.
“Come on,” he says, his voice gentle. “My guy is getting cold on the bench. Let’s finish this.”
He pulls Caleb’s attention back to the video game, but his eyes find yours over the top of the screen. He gives you a look. It’s not pity. It’s something else. It’s a look that says, I see you. I’ve got you.
And in that moment, you almost believe him.
***
“I have to do something.”
Jack is pacing his living room, his phone pressed to his ear. The city lights twinkle outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, but he’s oblivious to the view.
“Do something about what?” Luke’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Did one of the rookies try to cook again?”
“No, man. It’s about Caleb.” Jack stops pacing and runs a hand through his hair. “He said he wanted to come to a game. And Y/N … man, the look on her face. She tried to hide it, but it was like … it was like he’d asked for the moon.”
There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “That’s rough,” Luke says, his usual teasing tone gone, replaced by genuine sympathy. “So, what are you gonna do? You can’t exactly sneak him into the lower bowl.”
“No,” Jack says, his mind already racing, piecing together a wild, audacious plan. “Not the lower bowl. A suite.”
“A suite? Jack, those things are clean, but they’re not hospital sterile. The air ducts, the people walking by …”
“I know,” Jack cuts him off, his voice gaining momentum. “That’s the other part. I’m going to hire a company. A real one, like, a medical cleaning service. The kind they use for operating rooms. They’ll go in beforehand, scrub the whole place down, put in air purifiers. Whatever it takes. I want that suite to be the safest, cleanest place in the entire state of New Jersey.”
Luke is quiet for a second. “That’s … that’s gonna cost a fortune, man.”
“I don’t care,” Jack says instantly, and the certainty in his voice surprises even himself. “I don’t care what it costs.”
The next morning, Jack’s plan becomes a flurry of phone calls. His first is to his agent.
“Pat, I need you to do something for me. I need the best suite at the Rock for the Islanders game on Saturday … No, not for sponsors. It’s personal … Yeah, I’ll pay for it, just book it under a private name … And I need it empty the entire day before.”
His second call is to the arena’s head of operations, a man named Dave who has known him since he was a rookie.
“Dave, it’s Jack Hughes … I’m good, man, thanks. Listen, I have a weird request … I have a guest coming on Saturday, he’s immunocompromised. Severely … Yeah. So I’m having an outside team come in on Friday to do a full medical-grade sterilization of the suite … No, I know it’s against policy, but you’ve gotta make an exception for me on this. It’s important.”
His final call is to a company he found after an hour of intensive research, a firm that specializes in biocontamination and cleanroom services.
“Yes, hello. I need to book a Level 3 terminal clean for a luxury suite at the Prudential Center … That’s correct, like you would for an ICU or a surgical theater. I want HEPA filters, air scrubbers, full surface disinfection with hospital-grade virucides … Yes, the whole nine yards. Cost is not an issue. I just need it to be perfect.”
By the time he hangs up the phone, it’s done. The pieces are in motion for the most elaborate, expensive, and meaningful gesture he has ever conceived. Now, for the hardest part. Telling you.
He shows up at your apartment that evening, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. You open the door, your face lighting up when you see him.
“Hey! I was just about to start dinner.”
“Smells good,” he says, stepping inside and kissing you. It’s a deeper kiss than usual, freighted with the news he’s about to deliver.
“Everything okay?” You ask, sensing the tension in him.
“Yeah. Perfect.” He takes a deep breath. “So, what are you and Caleb doing on Saturday night?”
You give him a confused look as you head into the tiny kitchen. “Saturday? Probably the same thing we do every night. Watching a movie, you’ll come over after your game, you’ll beat Caleb at Chel, and he’ll accuse you of cheating.”
“Well, I was thinking of a change of scenery,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “For all of us.”
“Okay,” you say slowly, turning around from the stove. “Like what? Your place?”
“Like the Prudential Center,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible.
Your smile falters. Your eyes cloud over with that same pained expression from the hospital room. “Jack,” you say softly, your voice laced with gentle exasperation. “We talked about this. We can’t. You know we can’t.”
“Why not?” He asks, pushing the conversation forward.
“Why not?” You laugh, a short, humorless sound. “For one, he’s a walking petri dish. His oncologist would have a heart attack if I even suggested taking him into a crowd of 17,000 people. And for two,” your voice drops, the shame creeping in, “tickets cost money, Jack. Money that I don’t have.”
He walks over to you, taking the spatula from your hand and setting it on the counter. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Okay. Objection one,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I got a suite. It’s completely private. And on Friday, a specialized medical team is going in to sanitize it to full hospital standards. They’re bringing in industrial air scrubbers and filters. I spoke to Caleb’s oncologist this afternoon — I got her number from the head nurse — and I explained the whole protocol. She signed off on it. She said it would be safer than this apartment.”
You stare at him, your mouth slightly open. You try to process the words. The sheer, stunning thoughtfulness of it takes your breath away.
“And objection two,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “It’s all taken care of. You don’t have to worry about the cost. You don’t have to worry about anything. I just want you two to come, to have a good time. I want Caleb to see a game. And I want to see you smile. A real smile. Not the one you use when you’re trying to be brave.”
The dam breaks.
Tears well up in your eyes and spill over, tracking silent paths down your cheeks. It’s not a cry of sadness. It’s a cry of overwhelming relief. It’s the release of months of pent-up fear and stress and the crushing weight of being the sole protector of your brother’s world. For someone to see that burden, to understand it so completely, and to step in and lift it, even for one night … it’s too much.
“Hey, hey,” he says softly, pulling you into his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He just holds you, his hand stroking your hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
You cling to him, the smell of his cologne and the solid feel of his heart beating against your ear anchoring you. “You … you didn’t have to do all that,” you manage to choke out.
“Yeah, I did,” he whispers into your hair. “I really, really did.”
***
Saturday night feels like Christmas morning and a moon landing rolled into one. Caleb is practically vibrating with an energy you haven’t seen in him since before the diagnosis. He’s wearing a brand-new Devils jersey that Jack had delivered, with HUGHES and the number 86 stitched on the back. A specialized N99 respirator mask, approved by his doctor, covers the lower half of his face, but it can’t hide the ecstatic sparkle in his eyes.
Your own anxiety is a low hum beneath the surface, but seeing Caleb’s unadulterated joy keeps it at bay. You’ve checked and re-checked the bag with his emergency medications, hand sanitizer, and extra masks. You’re a nervous wreck, but you’re a hopeful one.
Jack arranges for a private car service. When you arrive at the arena, you don’t go through the main entrance. A security guard meets you at a discreet side door and escorts you to a private elevator. The corridors are empty, silent. It feels like you’re entering a secret world.
The guard stops in front of a door marked Suite 218 and unlocks it. “Enjoy the game,” he says with a nod, and then he’s gone.
You push the door open, and Caleb walks in first. He stops dead, and a small, muffled “whoa” escapes from behind his mask.
The suite is beautiful. It’s spacious, with plush couches, a high-top table, and a private restroom. A counter is filled with food — all of Caleb’s favorites, pre-approved by his doctor, sealed and safe. On the main coffee table, two more jerseys are laid out: one for you, also with Hughes on the back, and another one, signed by the entire team, for Caleb.
But none of that is what captures his attention. He walks, almost in a trance, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the ice.
The view is breathtaking. You’re right above the center line. The ice below is a pristine, glowing sheet. The arena is still mostly empty as fans file in, but the sheer scale of it, the thousands of red seats, the massive scoreboard hanging from the ceiling … it’s awe-inspiring.
Caleb presses both hands against the cool glass, his breath fogging a small patch in front of his mask.
“It’s so … bright,” he whispers, his voice filled with wonder. He looks at the ice, at the crisp blue and red lines. “And the ice is so … white.”
You come to stand beside him, placing a hand on his small shoulder. He’s right. On TV, it all looks flat. But in person, it’s a living, breathing thing. The colors are more vibrant, the space more immense.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it, bug?” You say, your voice thick.
He just nods, his eyes darting everywhere, trying to take it all in at once. He’s not a patient anymore. He’s not the boy in room 308. He’s just a kid at his first hockey game.
And that’s when you start to cry.
They’re quiet tears this time. They slip from your eyes without a sound. It’s the purest form of gratitude you have ever felt. You’re watching your brother experience a moment of absolute, untainted happiness, a memory that you know will sustain both of you through the dark days that are surely still to come. And it’s all because of Jack.
“Mommy, are you crying?” Caleb asks, his voice muffled by the mask. He’s started calling you that sometimes, a slip of the tongue, and it always makes your heart clench.
“They’re happy tears, bug,” you whisper, quickly wiping them away. “The happiest tears.”
He seems to accept this, turning his attention back to the ice as the players begin to stream out for warmups. He spots Jack immediately.
“There he is! There he is!” He shouts, his voice echoing in the suite. He pounds on the glass, even though he knows Jack can’t hear him. “That’s my sister’s boyfriend!”
You laugh through your tears, a wet, hiccupping sound.
The warmups are a blur of motion and grace. Caleb provides a running commentary, identifying every player, analyzing their shots, his knowledge of the game encyclopedic. When the lights go down for the pre-game introductions, and the roar of the crowd finally fills the arena, Caleb grabs your hand, his small fingers squeezing yours tightly. The sound isn't just something you hear, it's a physical force, a vibration that runs through the glass, through the floor, and up into your bones. It’s magnificent.
The game begins, a dizzying display of speed and skill. From your protected bubble, you watch the battle unfold on the ice below. Caleb is on the edge of his seat the entire time, shouting encouragement, groaning at missed chances. He’s completely absorbed.
The first period is scoreless, a tense, back-and-forth affair. In the second period, the Islanders score first. A collective groan rises from the crowd, and Caleb slumps in his chair.
“It’s okay,” you say, rubbing his back. “There’s still plenty of time.”
A few minutes later, the Devils go on a power play. Caleb sits up, his focus absolute. “This is it,” he mutters. “Jack’s on the ice. He’s best on the power play.”
You watch number 86. Jack looks different from up here. More powerful. More intense. He moves with a fluid, predatory grace, the puck seeming to be tethered to his stick by an invisible string.
He gets the puck at the top of the circle. He fakes a pass, drawing a defender out of position. In the split second of open ice he’s created, he moves toward the net. He fakes a shot, making the goalie commit, and then, with a flick of his wrists so quick you almost miss it, he pulls the puck to his backhand and slides it into the open side of the net.
The red light flashes. The goal horn blares. The arena erupts.
Caleb leaps to his feet, screaming with joy behind his mask. You’re screaming too, jumping up and down with him. They’d tied the game.
The players on the ice converge on Jack, a chaotic celebration of head pats and glove taps. But Jack skates away from the huddle. He circles towards the center of the ice, his head up, scanning the stands.
His eyes search, moving along the rows of luxury boxes. And then he finds you.
He looks directly at your suite. He looks right at Caleb. Time seems to slow down. He lifts his gloved hand, taps it twice over the Devils crest on his chest — over his heart — and then points, a single, definitive finger, right up at the glass, right at your brother.
The world narrows to a single, invisible line connecting the superstar on the ice and the little boy in the box. It’s a silent, secret message, broadcast to a stadium of 17,000 people, but meant for an audience of one. This was for you.
Caleb freezes. His shouting cuts off. His hand, which had been banging on the glass, falls to his side.
“Did you see that?” He whispers, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Did you see that? He pointed. At me. He pointed at me.”
You can’t speak. You just pull him into a hug, burying your face in his hair as a fresh wave of happy tears overwhelms you. It wasn’t just a goal. It was a declaration. A promise. It was Jack, in his own language, on his biggest stage, telling your brother and the entire world that he was seen. That he mattered.
That he was loved.
***
The rest of the game passes in a joyful haze. The Devils score again in the third period and hold on to win. The final buzzer sounds, and Caleb is beside himself with happiness, cheering until his throat is hoarse.
About twenty minutes after the crowd has cleared out, there’s a soft knock on the suite door. You open it, and it’s Jack. He’s still in his under-gear and hockey pants, his face flushed and damp with sweat, his hair a mess. He looks exhausted and exhilarated and more handsome than you’ve ever seen him.
“Hey, Cinderella,” you say, your voice soft.
Before he can reply, Caleb launches himself at him. “That was the best goal I’ve ever seen!” He yells, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist. “You looked right at me! Everybody saw it! My friend George is never gonna believe me!”
Jack laughs, a deep, rumbling sound, and hugs him back. “I’m glad you liked it, buddy. I had a little extra motivation tonight.” He ruffles Caleb’s hair. “You’re my good luck charm. You’ll have to come to every game now.”
He looks up at you over Caleb’s head, his eyes shining. All the words you’ve been trying to formulate, all the ways you wanted to thank him, they all feel inadequate.
Later, after Caleb has re-lived the goal with Jack frame by frame and is now happily occupied with a victory sundae, you pull Jack over to the far side of the room, near the glass.
“Jack,” you start, but your voice fails you. “I just … I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t big enough.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, taking your hand. “Seeing his face … that was it. That’s all I needed.” He looks down at your intertwined fingers. “I love seeing you happy, Y/N. I love it more than anything.”
“I am happy,” you say, and you realize with a jolt that it’s the absolute truth. In this moment, in this bubble of safety and joy he created, you are completely, incandescently happy. “You did this. You gave us this.”
“We did it together,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.
The ride home is quiet. Caleb, totally spent, falls asleep in the back seat, his new signed jersey clutched in his hands. You’re in the front, sitting beside Jack, who insisted on driving you home himself. You reach over and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his on the center console.
He brings your hand up to his lips again, kissing it softly without taking his eyes off the road. “Best game of my life,” he says quietly.
“Mine too,” you reply.
When you get back to your apartment, he helps you carry a sleeping Caleb inside and tuck him into bed. You gently remove the precious jersey, folding it and placing it on his nightstand. You pull his blanket up to his chin and kiss his forehead. He doesn’t stir.
You walk Jack to the door. In the soft light of the hallway, you can finally see the exhaustion catching up to him.
“You should go sleep,” you whisper. “You have practice in the morning.”
“In a minute,” he says. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Today … seeing you with him … it was everything.”
“I love you,” you say, and the words come out so easily, so naturally, that you realize you’ve been holding them in for months. They were there in the hospital room, in the candlelight of your first date, and they were there tonight, in every cheer and every happy tear.
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his tired face. “I love you, too,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “So much.”
He leans down and kisses you. It’s a kiss full of the day’s overwhelming joy and the quiet promise of a thousand more days to come. It’s a kiss that says I see you. I’ve got you. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home.
***
The next nineteen months are a landscape of contradictions. They are the longest, most grueling days of your life, and yet, they are punctuated by moments of such ordinary beauty that they take your breath away. Time becomes a strange, elastic thing, measured not in weeks or months, but in blood counts, chemo cycles, and the fluctuating energy levels of a growing boy.
Jack is not a visitor in this landscape. He lives there with you.
He’s there on the bad days. The days when the nausea is relentless and Caleb is too weak to even lift his head. Jack doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. He just shows up. He sits on the floor of the hospital room, reading aloud from a Percy Jackson book in a low, steady voice until Caleb falls into a fitful sleep. He’ll look up at you, sitting in your usual chair, the exhaustion a physical weight on your shoulders, and he’ll just hold your gaze from across the room, a silent, unshakeable promise of solidarity. I’m here. You’re not alone.
He’s there for the endless, soul-crushing waits. In waiting rooms that all smell the same — a sterile mix of bleach and fear — he learns the art of silent companionship. He’ll sit beside you for hours, his knee pressed against yours, a warm, grounding point of contact in a world that feels like it’s spinning off its axis. He’ll watch as you methodically tear a paper coffee cup into a hundred tiny pieces, your nervous energy made manifest, and he’ll just gently take your hand, stilling the motion, and lace his fingers through yours.
“What are you thinking about?” He’ll ask softly.
“Everything,” you’ll whisper back, and he’ll nod, because he gets it. He doesn’t need you to elaborate.
But he’s also there for the good days. The fleeting, miraculous days when the treatment is working and the universe grants you a reprieve. On those days, your tiny apartment becomes the center of the world. The three of you will spend an entire Saturday on the living room floor, meticulously constructing a 5,000-piece Lego Hogwarts castle.
“No, the grey piece goes here,” Caleb insists, pointing a commanding finger at the instruction booklet. He’s the foreman on this project, you and Jack are merely his highly-paid, under-skilled laborers. “You’re messing up the structural integrity of the Owlery, Jack.”
“I’m a professional athlete, Caleb, not an architect,” Jack says, squinting at the tiny plastic bricks. “Give me a break. This is harder than a triple-overtime playoff game.”
“That’s embarrassing for you,” Caleb says without missing a beat.
You laugh, a real, belly-deep laugh, and the sound of it makes both of them look up and smile. In these moments, you’re not a caregiver and a patient. You’re just a family, bickering over Legos, the afternoon sun streaming through the window, and for a little while, everything feels okay.
The seasons turn. The Devils have a good season, then a great one. Jack’s star continues to rise. You and Caleb watch every game from the hospital bed or your couch, becoming a two-person commentary team. You learn the nuances of the game, the names of the prospects, the intricacies of a well-executed zone entry.
Y/N: That was a terrible line change. They left the whole weak side open.
You text him during the second intermission of a game against the Flyers.
Jack ❤️: I know. Coach is ripping us a new one. Did you see that pass I tried to force through the middle? Stupid.
Y/N: It was ambitious. But you’ll get the next one. Go get ‘em, Hughes.
Jack ❤️: Yes, Coach 😘
Your life together is not a fairy tale. It’s real. It’s hard. There are arguments, born of exhaustion and frayed nerves. There’s a night you snap at him for leaving a wet towel on the floor, and the fight isn’t about the towel at all. It’s about the fear, the unending stress, the feeling of being twenty-three and carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.
You end up sitting on the edge of your bed, your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m just so tired.”
He sits down behind you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the tense muscles. “Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N. You can be tired. You can be angry. You can fall apart. I’m not going anywhere.”
And in that moment, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that you are going to marry this man.
Then, one Monday in May, a day that starts like any other SCAN day, the world changes.
You’re all in Dr. Miller’s office. The same small, beige room where you first heard the word ‘leukemia.’ The air is thick with a familiar, terrifying silence as she looks over the file in front of her. Caleb is swinging his legs, trying to act nonchalant, but you can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jack is sitting beside you, his hand resting on your knee, a silent, solid anchor.
Dr. Miller looks up. She takes off her glasses, a slow, deliberate motion. A small smile plays on her lips.
“Well, Caleb,” she says, her voice soft. “I have looked at these results from every possible angle. I’ve had my colleagues look at them. And we’ve all come to the same, frankly wonderful, conclusion.”
She leans forward, her eyes, kind and tired, finding Caleb’s.
“There is no evidence of disease. Anywhere. You’re in complete and total remission.”
The words hang in the air for a second, shimmering. You don’t understand them at first. They’re a foreign language. You look at Jack, whose eyes are wide, and then at Caleb, who is looking at you, his expression a mixture of confusion and dawning hope.
“For real?” Caleb whispers, his voice small.
“For real,” Dr. Miller says, her smile widening. “You did it, kiddo. You’re done.”
A sound escapes your throat, a choked, guttural sob that comes from a place deeper than your lungs. It’s the sound of two years of terror, of sleepless nights, of whispered prayers in dark hospital rooms, all being released at once. You lunge forward, grabbing Caleb and pulling him into a hug so tight it’s a wonder he can breathe. You bury your face in his hair, which is finally growing back, soft and downy, and you just weep.
Jack’s arms come around both of you, enveloping you in a circle of warmth and relief. His own body is shaking slightly, and you can feel his tears soaking the shoulder of your shirt. You are a tangled mess of limbs and tears and shuddering breaths, and it is the most beautiful moment of your life.
A little while later, you are walking down the main corridor of the oncology ward. It’s a walk you’ve made a thousand times, but this time, it’s different. Nurses and staff are poking their heads out of rooms, smiling, applauding. Patients, kids you’ve come to know, are giving Caleb thumbs-ups from their doorways. It’s a hero’s procession.
At the end of the hall is the bell. A simple, brass bell mounted on a wooden plaque. A symbol of victory. A beacon of hope for everyone on this floor.
Caleb approaches it with a reverence that makes your heart ache. He looks at you, his green eyes, clear and bright, asking for permission. You just nod, your throat too tight to speak.
He reaches up and takes the rope. And he rings it.
The sound is loud. Clear. Triumphant. It echoes through the hallway, a joyous, defiant peal that shatters the sterile quiet. He rings it again, and again, and again, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face. Each clang is a declaration. I’m alive. I survived. I won.
Jack is standing just behind you, his hand resting on the small of your back. He lets you and Caleb have the spotlight, but his presence is the foundation you’re both standing on. You catch his eye, and he’s smiling, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears. He gives you a small, private nod that says everything. We made it.
That night, back at your apartment, the air is quiet, almost reverent. The emotional hangover from the day is immense. Caleb is curled up on the couch, watching a movie, looking smaller and more peaceful than he has in years.
“I brought something,” Jack says, coming in from the kitchen. He’s holding a huge, grease-stained cardboard box.
He sets it on the coffee table and opens it. Inside are two dozen donuts from the legendary local shop that always has a line around the block. They’re a mishmash of colors and sprinkles and fillings.
“I figured we were all done with hospital Jell-O for a while,” he says with a soft smile.
You look at the donuts, then at him, and you start to laugh. It’s a watery, wobbly laugh, but it’s real. It’s the most normal, wonderful, thoughtful thing anyone has ever done.
“I love you,” you say, your voice thick.
“I love you, too,” he says. “Now, are you going for the Boston cream or the maple bacon?”
***
Halloween comes around again five months later, painting the world in shades of orange and black. But this year, the season feels different. It’s not a harbinger of cold and sickness, but a celebration of life. Caleb has his six-month checkup, and the scans are still perfectly clear. He’s back in school. He’s growing like a weed. The shadows under his eyes have been replaced by the flush of a healthy, active eleven-year-old.
You are re-applying to colleges, revisiting the architectural dreams you had put on hold. The future, once a terrifying, formless void, is now a bright, open road.
It’s Caleb who brings it up one evening, as the three of you are carving pumpkins on newspapers spread across the kitchen floor.
“For Halloween this year,” he says, scooping out a fistful of pumpkin guts, “I have an idea.”
“Oh yeah?” Jack asks, concentrating on drawing a crooked smile on his own pumpkin. “You gonna go as a hockey player? I can get you a custom jersey.”
“Nope,” Caleb says, looking from you to Jack with a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s a group costume.”
You stop carving, intrigued. “Okay, bug. Lay it on us.”
“So,” Caleb begins, wiping his slimy hands on a paper towel. “Jack, you have to be Cinderella again.”
Jack looks up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You know, I was wondering when I’d get to break that dress out of storage. It’s a classic. I’m in.”
“And you,” Caleb says, pointing a pumpkin-seed-covered finger at you. “You have to be Prince Charming.”
You feel a blush creep up your neck. “Me? Prince Charming?”
“Duh,” Caleb says. “You’re the one who saved everybody.” The simple, honest way he says it makes your heart swell.
“Okay,” you agree, your voice a little shaky. “I can do that. So … who are you going to be?”
Caleb’s grin is triumphant. “I’m the Fairy Godmother,” he declares. “Because you can’t have a happily ever after without a little magic.”
And so, on Halloween night, the vision comes to life. Jack, with a practiced ease, slips back into the powder-blue ball gown. He complains less about the wig this time, and you notice he seems to stand a little taller in it, as if he’s finally grown into the ridiculous, wonderful role he played in your story.
You are decked out in a surprisingly dashing Prince Charming costume you found online, complete with white leggings, a royal blue tunic, and a cape that you keep tripping over.
And Caleb. Caleb is a magnificent Fairy Godmother. He’s wearing a sparkly pink cloak, a pointy hat, and he’s brandishing a silver wand with a star on the end. He looks happy. He looks healthy. He looks free.
For the first time in three years, he gets to go trick-or-treating. He runs from house to house, his cape flying behind him, shouting “Trick or Treat!” with a lung capacity that brings tears to your eyes. You and Jack follow a few paces behind, hand in hand, watching him.
“Look at him,” you say quietly, your voice thick with emotion.
“He’s a kid,” Jack says, squeezing your hand. “Just a kid.”
Later that night, back at the apartment, Caleb dumps his pillowcase full of candy onto the living room floor. It creates a mountain of chocolate, taffy, and lollipops. He sits in the middle of it like a dragon on its hoard and begins to feast.
“Should we … maybe implement some portion control?” Jack asks, watching Caleb unwrap his fifth miniature Snickers bar.
You look at your brother, at the smudge of chocolate on his cheek and the pure, unadulterated bliss on his face. He is making up for lost time, for all the Halloweens he spent in a hospital bed.
“No,” you say, a definitive peace settling over you. You are no longer his full-time nurse, his vigilant guardian against every potential threat. You can just be his sister. “Let him. He’s earned every last cavity.”
An hour later, Caleb is fast asleep on the floor, his head pillowed on a pile of Starburst wrappers, one hand still clutching a half-eaten lollipop. A true sugar coma.
You and Jack stand over him, smiling. Jack gently scoops him up, candy wrappers raining from his lap, and carries him to his bed. You follow and tuck him in.
In the quiet of the hallway, Jack pulls you close, his hand resting on the ridiculous epaulet of your Prince Charming costume. “Happy Halloween, Your Highness,” he whispers.
“Happy Halloween, Cinderella,” you whisper back, and you kiss him, the lingering taste of chocolate and the sweet, undeniable feeling of ‘happily ever after’ all around you.
***
The following year is a cascade of new beginnings. You get accepted into the architecture program at NYU, your dream school. The logistics are daunting, but Jack just waves them away.
“So, we’ll move,” he says one night, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“We? You can’t just move to New York, Jack. Your whole life, your job, is in Jersey.”
“So we’ll find something in the middle,” he says with a shrug. “I can handle the commute. We’re not living in different states. End of discussion.”
And it is.
Moving day is a beautiful, chaotic mess. You, Jack, and a now-twelve-year-old Caleb, who has shot up six inches and has the gangly limbs of a baby giraffe, pack up your tiny apartment. It’s a bittersweet process, packing away the life you built within those four walls. But the future is waiting in a bright, airy brownstone in Hoboken that Jack found, a place with enough room for all of them and a small backyard.
They build their new home together. Jack hangs pictures, you assemble IKEA furniture with a proficiency that terrifies him, and Caleb directs traffic, still the undisputed foreman of their lives.
Two months after you move in, on a sunny Saturday in October, you decide the home is missing one final piece.
You end up at a local animal shelter. You walk past cages of barking dogs until Caleb stops dead in front of one. Curled in the corner is a small, scruffy-looking mutt with floppy ears and sad, soulful eyes. He’s not a puppy, and he’s not a purebred. He’s just a dog who looks like he’s had a rough go of it.
When you approach the cage, he lifts his head, and his tail gives a single, hopeful thump against the concrete floor.
Caleb kneels down, pressing his face close to the chain-link. “Hey, boy,” he whispers.
The dog gets up, walks to the front of the cage, and licks Caleb’s fingers.
“Well,” you say, looking at Jack. “I think that’s that.”
“What’s his name?” Jack asks the shelter volunteer.
“We’re not sure,” she says. “He came in as a stray. We’ve just been calling him Buddy.”
Caleb looks up from the dog, his eyes shining. “His name isn’t Buddy,” he says with absolute certainty. “He looks like a Gus Gus.”
You feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. It’s perfect. A final, perfect piece of the story.
That night, you are all curled up on the massive new couch in your new living room. A random pre-season game is on the TV, the volume low. Caleb is stretched out, fast asleep, his head in your lap. Gus Gus, who has settled into his new life as if he’s been there forever, is curled on Caleb’s stomach, a furry, breathing hot water bottle.
Jack’s arm is around you, his fingers idly playing with a strand of your hair. The house is quiet, filled with the soft sounds of sleep and the gentle murmur of the television. You lean your head against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of him.
This is it. This is the life you fought for. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s better. It’s real. It’s messy and complicated and built not on magic, but on a foundation of stubborn, relentless, unconditional love.
“Happy?” Jack whispers, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
You look at your brother, sleeping soundly and safely beside you. You look at the sweet, scruffy dog who has completed your family. You look at the man who walked into your life in a ridiculous blue dress and became your entire world.
“More than you know,” you whisper back.
And you close your eyes, content to just be here, in this moment, in this home, in this love. Forever.
summary: handling your marriage with a really great doctor, and a really bad husband.
warnings tagged per each chapter :)
part 1 - your husband works in the er on christmas night. you show up injured, and he's too busy to care for you. when his intern orders a psych eval for you, he refuses to acknowledge the stress you're under because of him.
part 2 - jack's guilt from the christmas incident brings him back to therapy. when his therapist suggests a couple's session to work on your dynamic, things don't go as planned.
part 3 - robby finds out that jack denied your psych eval. jack finds out that robby is in love with you.
part 4 - santos spots you at the new year's party and spends her night trying to figure out who your husband is. when she confronts you, you're forced to face the harsh reality of your marriage to jack.
part 5 - robby takes you to go see jack at the hospital. what you don't expect is the confession he makes to you that flips your friendship upside down. then, the confession jack makes that may just upend your marriage altogether.
part 6 - your first week of separation from jack, where you come to find what's been holding you together this whole time.
tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 2
Since the incident, things are different between you and Robby. Something has to give.
(Something finally does.)
Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader
Word count: 15k+
Tags: Reader is multilingual; Yearning; Injuries; Stalking; Justice systems; Inaccurate legal proceedings; Jealous Robby; AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral receiving; P in V sex); Gun violence; Shooting.
Notes: I fear I lost reader’s personality part way through writing this. Hopefully it’s not noticeable idk. This isn’t my best work and I’ve been trying to rework this so long that I’m lowkey hating it now. TP2 is now my least favourite child lmao
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 TBD
Cross posted to AO3.
Three days into your mandated time off from work, Robby shows up outside your apartment.
You look through the peephole before opening the door for him.
You both blink at each other—you hadn’t been expecting him, and somehow, he looks surprised to see you on the other side of the door.
“Dr Robby,” you breathe. You feel incredibly dressed down, even though you’ve never once been dressed up while in the Pitt. Varying levels of barefaced, tired, and hair up. It’s different when you’re lounging in your ratty loungewear than your scrubs, you think.
“Hi. And it’s just Robby,” he says, a little breathless. You live on the third floor to an at least 70 year old apartment building—there are no elevators. But it was cheap, and the landlord treated the apartment like dead weight; happy to unload it onto some unsuspecting tenant.
“Uh—come in.” You shuffle back, inviting him into your place. “Oh, um, shoes off, please.”
“Sure.” He toes off his shoes while you nudge some spare guest house slippers towards him.
It feels awkward, the strange song and dance of work colleagues outside of work. He’s known you for a little longer than six months now. Through work, he feels somewhat he’s well acquainted with you, yet somehow, knows very little about you.
“How are you?” Robby asks.
You head over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle to boil. “Bored, mostly. Feels like I’ve been given all the time off in the world, and I’m just… bored.”
Robby grins, following you. “Sometimes I think our brains aren’t wired for not working. Too much adrenaline.”
You chuckle. “You want tea?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
“Probably chamomile.” You take out the box of tea bags you’ve stashed in your cupboard. “It’s supposed to help you sleep.”
Robby pauses, studying your face. “Is it working?”
You duck your head. “Not really.” Brain too preoccupied with resurgent fears to sleep. And when you do manage to welcome the unconsciousness, it’s fitful. You’re never able to remember the nightmare that’s startled you awake. Only the dreadful feeling that you can’t outrun anything.
The only sound is the kettle boiling.
“You change your bandage yet?” he asks, after a moment.
“I am also a doctor, Dr Robby.” You’re more than capable of the aftercare of stitches and bandages. Have sent patients home with the list of care instructions multiple times in a day, across the week.
“It’s just Robby,” he says again. It feels weird to upkeep the titles when he’s not in the hospital, even though he’s worked relentlessly for it. “Can I see?”
“Just—give me a second.” When the kettle’s done, you pour out two mugs, dunking the tea bags in. You let them steep. Shuffling towards your first aid kit, then to the stool that he’s parked in, sitting in the one next to him.
“Have at it,” you say.
“Thank you,” Robby says, maybe a little too earnestly. Not seeing you at work after waking up from a hazy dream that reminded him that your heart had stopped—despite the knowledge that he saved you—brought upon a sense of impending doom. He needed to see you, needed to make sure that you still alive under his hands. He hasn’t told you that you died. It’s not something that he wants to relive.
It’s quiet as he works, like he’s back in the ED. This time, without all the bright lights and the machines and the bustle of nurses and doctors.
His thumb is a gentle thing, digit gliding over smooth skin under the wound.
You shiver.
“Does it hurt?” Robby asks.
“No,” you manage to utter out, barely breathing. Head angled up so he can work. Examining every inch of his face while his attention is on your neck.
“You sure?” There’s a furrow between his brows, moulded by worry from the tremble to your frame. He looks down to meet your gaze.
You feel frozen. Staring, drawn into those expressive brown eyes that carry the world within them.
You rise and he falls.
Lips almost touching.
Robby’s thumb absentmindedly strokes back and forth over your pulse.
Your mind is filled with buzzing static; white noise. Hovering closer to him. Your breath hitches.
The sound disrupts the moment.
He remembers himself. Clearing his throat as he rights his posture. Avoiding eye contact as he busies himself, rifling through the first aid kit. “You’ll have to come in to get the stitches out.” He takes a bandage, sticking it over the sutures.
“I know,” you say, impossibly small and quiet. You’re not sure he even hears it.
Harried motions, a whirlwind that takes him towards the front door. Guest slippers off, his own shoes on. “I’ll—I’ll see you. Around. At work.”
You don’t move from the kitchen, watching him flee like this is—like you are—something terrifying. “Yes, sir.”
Robby opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but closes it. Nods. “Okay. See you.” Door opens, stepping out. Then, softly, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Attention drifting back onto you. Lingering.
The door closes.
You sigh, turning back to the kitchen counter to pack away the first aid kit.
You empty out one of the mugs of chamomile tea, keeping the other for yourself.
Your first day back is accompanied by a message from Dr Ellis. You send off an hours late response and pocket your phone, coming in from the stairwell to head into the ED. You’re at least 30 minutes early.
“Nuh uh, I get first hug.” Ellis bodily shoves Shen as soon as she sees you, wrapping you into a hug.
“What the fuck?” Shen demands, mouth parting in a betrayed expression.
“She messaged me as soon as midnight hit,” you explain, arms awkwardly wrapped around Ellis. Your bags swing—your usual tote bag, and your care packages of extra food to make up for the fact that you weren’t in. They’re filled with an increased amount of tupperware and thermos.
“Some of us were busy working at midnight,” Shen scoffs.
“You snooze, you lose, loser,” Ellis says.
Shen, at least, has the decency to wait until Ellis detaches herself before he also latches on.
“I missed my boba buddy,” Shen says.
“You couldn’t get it yourself?” you ask.
He stretches back, lifting you.
You don’t want to admit it, but you’re sure you’ve let out some kind of undignified sound. Your feet don’t touch the ground for a solid three seconds.
“It’s not the same, pookie.” He lets you back on your feet, taking your tote bag from you.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” He’s rifling through your belongings like a raccoon.
“You’re a grown ass man.”
Shen makes a victorious sound, grabbing the boba. “I knew it.”
“Uh uh, and who said that was yours?” Ellis asks.
He turns to you, smug. “Is it?”
You sigh loudly. “I hate proving you right.”
Shen cackles, poking the straw into his drink. Who else would want matcha flavoured boba half an hour before their shift ends, despite the fact that they have yet to sleep all night?
“Still distracting my doctors, I see.” Dr Abbot, again. He looks a little more amused, entertained by the antics of his doctors. And it’s good to see you back—everyday that you weren’t in was a reminder that the PTMC almost lost one of their own.
He saw you briefly when you came in during his night shift, needing your stitches out. He can’t remember exactly, but he’s sure that Dr King had been the one that had taken them out. If he found it weird that you hadn’t come in during the day shift, he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, well. You know me,” you say.
Abbot’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here wouldn’t shut up about missing you.”
“Is that so?”
“Dibs on being Tweedledee,” Ellis says.
“I can’t be dumb,” Shen gapes, crestfallen.
You grin, shaking your head. Part of you wishes you could transfer into night shift just to keep up with their tomfoolery. Alas, replacing Dr Langdon means sticking to his day shift schedule. “Dr Abbot, before you go—” you pipe up, just as the older attending turns to leave, “I have dumpling soup for you.”
“What the fuck?” Shen asks. He stares at you.
“For me?” Abbot asks at the same time.
With Shen still holding onto your bag, you grab one of the insulated food jars to pass over to Abbot.
“Seriously?” He gingerly takes it from you, disbelieving.
“This one’s for you, specifically. And the lovely Dr Ellis gets—” You take out another food jar.
Ellis opens up the container, mouth dropping open in delight. “Stir fry noodles. Hell fucking yes, dude.”
“This is a hate crime,” Shen sighs dramatically, shaking his head.
“I’m two seconds away from showing you a real hate crime,” you tell him, staving off a large grin.
He makes a face at you, because he’s five years old.
“Go stick to your boba, kid,” Abbot laughs. He holds the food jar to his chest, like it’s something precious.
You spy Dr Robby over Abbot’s shoulder, watching from a distance. You think he seems tickled by whatever the hell is happening, but he’s better at hiding it. He starts towards the direction of the break room.
“Um—give me a second to put everything away,” you say. You’re early, but you have food that would fare better in the fridge. You quicken your pace to fall next to Robby. “Dr Robby.”
He greets you as you do him. “It’s good to have you back,” he says. Even he has to admit that the atmosphere in the Pitt has been different when you’re not here. In six short months, you had made everyone value your presence.
When you enter the break room, he beelines towards the coffee machine, and you to the fridge.
You take out the large tupperware container. “I made fried rice for everyone on day shift. If you don’t have any dietary requirements.” You briefly hold it up when he looks your way before tucking it into the fridge.
“I’ll be sure to let everyone know.”
“It’s for you too, Dr Robby.” You stick in your other containers. With your bag mostly empty, you close the fridge door.
Robby’s watching you, leaning against the counter.
You idle by the fridge, unexpectedly feeling insecure under his analytical gaze. Especially when it flickers to the side of your neck. You shift, tugging the collar of your shirt up like it can hide it. If you could have gotten away with a turtleneck underneath your scrubs, you would have. Alas, the weather’s too warm for that.
“I should—um, go. Lockers,” you manage out.
“Okay,” Robby murmurs. You can’t parse out the expression that he has on his face. Pinched, maybe.
You pass by, and he straightens from the counter. His hand on your shoulder, burning. His proximity reminds you of the two of you in your kitchen, some nights ago.
Your mouth dries at the memory.
“Just—” Robby starts. Licks his lips; your eyes inexplicably drawn to the movement. His thumb strokes against the bone of your shoulder. Even though it’s over the layers of your clothes, you’re certain you feel it scorching against your skin. “Ask if you need help, okay? A second opinion, diagnoses, extra pair of hands, more eyes. Anything. Please.”
You blink, nodding. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”
His fingers flex against your shoulder, before he lets go. “See you out there. Thank you for the food.”
“Yeah. Yes, I’ll… see you.” You’re not sure if you exit the break room before or after the end of that sentence. Fuck, you’re so awkward.
Lockers—your belongings stashed away, stethoscope around your neck. Then into the ED, where Robby is now conferring with Abbot.
You hear your name called.
Then Javadi is propelling towards you. “Hi!”
“Hi—oof.” You manage to catch her before she bowls you over. You rub her back. “It’s good to see you, Dr Javadi.”
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker get in at the same time. When they see you, they head towards you. They hover—close, but not going in for a hug. “Thank fuck you’re back,” Santos says, her arms crossed over her chest.
“That bad?” you ask.
“Yes,” Javadi agonises, where she’s still attached to your side.
“It’s only been ten days,” you say.
“Ten days too long,” Whitaker says.
“They didn’t get an acting senior resident in,” Santos says, pitching her voice lower. Eyes skate towards Robby and Abbot.
“Dr Ellis pulled a few doubles. Same with Dr Yeo.”
“Good thing you like Dr Ellis,” you note, grinning as you fix your gaze on Santos.
Santos rolls her eyes as Whitaker chuckles into his fist. “She’s a good doctor.” Santos elbows her roommate.
“She is.”
“I’m missing something, here,” Javadi mutters, low enough that only you can hear.
You rub her back again.
“No love for the old gal, huh?” Dana’s voice from somewhere to the side.
“Dana! Come join the hug,” you say.
Dana squeezes into your other side.
“Is Dr Collins in today?” you ask.
“Yeah. You’re still at least 20 minutes early. She’ll probably be another five.”
Santos and Whitaker take that as their cue to head towards the lockers.
You’ve give yourself time to settle in.
Robby hears you first, before he sees you.
“What?” You blink, a furrow between your brows as you mingle with Dr Santos at the desk near south.
Robby has the belated thought of wanting to smooth it away, thumb against the grooves on your skin.
“Dude, your heart fucking stopped,” Santos explains. “It was so weird seeing you like that—”
Robby interrupts both of you, calling both your names. “If you have time to chat, you have time to check on your patients.” He looks at Santos—an easier target to face.
Santos salutes him, making herself scarce. She knows the disapproving dismissal when she hears it.
You, on the other hand, feel like you’re reeling. You were dead. Sure, you knew you had been injured. You knew you lost consciousness. But they never mentioned anything about losing your pulse. Robby never mentioned anything about it.
Your gaze gravitates towards him, to find that he’s already looking at you. “Robby, I—”
“Don’t,” he says. Pleads, really. “I can’t have this conversation.” As much as he is expounds upon fated timing on the mortal coil when he reassures his students that they’ve done all they can after losing a patient, he can’t broach this with you.
With God given hands, he would have pillaged the afterlife to bring you back.
And he did.
And for some reason, he doesn’t want you to know.
Your lips part like you want to say something, disagree, maybe. Demand your right to know what happened to you.
“Please,” he whispers.
Your mouth shuts, teeth sinking into the plush of your lower lip. Face creasing. “Okay.” With a nod, you make your rounds down to the rooms in south.
In the down time after a few more traumas, you head back up to the nurses’ station in north, using their computers to look at your chart. Robby is less likely to hang out up here—more inclined to busy himself in near central.
“You sure you want to do that?” Kim’s voice. Her hand over yours, stopping you from moving the mouse any further.
“Kim,” you sigh. You tilt your head, turning to her instead of the computer monitor in front of you.
There’s a frown on her face. “What are you trying to find out? You survived. That’s all you need to know.”
“I died.”
“Yeah. And it sucked. For everyone. Like—really, really sucked.”
You turn away, staring at the keyboard instead. Kim’s hand is still over yours. “I don’t—I just wanted to know.” And you’re not even sure why.
“Talk to Dr Robby,” Kim suggests.
You snort. “I’ve tried. He shut me down.”
“Because it sucked for him too.”
You dip your head into a nod. If Kim isn’t willing to let you take a peek into your file of what happened that day, you’re sure the other nurses have already been tasked to keep an eye on you. “Sure,” you agree, even though you have no intention of talking to Robby about this, specifically. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to push him into it.
Kim pats your back, taking your hand to lead you away from the desk. “Back out there, Doctor.”
In another attempt, you find Dr Collins by the central desk. She’s typing notes on the computer.
You inch over.
“Yes, Doctor?” Collins asks, when you’re close enough to her. She’s been watching you not so surreptitiously try to vie for her attention.
“You were there,” you say. Not quite posed as a question. “When I… when I got hurt.”
Her face softens, less guarded. Eyes flicker down to the side of your neck, where you know she observes the raised scarring. It’s been a point of focus—subjected to unspoken looks by other staff, questioned by patients that think there’s a cool story involved. “Yeah, I was,” Collins says, despite the non-query.
“I died. Right?”
Collins draws in a breath. “I shouldn’t really—”
“Because of Robby?”
Lips press into a line. She sighs, a slow nod in response.
“Tell me. Please. Kim wouldn’t let me check my file. And Robby’s probably scared all the other students from telling me.” You know Collins would be exempt from that. “I want to know.” You don’t quite know why. Some kind of morbid curiosity, a sick fascination with the knowledge that you escaped death. Maybe something deeper, needing the secure knowledge of your survival.
“You were gone three minutes,” she says, eventually. “Robby did compressions.”
You swallow.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A quick response.
“Does it hurt?” She gestures her chin towards your neck.
Your fingers are running over the healing scar. You didn’t even notice; your hand drops. “No. No, nothing hurts. I’m okay. Alive.”
Collins looks sceptical, but doesn’t probe any further. “You know,” she starts, “you’ve got the whole hospital to talk to if you need anything,” she says.
“Thank you,” you say. Earnest.
By the end of the work day, Robby finds you before he leaves. You know he has a tendency to disappear after a shift. You don’t quite know where he runs off to, and you haven’t yet explored the hospital of all of its hiding spaces.
“Can we talk?” Robby asks, leaning against the locker next to yours as you shove your things into your bag. His own backpack is already strung across his back.
“Depends. What about?” You click the locker shut, making your way to the break room.
He falls in place next to you, matching your strides. “You wanted to talk. Before. About… when you were—hurt.” His words are almost gritted out, like it pains him to acknowledge what happened to you.
You take the empty containers from the fridge, leaving behind the larger tupperware of fried rice. Surprisingly, day shift hadn’t finished it. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you.”
“Kim told me you tried to look at your file.”
You close the fridge door, harder than necessary. You let out a sigh. “And?” You’re already suspecting that Collins told him as well.
“And Collins told me you talked to her, too.”
Great. It’s not a fair judgement to make, but you feel a little miffed at her loyalty to Robby. It makes sense—you’ve only known these people for a little over six months now. They’ve been working with each other for years without you.
“Why do you want to know so badly?” Robby asks. His arms are crossed, peering down at you. Scrutinising.
“I… I don’t know.” You suck in a breath, casting your gaze elsewhere. “Would you believe me if I said I want to know how much time he took from me?”
Robby’s attention still remains on you, despite the fact that you refuse to look at him. “Is that the truth?”
You shrug, shouldering your other bag. “Maybe.”
The door opens—Mateo comes in, failing to fight a yawn. “Oh—hey.”
Robby waves, hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hey,” you say. “There’s still food in the fridge if you still want some.”
“If I want some? Of course I do.” Considerably more energetic, he heads for the fridge.
You and Robby step away from it, heading for the door.
“You’re literally an angel,” Mateo says.
“Please make sure it gets finished,” you add.
“That would be my absolute pleasure.”
You grin, calling out a farewell before you exit the break room. Again, Robby follows as you make the parade of goodbyes with your coworkers. It’s silent between you two as you head to the underground staff parking lot.
“I moved because of him,” you finally say. You’re idling at your car, next to the driver’s door, car keys in hand. It chirps as you unlock it. You hadn’t realise he’s been walking you to your car.
“You said,” Robby says, voice low. There’s that pinched look on his face again.
“I uprooted my whole life—left everything I knew. Everyone. Because I was… scared,” you admit. “And I don’t know—maybe knowing that he took three more minutes of my life means nothing—”
“17 seconds,” Robby interrupts.
“What?”
“It was three minutes and 17 seconds,” Robby says.
You swallow past a viscous thing in your throat. “You counted,” you realise. Down to the last second.
Robby gives an exhausted twitch of his lips. “Of course I did.” He would have counted to the last millisecond, if he could. Noted it down, internalised those moments.
“Robby,” you breathe.
“I…” He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision to move closer, but he does so, fingers pressed against your pulse point. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he murmurs.
You wonder if he knows the racing of your carotid is because of him. “I’m still here.” Your voice comes out equally soft.
“Yeah.” Stepping further into your space, fingers shifting. Palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing against warmed skin.
You let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his hand.
His eyes flicker between yours, gaze diving down to your lips.
Oh, you want him to kiss you. So, so badly.
Impossibly close.
You hear the click of the car door opening behind you.
Lips brush against your forehead before Robby steps back. “Get home safe,” he says, quiet.
You look at him, more than an arms length away. You can’t help feel the disappointment clog your throat. You’re sure it reflects on your countenance—you’ve never been much for poker faces. Instead, you nod, lips pursing. “Yes, sir.” You get into your car.
He doesn’t move until you drive away.
You’re about a third into your fourth shift back when Gloria arrives in the ED.
At first, everyone assumes she’s there for Robby. Her presence in the ED always means some kind of discussion or review with an attending. Shen talked to her once in his newly established role as an attending, and she now actively avoids him. Robby kind of wants to know what Shen did.
“Dr Robby,” she says, finding her stride beside him.
Robby tries not to sigh too loudly. “What can I do for you, Gloria?” He’s eyeing the rooms, the trauma bays, trying to find someone that needs an extra pair of hands. Anything to get him away from the impending conversation, really.
“I need to borrow one of your doctors.”
Robby frowns. “Who?”
When she says your name, Robby pauses, pivoting to look at her. “What for?”
She stops, raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dr Robby.”
Robby sighs, looking up at the board. “Central 14,” he says after seeing your name attached to the patient. He leads the way, where you’re talking to a young child on the bed, her mother sitting to the side.
Robby knocks on the opened door, drawing your attention.
“Dr Robby,” you say. Your expectant gaze wavers when you see the chief medical officer accompanying him. “Gloria.”
“Gloria wants to talk to you,” Robby says.
You feel like a student being called up to the principal’s office, with no knowledge of what you’ve done wrong.
Robby looks just as confused about the request.
“Sure. Let me…” You turn back to your patient. “Lily, I have to go, but I’m going to leave you with Dr Robby, okay?” You stand from the stool, but Lily snags your hand, something fearful crossing her face.
“Don’t…” she whispers, horrified.
“It’s okay,” you promise, voice soft, sinking back into your stool. You smile at her. “Listen, I’ll come back, but I have to go. Dr Robby looks grumpy but I promise, he’s just a soft little teddy bear inside. He’ll take really good care of you, okay?”
Lily looks over your shoulder, no doubt scrutinising him. Her dark brown eyes turn back to you. “You’ll come back?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say.
“Promise?”
You hold out your pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”
She wraps her respective digit around yours. “Okay,” she says, still sullen, but willing to let you go.
You stand from the stool, and Lily’s mother, Mrs Tran, stands with you.
“Thank you,” she says in Vietnamese. She shakes your hand. “Really, thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” you assure, responding in the same language. “It was really nice to meet you, Mrs Tran. Please, take a seat.” You usher her back into her chair.
At the door, you press the chart into Robby’s hands. “Lily Tran, six years old. Came in for severe abdomen pain.” You go through your differential diagnoses. Then you nod towards her mother. “And Huong Tran, Lily’s mom. I’ve been calling her Mrs Tran. She can understand you more than she can speak. Slow down, use less complex words.”
“Got it. Thank you, Doctor.” There’s something soft in his eyes as he regards you.
You feel yourself falter at it. The whole—whatever it is—has been confusing. Moments where you’re close, moments where you think he might finally make the first move, and yet. Nothing. Professional camaraderie maintained at work, whilst he gets close and personal in between. Walking you to your car; brief moments in the break room when you stock up the fridge, ensuring no one else is in there.
You walk with Gloria. “Am I in the doghouse?” you ask.
“No. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She leads you to the elevator. Presses the button that takes you up to admin and records, where her office resides.
You see Princess eyeing you as she passes by. You make a face at her. Send help.
Princess’ look says, You’re on your own.
The door slides closed.
You feel blank, weighed down by nothing and everything all at once. Staring at Gloria from where you’re perched on the opposite side of her desk. The office chair creaks as you shift.
“We’re doing what we can to increase the security team around here. More staff. More roaming,” Gloria says.
“But you can’t do anything about him.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t. We’ve looked at our avenues while you were away. Your best option is pressing charges against him. Under Pennsylvanian law, it’s a felony to assault a healthcare worker. We’d be with you, every step of the way.”
It’s a step, you know. Reports, court, lawyers—a long process. And then what? The maximum he’d get is 10 years, or a fine, depending on how his lawyer argued the case. Based on how shit transpired in LA, there’s no evidence to prove this was targeted. Texts, notes, phone calls—none of it meant anything to the police when there was no way of proving his identity behind it all.
This would be tried as a random attack.
“I’ll think about it,” you finally say.
Gloria slides over a card. “This is our legal’s team contact information. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”
You pocket it without looking. “Thank you, Gloria.”
“I wish there was more we could do,” she adds, apologetic.
You smile, wry. “We both know men like him don’t face legal consequences. Not really.”
Something aged and pained settles in Gloria’s eyes. She’s seen it all—vulnerable people slipping through the cracks while men like Matthew remain untouched by a system that protects their own. “I’m sorry,” she offers.
You haven’t interacted with her much outside of the hiring process, and you’ve heard everyone bemoan her presence in the ED. An easy target to aim ill will towards. But right now, seeing her commiserate with you, you think she seems just as human as you. Worn down, tired of a society that protects only those that look like them. Everyone else cast aside. You and her, regardless of your contribution or hierarchy.
“It’s not… it’s not on you, Gloria.” You know it’s the truth, even though you both wish more could be done. The hospital could ban Matthew Williams from accessing their other services and flag his name, but if he came through the doors of the PTMC as an emergency patient, everyone would have no choice but to attend to him. The most they could do is ensure you and him never crossed paths while he was present.
“Let me know what else we can do for you. Whatever your choice is.”
“Even if…” You pause. “I left?” It’s not something you’re heavily considering, but you know it’s a choice. A backup plan. Running, again. Another state. Another country. Across the sea.
“Even then,” Gloria promises. “Recommendation letters, references—you name it. You have our support.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s head back down.”
Robby notices that you’re gone for almost the whole hour.
He finds Princess and Perlah by the desk near the elevator that you had taken up with Gloria. “You heard anything?”
Princess looks up at Robby, sharing a look with Perlah. “Nothing yet,” she says.
“Probably talking about important stuff,” Perlah adds.
And that’s concerning to him. He’s worried, yes, but he also needs you back on the floor. They didn’t expect to suddenly be down a senior resident in the middle of their shift.
He doesn’t know when you come down with the elevator, but you and Gloria round the corner. You head to the bathroom. Gloria hovers by the door.
Perlah narrows her eyes, studying.
Princess nudges Robby towards Gloria, intentions clear. “Go,” she hisses.
“What’s going on?” Robby asks as he shuffles forward.
“Just give it a minute,” Gloria says.
“I can’t have you going around upsetting my doctors, Gloria.”
“I am not—” Gloria pauses to take in a breath. Like she’s centreing herself. “I cannot tell you anything.” But if you want to tell Robby yourself, then that’s your prerogative, she ends up relaying.
You come out of the bathroom, a little surprised to see Robby outside as well.
He frowns. “Are you—”
“Robby!” Dana calls, across the north nurse station. “Two traumas incoming!” She’s got a phone in hand.
“Alright! Get set up! Let’s go, people.” The ED comes alive. He looks back at you, still with that furrow between his brows.
“Put me in, coach,” you say. There’s no way in Hell you’re sitting this one out.
Robby hesitates. Then, “Trauma 2. Take Dr Santos with you.”
“Yes, sir.” You take a second to meet Gloria’s questioning gaze, nodding. Then you’re off, snagging Santos from central.
You’re okay. You’re going to press charges against Matthew Williams. Even if it takes a year from now, you’re going to push.
“You know,” you say, grabbing your containers from the fridge. Every end of shift, a routine. You taking your tupperware home, Robby accompanying you to the walk to your car. “Gloria told me you volunteered to walk with me.”
What you don’t say, is that you felt stupid after she told you. The pieces clicked into place. Robby wasn’t walking with you every night because he realised his feelings after almost losing you, or whatever dumb fantasy you were entertaining. It was because this was a safety plan that the hospital enacted after realising you had an active stalker.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “She said they’re upping the security guards. They can walk me.”
Robby shoots you a look, like he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I can walk you.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It’s not,” Robby agrees. “But I want to.”
And—seriously. What the Hell are you meant to say to that? “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The conversation ends awkwardly, and again, you make your rounds to say goodbye to everyone before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Sub-basement level—swipe card access only.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Robby starts, “but you can talk to me. About anything.”
You nod. “I’m… pressing charges,” you say, once you reach your car. “Against Matthew Williams.” You might need Robby on the stand, you realise. A doctor’s opinion on what happened during the attack. On the severity of the injury that was inflicted onto you.
“Yeah?” Robby keeps his face impassive. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s—” you chuckle, humourless. “It’s for violence against an on-duty healthcare worker.”
Almost imperceptible, a frown on his face. Corners of his lips tugging down. “And nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” you confirm. “Nothing else will stick in court. Not against men like him.”
“What do you mean?”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like that. You’re a smart man, Dr Robby.”
Robby relents. Quiet settles. Outside the parking garage, cars beep and roar among traffic. “What now?”
“It takes however long it takes,” you say. “Months. A year. Maybe longer. They might bury it. They might not. I—I don’t know.”
Disillusionment at its finest. He wishes he could provide more hope in his wizened years. But no. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.
You shake your head, a tired movement. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Let me know if there is?” Robby asks, and it sounds like you’d be doing him a favour instead of the other way around.
“Okay,” you say. It’s not sure thing, though. Even you don’t know what you need to commence the case.
“Thank you,” he says. His hands shoved into his pockets, standing aside.
You’re left staring at each other for the still moments that pass between. You feel embolden, maybe. You’re not sure what possesses you to take the two steps to get into his space.
You hear him inhale sharply.
You rise up, lips against his cheek. His beard scrapes against your skin. “Good night, Robby.” Back down, taking a step back.
“Uh,” he says, aptly. “Good—good night.”
You get into your car. Holy shit. You did that. You kissed him on the cheek. It’s a juvenile thing to be freaking out over, but you are.
He watches you get into the car, watches you wave through the window and drive off before his brain even rewires.
Weeks pass. You meet up with the PTMC’s team of lawyers and settle on a hearing in the meantime.
“Mr Williams made a generous donation to the PTMC last night,” Gloria says.
A few times a week, before the start of your shift, you’re up in her office with the lawyers assigned to your case. Annalise Keating and Wes Gibbins of K & G Law Firm—an adoptive mother-son duo that you have a feeling owe Gloria a few favours.
You think the proverb about the fury of a scorned woman describes Annalise. She’s extremely competent, and Annalise is as tenacious as Wes is empathetic. As long as you tell them everything they needs to know, they can protect you, she had said. Of course, you folded, telling her about your experience with Matthew Williams.
“He’s trying to bury this,” you realise.
“We’re not saying that,” Annalise is quick to correct.
“Officially,” Wes adds. “But unofficially…”
Your lips purse. Even if they won’t verbally admit it, you know you’re right.
“Based on records we have access to, he’s also made several donations to LA General,” Annalise continues.
“How long ago?” you ask.
Wes rifles through a document folder. “They stopped six months ago. But he had regular payments spanning June to September this year.”
You feel your heart stutter. “That’s how long he was…” Texting and calling your phone with private numbers. Leaving unmarked notes at the hospital. Escalating to letters dropped off in your mailbox. Not to mention your parents—you ran as soon as your mother had called, asking about a strange man that showed up to their front door, asking about you.
Four years into your emergency residency, and it felt like the stars aligned when the PTMC were willing to take you in after losing their R4.
Four years worth of connections you made in the hospital, gone; your whole life upturned. You sold your car, trekked to Pittsburgh on your savings and spare cash your dad stashed into your suitcase after he accepted he couldn’t change your mind. When your mother concluded that the police really weren’t going to do anything to protect you.
You’re too scared to even text your parents, despite changing your number. The constant what if ringing in your mind. What if he somehow knew how to track their phones? What if he was still tracking them?
But he’s in Pittsburgh now. With you. Even though the thought terrifies you, you’re comforted by the fact that he isn’t in the same city as your parents anymore.
“We’ll do what we can,” Annalise says, as they shuffle their papers, getting ready to leave. Whatever favour they owe Gloria must be mountainous, since they get here earlier than your 7 AM start.
“Thank you,” you tell them, following them both. It’s nearing the start of your shift. “Really. I know you’re doing a lot for me. This isn’t an easy case.”
“There are no easy cases,” Wes remarks, grinning at you. The elevator dings. You all enter.
“That’s the fun of it.” Annalise adds. Her smile turns kind when she faces you. “You’re a tough one, Doctor. You’ll get through this too.”
You wish you could believe her words. You smile in response, anyway. “I appreciate it,” you say.
No one bats an eye when you walk out with them. Gloria had made her rounds on their first appearance, letting everyone know exactly who they were, and if any staff saw them wandering the hospital floors, they should be redirected to her office, no appointments necessary.
This is what Robby tries to keep in mind when he sees you. Annalise walks ahead towards the ambulance entrance, Wes lingers where you are, halfway between central desks and the doors that lead outside.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can get a drink,” Wes says.
Robby looks up from the computer he’s standing in front of.
You blink. Oh. Wes is cute, you have to admit. But you never considered him as anything other than your lawyer. “Isn’t this case supposed to take a while?”
“Lucky me, then,” he say, the corners to his lips tilted upwards. “Either way, I get to see you.”
You can’t help the responding grin that stretches across your face. He’s got a boyish charm to him. And sue you—you haven’t felt this kind of attention in a while. Open. Someone that’s directly asking you out. Not trying to woo you in the darkness, and treat you like a coworker in front of everyone else. “You’re still my lawyer,” you remind.
“My mom is your lawyer. Officially.”
“Pretty sure the G and K & G is for you, Counselor.”
He smirks. Leans in close, lips next to your ear. “Maybe it has something to do with that old guy that’s staring at me like he wants to bury me six feet under?”
Do not look. Do not even entertain turning around to see if he means Robby. You’re pretty sure it is. “Um,” you say, head ducking a little, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Maybe. Sorry. It’s—complicated.”
Wes shrugs, easy. “Well, if you ever get sick of complicated, you do have my number.” He steps back, winking. “See you, Doctor.” Then he walks away.
You watch him leave. Shit.
Out of nowhere, Perlah sidles up to you. “So,” she says.
“Do not,” you say. You make the mistake of looking at her face—she looks exactly like a cat that has the cream. Like you’ve made her entire day.
“I’m not saying anything.” Perlah has her hands up. “But that smile on your face is definitely telling me something.”
“Nope. Goodbye, Perlah.” A quick turn of your heels, fleeing to the break room. From the corner of your eye, you definitely spy Robby at central. He had to have been listening. If Perlah knew what was going on, Robby would have too.
You don’t think you can survive his crabby mood on top of everything you’re dealing with.
The end of your shift, like routine, brings Robby walking alongside you. Lingering outside your car.
Robby reaches out like he’s going to cup your face again. Like so many instances before, of soft moments between you, stolen when no one else can bear witness to it. Days of this, weeks of this. Quiet and unknown.
You move away before he can make contact.
His lips thin out, fingers twitching.
“What is this?” you ask, soft and unsure and—tired, you think. Tired of the confusion. You’re running yourself ragged between work and meeting up with Annalise and Wes. Not sleeping well, forgoing attempts at sleep by pretending that you can live vicariously through the food you’re making to feed everyone else in the ED.
Convinced something has to give, floating in limbo. A forever lurch in your stomach in the downward trajectory of the rollercoaster. People treating you like you’re not able to take care of yourself—not able to walk to your Goddamn car on your own. You don’t want more uncertainty piled on. You’re exhausted. You feel it heavy within the hollow matrix of your bones. Weighted.
And this time, you’re the one that’s reached the tipping point.
“We don’t have to do this—” Robby starts.
“What is this, Robby? There is no this. What are we even doing here? What are you hoping for?”
He furrows his brows, like this is inconveniencing him. “I’m not trying to push anything—”
“Then figure it out!” Your raised voice echoes in the parking lot. You take a steadying breath. You’re usually not prone to outbursts; confrontation makes you cry—you tend to avoid authority figures. Somehow, Robby is incredibly adept at bringing it out in you.
You rub at your eyes, stemming the tears. “I’m tired, Robby. I’m not sleeping; I’ve got shit to deal with. I got asked out by someone that made it clear that he actually liked me, but somehow, I’m hung up on you, and I can’t even tell if you want—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His lips are on yours.
Robby.
In your space, pressing you against the side of your car.
Finally. Fucking finally.
His weight and warmth enveloping you. One hand on your waist, the other slotted to the side of your face, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there, and you were only denying him his right.
The rough scrape of his beard, his teeth tugging your bottom lip.
Your breath hitches.
He shifts his leg between yours.
You sigh out a moan, thighs bracketing his knee.
“I,” Robby says, and his voice is hoarse. “Want. You.” Kissing, stealing your air. He had envisioned waiting for the right moment, whenever that was. Some kind of softness in your shared first kiss. Asking you out first, maybe.
Instead, you have a way of pushing his buttons, nudging him to the edge of his patience. Even now. Even here, like this. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Reminding him that that punk lawyer of yours asked you out? Yeah, of course he’s seething.
“Robby,” you utter out.
His hand drifting under your shirt. Across the skin of your belly. Hand roughened and warm. “You drive me insane, you know that?” Fingers dipping under the elastic waist.
You gasp, hand wrapping around the wrist of his straying attention. “Robby,” you say. Chasing air. Breathing heavily.
“What?” And by the darkening of his eyes, you have a feeling that he would have no qualms about having you right here and now, up against your car. In an echoing parking lot that any staff member could enter. Anyone could come in and out for shift change.
Lips attached to your neck, tongue wet and heated against your skin.
“Not here,” you pant. “Not—fuck, mmm, Robby—take me home.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care.”
He laughs, soft and proud of himself for reducing you, usually so smart and capable, into a mess that stutters through your thoughts. “Mine, then.”
You can’t get into your car fast enough.
You end up in his bed. Legs apart, his face buried between your thighs. “Robby,” you moan, fingers curling into his hair.
He groans, a noise that vibrates through you. Tone low and deliciously spent. Even though he’s the one enacting pleasure on you, he’s the one that feels on the edge.
“Fuck.”
His tongue doesn’t stop, alternating between rings around your clit, up and down, side to side. And his fingers, bigger and longer than yours, buried inside. Digits angled, massaging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
“You’re going to make me come—” Thighs squeezing, grinding up into his face. The sudden release of that feeling in your stomach that he’s been making you chase for the past 20 or so minutes. Moaning aloud, nothing bashful in the sounds you emit. You’ve seen his house—gated. Standing alone. You could be as loud as you wanted and his neighbours would be none the wiser.
“God, Robby, fuck, fuck fuck, you’re—” Bitten off moans.
He’s still going. Fingers sliding out. Mouth lapping at your entrance, tongue pushing into the sticky mess. Tasting you. He groans aloud. His thumb nestles against your clit, rubbing circles.
He’s going to kill you.
“Robby,” you huff. Bending your leg, foot against his shoulder. Pushing. “Robby, get up here and—mm, fuck—fuck me.”
Robby relents. Getting up from the bed, taking off his shirt. Cock straining under fabric. “Who knew the Pitt’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?” By the smug lilt to his question, you have a feeling he knew. Hoped, at least.
You can’t help but roll your eyes at the nickname. You’ve definitely heard it floated around, and yes, you’re very aware that it arose from you bringing food in for everyone. But what else were you meant to do when all everyone cared about was comparing you to their precious Dr Langdon?
You crawl towards where Robby’s kneeling on the bed. Help him with his pants. You look up at him, pushing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “You want to see what else I can do with it?”
Robby’s hand bunching in your hair, groaning. “Fuck, you drive me insane.” Tugging you up to kiss you again. Nudges you back onto the bed, his body laid atop yours. “As much as I would like to, not tonight.”
“Not going to last, old man?” you ask.
He laughs, something rough in his throat. “Definitely not.” Lips grazing, soft and almost reverent against the line at your throat, above your carotid. Gentle kisses against the scar on your neck.
You gasp, fingers digging into his hair. Flexing.
He hovers. “That okay?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Definitely.”
Kisses it again, once. Twice. Then detaches himself from you, reaching for the bedside drawers where he keeps his condoms. Rolls it on, returning himself to you. With one hand, he guides himself to your entrance. Rubs the tip of him against you.
“Robby,” you say. Voice bordering on a whine. Becoming desperate for it—for him.
“Yeah, I know.” He sounds so fucking smug. Pushes the fat head of his cock into you. His other palm flat next to your head, against the bed, leaning above you.
Your breath stutters. “Oh, God.” You grip his forearm, something keening in your throat. “Oh my God, Robby.” He’s fucking big. You feel him stretching your entrance.
“You’re—fucking Hell, you’re so tight.” He moves the arm you don’t have in a death grip, thumb circling your clit. “Relax, honey. I got you.”
Your hips buck up, taking another half inch of him inside you. You’re both moaning around it.
“Fuck me,” he breathes. He pulls back a centimetre, then pushes himself in, slowly. Torturously.
You’re groaning. “Robby,” you huff. “Fuck, you’re—you’re too—”
“You can take it,” he hushes, confident. Lands a kiss to the side of your neck, under the scar. Rolls his hips in again, then out.
“It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling your face flood with heat. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but you certainly hadn’t been too keen on trying your hand with dating since those messages started appearing on your phone. When you got to Pittsburgh, you did nothing but work.
Lips finding yours. Reassuring. His thumb still pressed to your clit. Unhurried, despite the desire that permeates, that heaves his chest with short bursts of air. “Been so long you forgot how to take good dick, huh?” he asks. Fucks his cock in further.
You moan—at his words, at the feeling of him stretching you out. “Robby.”
“You’ll learn. One of my best fucking residents for a reason.”
Fuck.
Robby grunts, his hips jerking forward on its own accord. You cry out; he stills, huffing. “Fuck, you liked that one, didn’t you?” Panting. Lips on yours again.
You feel like you’re going to combust, fire pooling under your skin. Exposed for Robby to see, to know everything about you like this.
“Need you,” you say in between kisses.
“I know,” he says. Slow thrusts, and then—finally. Cock fully sheathed inside. He groans lowly.
Squeezing his arm, hand on his chest. “Wait—just, hah, wait. Wait—mmh.”
He tries to pull out, but you’re grabbing hold of his waist.
“Wait. Stay,” you murmur. “Just give me a second.”
Robby lets out a ragged breath, forehead against your chest. The hand previously on your clit trails to the side of your thigh, rubbing up and down the length of your flesh. Patient. Waiting, just as you asked.
Your walls fluttering around him, accommodating the feeling of him inside you. “Jesus Christ, you’re big, Robby. I can feel you.”
He grips your thigh, nails indented into skin. “You gotta stop talking like that if you want me to wait.”
“But you are—”
Silencing you by claiming your lips. Pushing his tongue into your mouth. Exchanging air and spit. Robby trembles with the effort it takes to not fuck into you like this. Underneath him, sounding so pretty while you struggle with the size of him.
You grind your hips up into him, stuttering through a breath.
Robby makes an audible sound, half groan, half growl. “Jesus.” Control dwindling by the second.
“Okay okay, move, Robby, fuck me.”
You barely finish the sentence before he’s thrusting into your tight heat. One of your legs hooked around his back. It’s sloppy, not at all graceful or coordinated. His thumb circling your clit again. Your walls convulsing around him.
“Wanna feel,” he huffs, “how tight you get when you come around me.”
And that rising wave in your stomach again. Crashing tides, falling, lapping. “Coming, coming coming.” Breathy and drawn out. Robby keeps fucking into you until he grunts, low and strung out. You feel his dick twitch inside you, and then he groans something fierce, falling over the edge of his own release.
Bowed over you, forehead against your collarbone. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Robby.”
“Mhm?”
“Kiss me. Please—”
His lips are on yours again. Head lifted, pressing into you. Your hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against his beard. “Stay,” he whispers, when you part for air. “Please.”
So you do.
The next morning, you’re up earlier than your usual time.
“You don’t want to head in together?” Robby asks, voice rough with sleep.
“I have food in my fridge for everyone,” you say. You’re putting your scrubs on, from where they’ve been discarded haphazardly around the room last night. You’ll need to shower as well.
Robby chuckles, sitting up to watch you drift around his space. “Always taking care of everyone.”
“Someone’s got to.” You draw closer to the bed, intending on giving him a parting kiss.
He pulls you on top of him, into his lap. Fingers pushing inside your still wet warmth. Thumb against your clit. And makes you come again. Shaking apart on top of him, grinding into his hand.
“There we go,” Robby murmurs into your ear. Fingers still pumping in and out of you. “Told you you’d learn how to take it. Gotta teach you how to be used like this.”
You’re shuddering, gasping, your hips rolling down. “Robby,” you moan.
“My best fucking resident.” Robby mouths a line down your neck, focusing on the scar again. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Side of your head pressed to a broad shoulder. Catching your breath.
“You should head out,” he says, after you’ve ridden through the aftershocks. “Don’t want to be late.”
“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, barely coherent enough to gather your thoughts.
“Tomorrow.” You don’t even have to see his face to see that smug grin across his lips.
You snort. Grab his wrist to stop the movement of his fingers, lifting yourself off of him. Kiss him again. “See you in there.”
You don’t do anything that strays from your usual routine—you come in at a different time than Robby, after ensuring you showered and brought along food. Disperse among the night shift to hand them their goods.
And yet. Abbot narrows his eyes at Robby during handoffs. Looks at where you’re talking to Shen and Ellis at central. Then back to Robby. “Good for you, brother.”
“What?” Robby asks, blinking guilelessly.
Abbot just snorts, shaking his head. Continues with the handoff. If Robby won’t say anything, he won’t either.
The rest of the PTMC clock it within two days.
On the third day, during shift change, Ellis takes your elbow as soon as your arrive and drags you into the break room.
“Dr Ellis,” you say, surprised. You use the abrupt opportunity to place your containers of food in the fridge.
“You know I like you, right?” she asks, phrased as a question, but not.
“We’re friends,” you hedge. Outside of the food that you leave for her, you like to think that you’re actually friends. Have finally built a rapport outside of coworkers and co-residents.
“Exactly,” she says. “So, as your friend, I want to say this as a means of looking out for you.”
You frown. “Say what?”
“Dr Robby,” she says. Eyes moving between yours to ensure she has your attention. It feels like something she’s picked up from Abbot. “How much do you—?”
The door opens.
“There you are,” Shen says. He’s boba-less—Ellis had grabbed you before you could give him the drink.
“Get in. Close the door,” Ellis hisses.
“Oh, is it intervention time?” He does as asked, door shutting. He pulls out one of the chairs around the table.
“What intervention?” you ask.
“Dr Robby,” Shen says, somehow wisely and cryptically at the same time.
You’re so sure you look bewildered. Clasping your hands together, looking between them. “One of you guys need to start making sense. Right now, please.” You settle on Ellis, usually the rational, logical one to Shen’s antics.
She sighs. “We,” she says, giving Shen pointed look, “just want you to be careful with him.”
You blink, mouth falling open. Turn to look at Shen. Then back towards Ellis. “Are you giving me the shovel talk right now?”
“No!” Ellis says. “Fuck, no. Look, he’s just… got a bit of a reputation. And we want you to be careful.”
Your mouth closes, lips pressed into a line. Trying not to laugh.
“What’s with that face?” Shen asks.
“You know,” you start, trying so so hard not to laugh in their faces. You don’t want to besmirch their good intentions, and whatnot. They’re so sweet. “Dana had this talk with me after my first three weeks here.”
“Oh, thank God,” Ellis breathes out, relieved. The burden lifted from her shoulders. This is not a talk she wants to be having about her colleagues.
“Thank fuck for Dana,” Shen says.
You end up laughing, shaking your head. “Aww, I knew you guys liked me.”
“I just want my boba.” Shen stands from the chair. His low effort intervention deed now done.
You take it from your tote bag, tossing it at him. He catches it before it hits him in the head. Then you pull them both into a hug. “I’m never letting you guys live this down.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ellis huffs. Her arm wrapped around you.
“Fuck off,” Shen says, but he accepts the hug.
You don’t bother trying to hide the grin that overtakes your face. Planting grandma-level of obnoxious kisses on their cheeks, despite their half-hearted complaints.
The door opens.
Robby pokes his head in to call out, “We’re doing rounds,” then stops. Taking in the scene with a questioning raised brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yep,” Shen is quick to answer.
“Totally.” Ellis, a beat later. Not suspiciously at all.
You cackle as you leave the break room. Robby shoots you a bemused look. You shake your head, grinning. “I’ll tell you later.”
Later ends up being at your apartment, where he insists on doing your dishes after the low effort dinner of leftovers.
“Are we casual?” you ask.
Robby looks over his shoulder from the sink. “No?”
“Wow. Are you asking or telling me?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“I don’t do casual,” you say. It’s something you’ve learned about yourself, when you were in your college years, attempting casual hookups for the first time. You always got woefully attached, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself. Your ego always telling you you were the exception, not the rule. “I realised I never really… clarified before—you know.”
“We’re not.” Clean dishes on the rack, drying his hands with the designated hand towel hanging on the cupboard below the sink. Robby folds his arms, leaning against the sink, hands cupping his elbows. “Where is this coming from?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile at the memory of Ellis and Shen from the morning. Idiots, you think, fond.
Head tilted, eyes narrowed, corners of his lips twitching. “This have anything to do with what happened in the break room?” Amusedly curious, not accusing.
You laugh out loud. “No,” you lie, poorly.
“Uh huh.” Stepping towards you, standing right in front of you. Looking down while you look up. His hand against your jaw. “Are my doctors feeding you bad intel about mean, old Dr Robby?”
You grin, kissing his palm. “Well. Depends what you consider bad.”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a bunch of rumours and bets floating around.”
“They’ve been floating around for a while, Robby.”
He frowns. “Really?”
“Dana wouldn’t have talked to me about your seven weeks thing, otherwise.”
Robby blinks. “She—what?”
You’re not sure what prompted her to, but three weeks after starting at the PTMC, she told you to be mindful of Dr Robby. That he was a great doctor, and a good man, but he had a thing with relationships only lasting seven weeks, after Dr Adamson passed away. And you knew about Adamson, heard other nurses talk about him, saw his portrait in the hallway.
“You have a habit of seven weeks,” you relay.
“Is that why you were so weird with me? Before—all of this?” he asks. Tipping your face up, pad of his thumb grazing the scar again. Proof of life. Again and again and again. As long as he needs the reminder.
“No,” you say, but all of a sudden, the room feels too hot. Too thick with something other than the banter. All you can think of is him in front of you, the rough skin as he thumbs the raised line.
“Robby,” you manage.
“Yeah?” Distracted. Eyes roaming around your face, taking in the sight of you south of him while he stands. He can’t really be blamed for his thoughts straying.
“I mean it,” you whisper, clearing your throat. “I can’t do casual with you.”
“We’re not,” he promises, soft. His hand moves to the back of your nape, fingers curling around the width of it. “Come here.” Gentle urge as he tugs you up.
And you go. Willing and soft, pressed against him.
His lips on yours. His kisses feel heavy. “Nothing about how I feel is casual,” he says.
You nod, eyes darting between his. Look at him like you’re begging him—the universe—for it to be true. Creases between your brows.
“You.” Lips to your forehead, on the grooves of furrowed skin. “Drive me insane.”
“They’re going to talk about us.”
“They already are. I don’t care. Even if Gloria made up some bullshit about how we shouldn’t be together—I’d choose you.”
You feel prickling behind your eyes, sweet words you want to believe. “Robby,” you sniffle.
“It’s true,” he murmurs. Delicate, like he wants for nothing else than for you to trust him, to find yourself worthy of this.
“Take me to bed.”
You’re leaving Trauma 1, Javadi on your heels.
“And I thought it was a date,” her voice settles somewhere in the breathless and high range. “I got there and he had all these people there, and I had no idea who any of them were, and I think I freaked out and tried to run away and—”
“Baby girl,” you say, resting your hands on both her shoulders. Wait for her eyes to meet yours. “You gotta stop.”
“Stop?” She blinks, wide-eyed and endearing.
“Everything that you’re telling me right now, is telling me that he’s not interested.”
“But—”
“Girl. Victoria,” you deadpan. “That man wanted someone to come cook while he hosted his friends. And you did that. For two whole hours.”
“Whoa, what’s this?” Santos asks, sidling up to the two of you. She’s leaning against the desk, interest piqued by drama.
“A date,” Javadi manages.
“A failed one,” you add.
“Ugh,” Santos says. “Men.”
“You,” you say, attention back on Javadi, “are not allowed to do any more swiping or meeting up without my say so.”
“Seriously?” Javadi asks.
“Yes, seriously. You just played mommy to some fuck ass who didn’t know how to use his grill. Ask more questions. Get more answers. Don’t be afraid to say no if his idea of a first date is to come over so you can just ‘chill’.”
“But what if I don’t get another date?”
“There will be plenty,” you say.
“Start dating girls,” Santos says.
“Not helpful, Dr Santos,” you add.
“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it be easier if we only dated women and left the men to fend for themselves?”
“Right. Was it easier for you when you moved in together after a month of dating, and then was left with a two bedroom apartment that you could barely pay the rent for?”
Santos’ mouth drops open. “I’m going to kill him. That’s not his business to spread.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault your roomie loves talking to me,” you say.
“Fuck you. You have a Pitt-wide bet about your current relationship, so the only actual long-term man in your life followed you from LA. The same one you’re pressing charges against because he almost fucking killed you!”
“Whoa!” Javadi exclaims, gobsmacked by the audacity. Her eyes are rounded, darting between the two of you.
You maintain the stunned silence for all of two seconds before you break. “Holy shit,” you wheeze out in between laughter.
“Whatever,” Santos says, turning her attention up to the board.
“Fuck, you really got my ass, huh?” You hold out a fist towards her.
She’s bites her lip, refraining from grinning as she fist bumps you. “Don’t ever come for me again.”
“Yeah, you got it, Dr Santos.”
“I’m still killing Huckleberry,” she says.
“Yep, totally. Have at it. We will not be missing him.” You would, but honourable sacrifices need to be made. You are not crossing Santos again.
“Doctors,” Dana says, slipping into the small huddle you’ve created under the board. By the grin on her face, she’s definitely heard what you guys were discussing.
“Hi, Dana,” you say.
“You guys parked in underground today?”
“Yeah,” you and Santos say.
“I—got a ride,” Javadi says. “My mom,” she adds at the look you shoot her. At least it wasn’t from her shitty date.
Dana peers down her glasses to read the registration scribbled on a sticky note, alongside the manufacturer and colour.
“That’s mine,” you say, frowning.
“Shit,” Dana huffs. “Someone busted your windows in, kiddo.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Dana nods towards Ahmad, who has been following Dana at a distance. “Ahmad was patrolling.”
“Fuck,” you say.
“I’ll come with you,” Ahmad says. He relays something into his radio.
“Thank you,” you tell him. Then, to Santos, “I’ve got a patient in Trauma 1. Get Dr Robby if it gets worse, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Dr Santos.”
“I got it. Get Dr Robby. Don’t do shit on my own.” She salutes you mockingly.
“Thank you,” you call out, following Ahmad down to the sub-basement parking lot.
“Any other cars get smashed up?” you ask as he leads the way.
“No. Yours is closest to the outside, though. Alarm could’ve scared them off. You have anything important in your car?” Ahmad ask.
“Just registration,” you say. Spare shoes, spare clothes. Nothing vitally important, outside of your car registration details.
Glass crunches under your shoes. Your car, just as you left it this morning, sans windows. Broken, shattered pieces scattered on concrete ground.
“Can I take a look?” you ask.
“Depends. If you want to press charges, it’d probably be better to leave it alone.” He gestures towards the roof. “We’ve got cameras. I’m sure police can run it back and see who did this.”
A random burglary in the PTMC staff parking lot registers as unusual to you. It doesn’t click until it’s too late. You’d think after being on edge for so long in LA, after fleeing to Pittsburgh and living in paranoia, you’d be a little faster, a little more conclusive, even if it’s not always correct.
But.
“Wait—” you say, pivoting on your feet to turn to Ahmad.
You hear the unmistakable click of a gun safety being pulled.
“Step away.”
“Get back.” Ahmad’s voice. Tight.
And Matthew Williams, with a gun pointed straight at Ahmad. “Don’t move,” he says, when he sees Ahmad going for the weapon on the side of his belt.
Fuck. The windows were a diversion tactic and you fell for it. It had been so peaceful, even with the meetings with Annalise and Wes. They were so sure, so confident that they’d be able to get something to stick on him.
“Hi, again,” Matthew says, grinning. His gun still aimed at Ahmad, but his attention on you.
You’re frozen, eyes flickering between him and the gun. Unsure where to look. You feel helpless with a weapon brandished in your proximity. You lick your lips, shuddering out a breath. “Matthew,” you say.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I’m right here,” you say. Your neck throbs, you feel sweat seeping through your pores. You remember Javadi calling for security, forcing his hand to act early. You can’t let that happen. Not when Matthew’s finger remains on the trigger. Reactive. “You want to talk, right? With me?”
Matthew’s face flexes, like he hadn’t been expected you to understand him. “Yeah. I do.”
“So let’s talk.”
“Don’t—” Ahmad starts.
“Shut up!” Matthew’s slowly flagging arm, straightened, pointed at Ahmad again.
“No!” Instinctual, reckless steps bringing you closer to them.
The gun aimed at you, now. Matthew’s nostrils flaring. Chest rising and falling faster. He’s getting agitated.
“Listen to me, if you want to talk to me, just put down the gun and we can talk,” you say. Hands up and out. “Please. I promise I’ll listen to you. You just need to put down the gun and let him go.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Matthew says.
“I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel your heart thudding away in your chest. The tears that burn your eyes.
You can tell Matthew’s wavering. Your gaze remains resolute on him. You don’t dare look anywhere else. “Please.”
The gun falters. His hand lowering.
You see a blur of the blue security uniform.
Ahmad.
A loud bang.
Echoing in the parking lot.
“Shit.”
“Ahmad!”
You’re on him, hands pressed against his upper right chest. Pressure. Ahmad groans under you. Blood, warm and viscous seeping beneath your palms. Blooming.
“Let me see your back. Ahmad, let me see.”
Ahmad lets out a concerted grunt as he rolls to his side with your guidance.
“No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside. Okay, back down.” And your hands are pressed against the wound again.
“Get off of him,” Matthew says, somewhere behind you. His voice is beginning to sound frantic.
“No.”
Footsteps stepping around. Matthew in front of you, gun pointed at you, now. “Stop that.”
“Come on, Ahmad, I’m going to get us some help.” One hand still on the bullet wound, the other unfastening his radio.
“Stop!”
Ignoring him. Maybe it’s a stupid gamble to take, but you don’t think Matthew would shoot you. Scare you, definitely, just as he is now. But not shoot you. He’d have done so already.
Blood coated fingers slipping against the black surface. You press the button. You know it goes to the small hospital dispatch room and to the radios the other security guards have. True to Gloria’s words, there were more guards in the hospital now.
“Mayday, mayday, hospital staff in distress. Gunman in sub-basement parking level 2, east side.”
“Stop that!”
“Shots fired. Security down. I repeat, Ahmad is down—”
“Stop touching him!” The gun shoved in your face.
You flinch. But you don’t budge. You can’t. If you do, Ahmad dies. He bleeds out. You cannot let that happen.
The radio crackles. “We’re coming to you.”
Radio discarded, both hands on top of Ahmad again. “Just hang in there. We’re getting you help.”
“Get off of him!”
“No!” Face upturned, glaring. Chest heaving. Tears, angry and bright. Tracking from your eyes. “You’ll have to shoot me too,” you say, staring down the barrel of the gun. He won’t do it, you think. As twisted as it is, you don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. Your neck feels raw.
Ahmad makes a protesting noise.
Matthew’s jaw tightens. He aims behind him.
Another loud bang.
You flinch at the noise, hunching over Ahmad.
The muzzle of the gun, fiery hot.
Jammed against your cheek.
You cry out.
Heated metal pushed into flesh. Twisting.
Dermal layer burning.
Yelling.
Do not move. Hands on the wound.
Ahmad reaching, swatting weakly at Matthew’s ankle. It does nothing.
Matthew moves away, pacing. “Look what you’re making me do,” he says, frenetic. “I just wanted to talk.”
You’re sobbing. Tears clouding your vision, stinging your cheek. Second degree burn, maybe. Hard to tell the severity. It stings. Your whole cheek feels like it’s on fire. Heaving breaths. Trapped.
“Drop the case,” Matthew begs. “I just wanted you to drop the court case.”
You shake your head. You can’t see if Ahmad eyes are opened or closed. “Ahmad, come on, stay with me. They’ll be here soon.”
“Look at me!”
“You need to go!” Gaze turned up again. Glaring. “If you’re not planning on getting caught right now, you need to leave.”
If security comes up with more guns, you know Matthew will start shooting. You can’t let that happen. No one else needs to get hurt.
The elevator dings. Doors sliding open.
A gunshot, again.
Shouting.
You flinch once more, body lowering over Ahmad’s. Protecting. Ears ringing. Hands on the wound. You cannot move.
“Hey, hey hey, let me see. Let me see.”
Hands on you.
“No!” Recoiling away.
“Hey, it’s just me. It’s me. Look at me.”
Unfocused eyes. Landing. Then, “Robby.”
“We’ve got him.” Mohan across from you. Replacing your hands on top of Ahmad. Gauze packed onto the entry wound.
Falling back on your haunches, heaving out breaths.
“Jesus, honey, what happened?” Robby’s hands inspecting your cheek. Crouching before you.
McKay, Mohan, Jesse, Donnie and Olsen hauling Ahmad onto the gurney.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. Dislodging Robby’s hand.
“It’s okay, I just need to look—”
“Robby. Ahmad. You need—I need you on Ahmad. Please. He can’t—he can’t die.” Robby had saved you. Before. When it was you that had gotten hurt. He has to save Ahmad, too. You can’t be responsible for Ahmad dying here.
“I—”
“Robby. Please. I need you to. Please.”
Robby’s jaw clenches. Nodding. “McKay, swap out.”
“Got it.” McKay’s by your side.
All of you into the elevator.
In the ED, Ahmad gets rushed into Trauma 2. McKay ushers you into an empty room. You don’t register which one.
You sit on the bed, numb. Empty. Staring at your hands, slick with Ahmad’s blood.
Robby knocks on the opened door but you don’t pay him any attention. Lost in your thoughts, probably. You had been conscious but mostly unresponsive when McKay fixed you up. Treated your third degree burn, used wipes to clean Ahmad’s blood off of you.
Dana’s already taken your name off the board and today’s roster. Disseminated your patients throughout the other staff. Scheduled days off with Gloria.
He’s in front of you. “Hey,” he says, softly.
You blink. See him. Then register what it means. “Ahmad—” Your voice is hoarse with disuse.
“He’s alive,” Robby says. “We got the bullet out. No organs were hit. He’s fine.”
Relief floods you with tears. You crumple forward, into yourself.
“Can I…”
You nod, and Robby’s in your space, arms wrapped around you. Your arms just as tight around him.
“Fuck,” he huffs. “You scared me. I heard your voice on the radio and I… Jesus. I was so scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
You have plenty to be sorry for, you think. “Is… is Ahmad awake?”
“Yeah. You want to go see him?”
You’re nodding before he can finish the sentence. “Please?”
“Yeah, honey.” Robby shuffles back, helping you up from the bed, even though you don’t need it. Only your cheek is hurt. “We moved him into South 17.” He guides you to the room.
Ahmad looks worse for wear, but alive. Alive. “There you are,” he says.
You try not to cry as you smile at him. Busy yourself with checking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got shot,” he says.
You snort, shaking your head. Feel tears loosen from the movement. “I’m sorry.” Sinking into the stool that one of the doctors probably used. Take his hand.
He squeezes back. “Not your fault, Doc.”
You give him a look that expresses how much you disagree with his opinion.
“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t drop the case.”
“What?” Robby asks.
You look over to where he’s by the door, frowning.
Oh. Outside of you and Ahmad, they don’t know. You had said a gunman on the radio. Never specified who it was. The last shot he fired probably gave himself the chance to run before they could see his face. “Matthew Williams,” you say.
Robby stills.
Then pushes himself off where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb. Face stony. Jaw clenching. “This was him?” Eyes flicker down to the bandage on your cheek. “He did this to you? Both of you?” Gaze slicing towards Ahmad on the bed.
You nod. “My windows.”
Robby furrows his brows, confused.
“Dana said there was a car that had its windows smashed in. It was mine. Ahmad took me down to see. And then we—he—um, he had a gun.”
“Jesus Christ.” The gut sinking knowledge that this wasn’t some random attack. It never had been. Everything had been premeditated. You were targeted specifically. “Fucking Hell.” Robby hovers behind you, close. A hand on your shoulder like he’s reminding himself. Alive. Here. Wants to never let you out of his sight. To keep you safe from whatever the fuck is going on out there.
There’s a knock on the door.
Gloria says both yours and Robby’s names. “If you have a moment,” she says to you, after Robby steps to the side. “The police would like to take a statement.”
You look at Ahmad.
“You need to,” he says. “Hell, I’ll make one too.”
You nod before you can second guess yourself. Proof. At least there are cameras in the parking lot. “Okay.” You get off the stool, bumping your fist against Ahmad’s offered one.
Robby remains a steady presence beside you.
“They need you down here,” you tell him.
Robby shakes his head. “Jack’s already here.”
You blink. You check the time on the clock on the wall. It’s still an hour until night shift starts.
“Police scanner,” Robby says, in lieu of explanation.
“Oh.”
“He doesn’t know how to rest.”
“Probably why he’s so grumpy.”
“I’m telling him you said that.”
You shake your head, exhausted grin on your face.
Robby smiles back, soft and worried.
You take his hand, giving it a squeeze, and head out with Gloria. There are two police officers stationed outside the room, waiting for you. The ED bustles like usual. You spot Abbot breezing past.
“Is this something we need to fill paperwork on?” Gloria asks, gesturing between the two of you.
“I have a feeling you’re going to make us sign something anyway,” Robby says.
“At least you’re smart enough to know that.”
He’s your attending. Chain of command dictates that you report to him. There’s bound to be some kind of power imbalance that HR needs to get ahead of. It’s worth it, he thinks. Promises made in your kitchen—he’d choose you.
“I can’t go home,” you say. Your fingers digging into your thigh, breathing through your nose. Agitation in your movements. Shifting. Leg bouncing where you’re sitting.
All the symptoms of a panic attack, but you’re not slowing down. Not giving yourself a moment to breath.
“He could be there,” you continue.
It shatters something inside of Robby. Noticing. Wanting to reach out. But you’ve already sunken into the furthest corner of your chair, refusing any contact. It’s clear—do not touch.
“We don’t know that,” one of the officers say.
You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no idea where he is. And I know he can find out this kind of information. He knew about my car. If he took my registration from there… he’ll have my address.”
“We’ve taken your car into evidence. We’ll see if anything’s been taken.”
You nod. “Can you—if I give you the name of a detective in LA, can you organise a check-in on my parents? I just—I need to know he hasn’t been near them again.”
Again. He wonders how long you’ve suffered this alone. It’s not happening to him, but it’s terrifying, feeling helpless. He can’t do anything to keep you safe.
“You can’t call them?” the officer asks.
“I can’t risk it.”
Robby’s fingers curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out.
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Your hand reaches for the scar on your neck. Scratching. Pinching the skin. “Whatever evidence you get, can we inform my lawyers too?”
“Of course,” Gloria says.
“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quick goodbye, stumbling out. Opening a random door into a dark room.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re having a panic attack—”
“I know. I just—I just need a minute.” Heaving breaths, collapsing into the corner of the room. Facing the wall. Making yourself as small as possible.
He inches close. A hand on your back.
You shrug him off. “Don’t. Please—don’t touch—”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back here.” Robby’s chest aches for you. He wonders how many times you’ve been alone like this, in your apartment. Too scared to call your friends and family back home. Too new to make connections with everyone here.
He lowers himself to the ground, back against the wall. Waiting. He’s been here before, in the Pedes room during PittFest. Wonders what went through Whitaker’s mind when the student saw him like this.
Eventually your breathing slows to your regular pace. You shift from the corner. “Sorry,” you whisper, ragged.
Robby only shakes his head. Lifts an arm. And you slot yourself next to him. Head on his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He knows exactly what it feels like; the lack of ability for control when that composure finally fractures. It’s been a long day, for you especially.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, instead.
“I can’t go back to mine,” you remind him. Tired.
“Come home with me.”
You give him a sidelong glance. It feels different, somehow. This isn’t born from cavernous exhaustion but still wanting to see each other after a shift. From staying the night because you had dinner together, and it’s already getting late, so there would be no point of going back home after.
Creases between Robby’s brows. A silent plea etched between lines.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Robby nods. Groans as he stands, then holds a hand out for you.
Taking it, you let him haul you up. His thumbs brushing across your cheeks, careful of the bandage. Swiping through the tear tracks. Lips to your forehead, like he’s trying to impart all the care and gentleness he can.
“Home, first,” he says.
Home. Somehow, that included Robby, too.
You refused to take more than a week off of work. Even though some part of you froze at the idea of seeing the PTMC again, you hated the idea of not being there even more. You couldn’t let Matthew Williams take anything else from you.
Your first day back is met with less fanfare. A quick “Good to see you” from Ellis just as a trauma bursts through the ambulance bay.
It’s a change of pace you welcome.
Ahmad comes back to work a week after you. Gloria meets you in the break room with Annalise and Wes. Usually it’d be up in her office, but they didn’t want to pull Ahmad too far from the ED.
Wes eyes the scar on your face, something saddened in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Depends what kind of news you’re here to give us,” you tell him. Half joking, half not.
The expression Wes makes lets you know it’s nothing good.
Annalise looks between you and Ahmad. Sighs. “They’re going to argue for a misdemeanour.”
You freeze.
Ahmad had gotten shot. Had to take two weeks off of work. You almost died—Hell, you did die in that trauma room. And they’re trying to write it off as a misdemeanour. Jail time for less than a year, a fine, or community service. One or the other, not all.
“That’s bullshit,” Ahmad seethes.
“I’m sorry, Mr Zidan,” Annalise says, sincere.
“That’s not good enough,” Gloria says, cold.
“We’re doing our best, Dr Underwood.” Annalise’s tone clipped. It’s the first time you’ve heard her professionalism slip. You can’t tell if it’s anger at the situation, or at Gloria for questioning their competency as lawyers.
“We’re going to do whatever we can,” Wes addresses you, figuring the best way around the iciness is to talk to you instead.
But you’ve heard these platitudes before—said them yourself. To patients and their families when you can’t predict the outcome of a procedure. We’re going to do everything we can. One of the first things you learned as a doctor was not to make any promises.
It feels like you’ve dedicated your life to being here, to being a doctor, and this is how they churn you out. You died, and this is how they deem the value of your life.
You’re shaking your head. This case… what the Hell were you thinking, pursuing this? That you could set a precedent? That you could pave a way for other medical professionals by pushing this? That you could finally get some peace?
Instead you feel sick, exhausted, and small. So fucking small, in this break room, with Gloria and Annalise and Wes and Ahmad.
“Hey,” Wes starts. An attempt at a comforting hand on your shoulder.
You need to leave. You can’t be here. You’re out of the break room before you even realise it. Into the rest room right next door.
Not five seconds later, the door opens. Dana inside with you.
“Hey,” she says, gentle.
“There’s a new rule that says I can’t be alone, now?” you ask. You’re by the sink, running cold water over your hands, your wrists.
“We’re just trying to look out for you, hon.”
Water on your face, over your eyes. On the still healing, itchy skin of your cheek. Down your neck, where the scar is. Proof of life. Proof of fucking bullshit. “I’m so tired,” you manage. “I can’t do this anymore, Dana. I can’t. I can’t—”
“Okay, hon, it’s okay. Just breathe.” She draws closer to you.
You back away, shuddering. Breath hitching. “No, don’t touch—it’s not—”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be okay.” And somehow, Dana has her arms around you.
You don’t fight her. Can’t. You face against her shoulder. Her hand cupping the back of your head as she shushes you. You’re reminded, inextricably, of your mother. It makes you cry harder; you feel like a child, again.
“I want to go home,” you sob. “I miss my mom.”
“I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” And Dana’s voice is a little wet, too. Arms tightening around you. Just you and her in this bathroom.
By the time you get out of the bathroom, most of the hospital staff already know what the unofficial verdict is going to be. Reactions oscillate between pissed off and resigned. This is the reality of the system they’ve grown up in.
“Hey,” Robby says, frowning. Folding you into a hug. Any notion of showing favouritism in the workplace can be damned. Kisses the top of your head. “I heard.”
“Yeah,” you sniffle. You hate this side of you. The one that seeks out comfort like you haven’t had to deal with this on your own. “They’ll keep—working on it.” You know Annalise won’t take this lying down.
“You okay?”
“I’m not leaving early,” you say.
“Wasn’t asking that.”
“I’m okay.”
You both know it’s a lie. That he’d probably do the same if he were in your shoes.
“Okay,” he says instead. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“A vacation,” you say, not missing a beat.
Robby snorts. “You’ve been hanging out with John too much.”
You rise up to kiss his cheek. Then back to work. Even though you’re falling apart, this is what you’ve signed up to do.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should take a should take a vacation,” Robby yawns from where he’s lounging on the couch.
It’s been two weeks since then. You’ve essentially been living together since then. Your car is still in evidence, and you’re still concerned about the safety of your apartment.
You’re on the floor, papers and files spread out on the carpet. A smattering of snacks on the coffee table—most of which he only started purchasing for you since he was never really the type of entertain them at home. In the hospital, yes, but not quite at home.
“When are you thinking?”
Robby hums in thought. “July.”
“I’ve got this case, Robby,” you say, albeit regretfully. Nothing sounds more appealing than disappearing from the world with just the two of you.
“When you’re done, then.”
You look over at him. He’s been watching the TV on its lowest volume, following along with the subtitles. “I don’t know how much longer this is going to take.”
“I can wait for you,” Robby says. He’s chewing on one of the gummy bears you put into the list for him to buy. He never made a habit of snacking, but you’re rubbing off on him.
“Don’t do that,” you say, underlining something on the document. “You should go.”
“On my own?”
“You deserve a break. Aren’t you due for a sabbatical? You get one every five years for long service, right?”
He blinks, something passing over his face—too quick for you to properly interpret. “Yeah. Last one I did… fuck. I cut it short because of the start of the pandemic. If I hadn’t gotten home early, I never would have been able to come back.”
Sympathy filling your features. “That sucks, baby.” Your papers set down. Knees across the carpet, shuffling towards the couch where he’s lying. “You could do something nice for yourself this time.”
“What? Like travel the world for three months?”
“Yeah, around the world in 80 days.”
Robby snorts.
“Yeah, of course you’d like that, you old man.”
“Hey, you made the reference. Not me.”
Chin on the cushion, his thumb brushing against the burn on your cheek. Healing. He’s been diligently taking care of it everyday until you didn’t need to keep it covered anymore. Every night, rubbing ointment on your wounds. Like traces of this mess can fade with time and healing.
“Or,” you grin, cheeky, “you could tell everyone you’re travelling. Then lock yourself in here for three months. And it’d just be me and you and my wily ways.”
Robby blinks, then laughs. Leaning down to kiss you. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s good stress relief.”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us.”
Lips to your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So that’s a no, then?” Faux disappointment. Pursed lips.
“I’ll think about it.”
Eyebrows raised.
“The sabbatical. The proper one,” he adds after seeing your expression. “Not your degenerate one.” He pulls you up onto the couch.
You sprawl on top of him, head pillowed against his chest. Breathing in each other’s company. “You’d deserve it. Taking a break.”
“Yeah?”
“Hm.” You close your eyes, feeling the rumble in his chest. “I’d miss you, but yeah. You deserve the break. You’re always working at 100%. You need to slow down or you’ll burn yourself out.”
“You deserve a break too.”
“I’ll rest when the case is over.”
Robby tuts disapprovingly, hands rubbing up and down your back. “How am I going to leave if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself?”
“I’ll be okay,” you say, even though you want to tell him that you wouldn’t want him to go for three months. The last thing you want to do is guilt him into feeling like he needs to take care of you. You’re not a lost cause. You wriggle up slightly to kiss his jaw.
“You would?”
“Mm. I’d miss you. But you can send me pictures of things you see that remind you of me.”
“I thought the point of a sabbatical was to take a break.”
“Not from me, asshole,” you say, without any heat behind it. Pinching where you think his nipple is.
“Oh—ow. You’re incorrigible.” Grabbing your wrist. Kissing your palm. “I’ll think about it,” he says again.
Things have been good.
It should’ve been your warning.
All of a sudden, it’s the 3rd of July, the night before Robby goes off on sabbatical. You thought that once you had passed that seven weeks mark, you’d been in the safe zone. You remember promises of this not being casual. Of choosing you. And yet. You’re staring at a text.
“I’ve been stood up!” you announce as you opened the breakdoor door letting yourself in.
Two heads turn to look at you.
“I swear if we miss this reservation I might kill him!” you say dropping between Dana and Robby on the couch they were settled on, patient notes nestled on each of their laps as they take a much needed 15 minute break.
Dana laughed while Robby fished out his phone, about to call your missing boyfriend.
“Don’t bother- He knows I’m here, I saw him dressed up in his suit, chatting in the hallway to an intern.” You say as Robby at least smiles at you weakly.
“The kids love him, he is patient with them.”
You knock his shoulder, “Unlike some other attendings.” you joke.
You had been dating Jack for about thirteen months now, and everything had finally settled into a routine that you both enjoyed.
The one thing you had not grown accustomed to was the fact that your amazing, fantastically smart and brilliant boyfriend could not read a clock to save his or anyone else's life.
Jack was notoriously late for everything. Not because he didn’t care, but because he never wanted anyone to think their time wasn’t as important as his, so it was a recurring problem of him trying his best until someone distracts him with an ‘important’ question.
To the point that even as you jokingly pouted with his friends about being stood up, you had actually made the reservation at the fancy new French place for half an hour later than you had told Jack, to accommodate for his tardiness.
Jack threw himself through the breakdoor room, rushing to pack up his bag of things, adjusting the tie as he went, so busy with his rushing he hadn’t even noticed the audience watching him.
“Four tours and the man is still so unobservant." Dana says between sips of her now cold coffee.
Jack swore and jumped two feet in the air, “That is just rude! You could have given me a heart attack!”
You get up from the couch and give him a gentle kiss on one cheek and a pat of your hand on the other, “Oh no we mustn’t frighten the senior citizens!”
The comment got you a slap on your arse and the laughs of your friends before Jack pulled you from the room, muttering about how you were making them late for dinner.
---------------------------------------------
It takes you two weeks to find a place to live, and in those two weeks you organise everything to sever any connection between yourself and Jack.
You and Robby visit a lawyer on the first day, and you officially sign over all powers of attorney and guardianship to the older doctor, who doesn’t make eye contact with you the entire time.
The next day you text every friend you have asking if anyone has a spare room/couch/garage/literally anything you can lay your head on. You are flooded with calls and texts that you ignore, sending a mass message to everyone:
“I can’t talk about it, please just let me know about any available rooms.”
You refuse to ask Robby or Dana for help, their focus has to be on Jack now. After all, they were his friends first.
Your boss is the one that finds you a place, his sister’s partner's kid has a granny flat at the back of their property, it's gorgeous and everything you need, with a private entrance and a small verandah they had fenced off it was like your own little cottage away from the world.
You move in immediately, shifting everything from the storage container into the small space and selling whatever doesn’t fit.
You call and transfer the storage container into Robby’s name so Jack doesn’t lose his things and then you make two final phone calls, one to the renovation people.
“I’m out of the house now, just finish it and get it ready for sale.”
And one to the real estate agent who sold them the house originally.
“It will be ready in a week or so, please put it on the market. Contact the renovation people for updates.”
You then turned your phone off and fell to the floor of your new kitchen.
The tiles were lovely against your bare legs as you finally let yourself cry.
Your body ached as you screamed out weeks of pain and agony.
It would have been easier if he had died, you said to yourself even though you knew that wasn’t true. That was selfish and an awful thought to have but it kept repeating itself over and over again as you pulled yourself together.
If he had died, you could have had an ending.
If he had died, you wouldn’t have to worry about running into him at the shops, when you’re out for coffee or literally doing anything.
If he had died, you could have kept your friends.
But then if he had died-
If he had died, the world would have lost an amazing doctor.
If he had died, his friends would have lost their found family.
And you know that if he had died, you would never recover.
So you pull yourself together, and off the kitchen floor, straighten your shirt and start to unpack the boxes.
Because Jack was alive, and even if he never remembers you, you’ll remember him, and for now that has to be enough.
----------------------------------
The house goes on the market three weeks after Jack woke up, it goes on sale on a Tuesday and by Wednesday afternoon you accept an offer that's 300 thousand over what you and Jack had bought it for.
To celebrate you buy a bottle of red wine and chinese takeaway.
When the money hits your account three weeks after that, you celebrate by closing the joint account and sending Jack his share with a simple message.
“Thats everything sorted, I hope you’re well.”
You then blocked his number and went outside to stare at the sun.
----------------------------------
“Please tell me you’re coming out tonight!”
You had barely picked up the phone before your friend, Abby, was screaming down the line.
You laugh and respond, “Of course I am! It’s your birthday! I wouldn’t miss it!”
Abby pauses for a moment and you can read the silence between you, you had missed a lot of the last four months since the accident and break up.
But you were doing better, you had returned full time to work, found hobbies and had even gone on one absolutely disastrous date that had ended with you calling a taxi before the entrees had been served.
“I will be there! I promise!”
---------------------------------
The club was dark and pumping by the time you got past the door.
You were not a clubbing girl on a normal occasion but you couldn’t help but enjoy the way the lights danced off the walls and the bodies all moved together with the music.
“Bitch!” Abby yells over the music grabbing you and pulling you into the crowd of people. You had known her for years and had spent more than your fair share of nights just like this in your early twenties, the two of you dancing in a dark club, sharing overly sweet and alcoholic beverages between yourselves. It was so familiar as your body moves with hers and you accept a drink handed to you, it's sweet like honey and it slides down your throat with ease. You grab another one as it's offered and it goes down just as easily.
The music gets louder, or you get drunker, you can’t really tell as you continue to down drinks and dance with your friends.
“To thirty-four!” Someone yells out, clinking the plastic cups filled with bright colours liquor you repeat the affirmation.
“To being young, drunk and single!” someone else yells out as another round of drinks is passed around.
Your head is spinning at this point and you want to sit down but the bodies hold you up. Your friends cling to you as the music gets louder and louder. Your feet moving to the music as your head sways this way and that.
Single the word echoes in your head just as loud as the music.
Single.
God you hated that word, you had been fine being single before Jack. Happy being the girl that drank shots and partied with her mates until the sun came up.
It had been a good life.
Then you found Jack, and you still drank shots and partied with your mates until the sun came up, but then you would go home and crawl into a warm bed and wrap yourself around your sleeping boyfriend, who even in his deepest sleep would hold you close.
The bodies around you keep moving, bumping and knocking against you as the alcohol starts to cloud your head.
You wanted out of the dancing and the club and you grab for Abby.
“I need some air!” you say gesturing to the smoking area.
“I’ll come with you!” she mouths as she grasps your hand and the two of you push your way through the crowd.
It is an immediate relief as you step outside, the cool air chilling the sweat on your exposed skin as you settle onto a bench, Abby falling beside you, her long legs wrapping up with yours.
“God it’s hot in there.” You mutter, leaning your head back as you try to get the world to stop spinning.
“You doing ok?”
“Living the dream.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“Not since the house settled, then I blocked his number.”
Abby pulled your phone from your handbag, flicking it to your face to unlock it. You go to snatch it but between the jumble of legs and alcohol you were too slow and ended up snatching at air.
“You should unblock him, see how he’s going.”
“That is a bad idea!” A very bad idea, you had hovered over the unblock button almost every other night, picturing how it would go.
He would have called or messaged.
Told you he remembered everything and he couldn’t wait to restart your life together.
You would run off into the sunset with him.
But you never pressed the button. Because the reality would be soul crushing.
“Come on, are you telling me you’re not curious?”
“Of course I’m curious!” you almost yell, once again trying to grab your phone from your friend, “But he doesn’t remember me! If he did, someone would have called me. Robby or Dana have my number. I haven't blocked them.”
“Or they think you don’t want to know.”
“I would like to know.” you say softly, “I need to know.”
“Then why don’t we unblock him and give him a call?”
The world froze in that moment, as Abby’s long manicured finger pressed gently on the unblock button, your heart thumped once in your chest before you felt yourself leaning over her and finally snatching the phone from you.
At this point your bodies are tangled and you are slipping from the bench, the tiny slinky dress you had forced yourself into had no grip against the metal bench and you are flailing.
You stretch your hand out, your phone going flying across the smokers area as you try to catch your fall but the only thing that happens is your wrist goes one way as your arm and elbow go another and suddenly the glass table, which you realise in the heat of the moment is a terrible design choice for a nightclub that doesn’t even allow drinks to be served in glasses, is coming very close to your head and you hit it before you can even call out for Abby whose hands are miles away from yours as she tries to help.
Your last thought before the darkness takes you is, Please don’t send me to the Pitt.
------------------------------------------------
You wake with a splitting headache and a curse on your lips as you blink against the hard fluorescent lights. It takes you a moment to work out where you are as you realise you're stuck on your side, with pillows against your front and back to keep you there.
“Easy drunkie.” Someone says, and you lurched against their voice, it was too loud against your pounding headache.
“What-”
“You fell into a glass table and smashed your head. Plus possibly broke your wrist.”
“Where-”
“Sorry babes, they wouldn’t take you anywhere else.”
The Pitt.
Great.
You want to roll over and scream into a pillow but you stay where you are, conscious that there has to be a reason you are stuck on your side.
“How bad?” you croak out, looking upwards so your friend knew what you were talking about.
“They wouldn’t tell me a lot, but someone's been picking glass out of your hair for like twenty minutes and they have just gone to get some glue to close it up.”
Someone, not Jack, if it had been Jack then Abby would have said so.
There was something else you knew you had to tell her but you couldn’t form the thought or the words on what you were meant to say.
“Why won’t they tell you?” you close your eyes, the brightness too much against your raging headache and the room is spinning just a little.
“I’m not family.”
“No-family-” you tried to say, but she held onto your hand and stopped you.
“I know, but I’m also not your emergency contact.”
Oh.
Shit.
You had changed your emergency contact a year ago after a disastrous camping trip where you had accidentally dropped a knife on your foot. Jack had heroically carried you from the campsite to the car and then drove to the ER so you could get an ‘urgent’ tetanus shot. You knew he could have fixed you up then and there, but you were so over the camping experience that he knew it was safer to pretend that the shot was vitally important and needed to be administered straight away.
You both never went camping again.
You had updated the paperwork then, accepting that he was a much better emergency contact then Abby or another friend, all of whom were known to pass out at the sight of blood.
You hadn’t even thought of changing it in the last few months.
Fuck.
The only saving grace was that Jack was probably not working yet, he had had a major accident and serious memory loss. He wouldn’t be working a night shift in the busy ER.
He was probably at Robby’s fast asleep, sleeping through the phone call, even though Jack had never slept through a phone call ever.
“Whose-” you try to ask for a description or name of the doctor treating you when the curtain is pulled open and the most nervous looking man steps through the gap.
With bags under his eyes and a curling mullet, he is the perfect description of a dear in headlights. He was also a familiar face, Dennis Whittaker, he was a resident to the best of your knowledge and you knew him as one of the young doctors who followed Jack around like a lost little duckling.
“Hey kid.” you say, and he smiles.
“Hey! It’s been a while!” he says happily before a silence fell between you, Abby looking between you both smiling awkwardly.
“She hasn’t been around recently.” Abby said, “because your boss broke up with her.”
“Abby!” you say then groan as your head roars with pain.
“Hey! I am only telling the truth!” She replies before falling back into her chair. You realise in that moment she is as drunk as you are.
Whittaker, who you had written off early in your acquaintance as being a push over, stands up and asks her to leave politely saying that if she returns to the chairs he will have someone come out and give her an IV to soak up some of the alcohol.
When Abby leaves, Whittaker returns to his work, gently cleaning out the cuts in your head.
“This might hurt, I’ve cleaned it up while you were a little out of it, the cuts are not deep, so once i’ve cleaned them out, and cut your hair,” you flinch at that and he lays an apologetic hand on your shoulder, “Sorry. I will glue it back together with some Dermabond and then we can flip you back and get you to X-ray for that wrist.”
“Thank you.” But the feeling that you had forgotten something eats away at you as Whittaker picks at your scalp. You can feel his tweezers against your skin but whatever he had given you had numbed the area.
Your headache was slowly residing as you stared at the empty wall besides your gurney.
“How have you been, Kid?” you finally ask, breaking up the quiet.
“Good, you?”
“Good- except obviously for today.” you laugh and he joins in, “Any good Pitt gossip?”
Whittaker leant closer to you and started filling you in with the daily comings and goings of the familiar names you knew and giving updates on new employees, some of which he was not so sure about. It was nice to hear about the people you used to know, kind of like hearing about a new series of a familiar tv show, you didn’t know all the faces that belonged to the names, but from your relationship with Jack you knew a lot about their lives.
You couldn’t help but notice how the young doctor stopped himself before he said anything about Jack, and you wanted to thank him but as you went to say something the curtain in front of your bed was ripped open and in walked the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about in months.
Jack Abbott looked just like he had before the accident, tall with his grey speckled hair and crinkles around his eyes. He was dressed for work in his scrubs and lanyard tucked into the top pocket.
But his face was twisted into a scowl as he ignored you on the bed and talked around to Whittaker, you try and get up, to talk to him or to yell at him to leave, you didn’t know what would come form your lips as you go to speak but you’re silenced as Jack pulls the Dermabond from Whittaker's hands and push him away, the stool the younger man was on sliding him almost out of the bay.
intended to be read as a fourth part to the toy box series! inspired by this request
wc: 4.4k
summary: santos spots you at the new year's party and spends her night trying to figure out who your husband is. when she confronts you, you're forced to face the harsh reality of your marriage to jack.
warnings: typical for the series: resentful relationship, unhealthy marriage due to work obsession, crying, vomiting, mentions of drinking, panic attack
notes: thank you guys for all of the love with this series. i'm so so appreciative of every like, comment, repost, and message i get about my work. you guys are so cool and i love getting to share my writings with you : )
masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list 𓊔 parts 1 2 3
january 2nd marks the annual new years festivities at ptmc. hosting holiday events for the hospital staff is hard. it isn't the typical office job where everyone can get together after work. there is simply not a way to get everyone together, because someone was always needed there. it was a 24/7/365 machine.
even the doctors who did have the night off could get called in.
so when jack's phone rings just as you're entering dana's home, you're not surprised.
"hey, slugger!" dana wraps you into a tight hug. "what happened to your noggin?"
she side-eyes jack. he's waving at her, phone to his ear, stepping back off the porch.
"you didn't hear?" you furrow your eyebrows. maybe she's just being nice and pretending not to know about your dramatic scene from a few nights ago. she wasn’t on shift then, but surely someone had mentioned abbot’s wife coming in, right? "i got kickback from the drill while i was putting together one of the christmas presents."
"jack didn't help you?" she casts her gaze to where he's wandered halfway back down the driveway.
"he was working. robby came and helped after i got hurt and it all turned out alright." you shrug and hand her the gift bag in your hands. "merry late christmas."
jack's footsteps move closer. you feel it in your chest, know exactly what he's about to say.
"i'm sorry, babe. hospital called. they need me." he's looking at you with wide, pleading eyes the way he always does lately. like he needs you to understand. like you've been anything other than understanding the last ten years.
"i understand." you try to, at least. it’s harder these days. "thank you for inviting us, dana. i'm sorry we can't stay."
jack takes your hand in his. he's ready to go. he'll have you drop him off at the hospital and then you'll go home. the one night you have a babysitter. the night you were supposed to spend together. though, you suppose, it was for a work event of his.
"nonsense!" dana wraps her hand around your bicep. "she can stay, right? hospital didn't call her in."
you look from her to jack. he nods, shrugging casually. you hadn't considered staying.
"i'd love to stay, dana. let me grab my coat from the car and i'll be right in." you smile politely. really, you just want to talk to jack for a moment.
dana nods. you start down the driveway, jack antsy at your side.
"everything ok?" he asks. "do you want to stay?"
"i do. is that ok with you?" you respond hesitantly. "i'll see if robby can give me a ride home."
he stiffens. you reach out to put a hand on his face.
"i don't have to stay, it's ok." you open the door to the car and move to get in. he's quick to grab your hand and urge you back out. he takes your coat before shutting the door.
"no, no. i'm ok with you staying, babe." he kisses your cheek. he hasn't kissed you on the lips in a long time. you try not to think about it as he pulls away. "i really have to go. have a good night."
he waves goodbye as he gets in the driver's seat and heads to the hospital. just as you stand there for a moment watching him drive away, he does the same. watches you.
before christmas morning, he felt safe leaving you somewhere without him as long as robby was there. felt like there was someone else to look after you. now, he was worried. worried you'd see everything in robby that was missing in jack.
you head back up dana's long driveway, snow crunching under your feet. coat in hand. she's standing in the open door when you reach the porch.
"happy new year's hon." she wraps you in another tight hug. "i'm glad you decided to stay, everyone will be excited to see you."
you hang your coat up on her coatrack and follow her further into her home. it's beautiful-- two stories. she has an eye for design and the entire home is perfectly catered to her taste. chattering voices ring through the foyer, although you don’t see anyone yet.
"you made it!" cassie mckay slings an arm around your shoulder once you enter the kitchen. her and mateo are talking while she assembles a charcuterie board on the counter. "where's abbot? thought he had tonight off."
"he got called in." you wrap an arm around her and steal a cracker from the plate she’s working on. "hi, mateo."
you smile kindly and he returns it.
"quit eating my food!" she slaps your hand when you reach for another cracker.
"this whole thing is for you?" dana acts shocked. the four of you laugh and you sneak a final cracker. "alright, let's get you to the real party. not whatever's happening here." she waves toward the general direction of mckay and mateo and you giggle, letting her sweep you into the living room.
robby is the first person you make eye contact with. previously, a baseball game on the tv next to you had his attention. but he waves you over with a warm smile, and you head to where he's perched on the arm of the couch. beside him, jesse sits with another staff member you haven’t met.
"happy new year!" you greet robby sweetly. his arms wrap around you in a warm embrace.
"happy new year. you here alone?" he pulls away, eyes wandering around the room. in search of jack.
"hospital needed him," you explain shortly. then with a snort, "but i paid the babysitter already, so i'm staying."
robby laughs at that, keeping an arm wrapped around you. there's a lot of people in the room. some new faces, but many familiar ones. jesse, joy, samira, yolanda, even lena who usually works nights. everyone is in their own conversations, separated in little communities throughout dana's living room.
"how was your christmas?" he asks softly. knowing he shouldn't be keeping his arm around you like this while also knowing that you're not reading anything into it. you're his friend. he's yours. you keep each other close. at least, you think that's what he's doing.
"it was good!" he admires your beaming grin. "thank you so much for helping me get everything together. i promise the look on his face when he was opening gifts was so worth it."
you take your phone out to show robby the pictures of your son playing with his christmas gifts. so many of him in a spider-man costume, hiding out in his toy box. one of him riding his new jeep in the snow.
you're preoccupied explaining each photo to robby, telling him the little stories that go along with each snapshot. he's fully immersed, attention on you and your photos.
neither of you see santos and whitaker walk in. they don't see you, either. at least, not right away.
"i didn't know dr. robby was married," whitaker whispers lowly to santos once they've settled. each of them a glass of punch in hand. santos perks up.
"what? where?" her eyes scan the crowd, finding robby and looking over to the woman he has his arm around. no. it couldn't be.
"god, look at that ring. is it glowing or is that just me?"
santos doesn't acknowledge that he's said anything. she hands him her drink.
"be right back." she's off to find dana. as she's walking through the kitchen, she sees mckay. "dr. mckay, what do you know about dr. robby's wife?"
mckay's features crinkle in confusion.
"god, that man is not married." she blows out a long breath. "why do you ask?"
she confirmed what she was sure of, but... he has his arm around you. he's laughing with you. talking with you.
"just wondering." she smiles politely. "thanks."
frank walks through the kitchen then. when he notices santos, he freezes. since she reported him for stealing drugs from the hospital, their relationship has been… less than perfect. not that it could really be worse than it already was.
"dr. langdon, can i talk to you for a moment?" she's grabbing his wrist and pulling him back the way he came from before he has a moment to object. frank is robby's right-hand guy. he'd be the one to know if robby was hiding some secret wife from the rest of the staff.
"ease up, i'm coming." he yanks his arm out of her hand. "what's wrong with you?"
"is dr. robby married?" her voice is high-pitched. it always is when she's nervous. and right now, she's very very nervous that she accidentally mishandled spousal hippa by sharing your phi with robby, who seems to be your husband.
langdon cackles.
"god, no. why? what did you hear?" all differences set aside for the sake of drama. typical langdon. santos swallows hard.
"well. i treated a patient last week when i was on night shift." frank is nodding along. "and i kind of went above abbot to robby about a disagreement in patient care. and now she's here. my patient. with a huge ring on her finger. and robby's arm is around her. and i'm worried that i made a huge mistake."
he shushes her.
"you've gotta stop putting your nose where it doesn't belong, kid." he exhales deeply. "take me to where you saw them."
on their way toward the living room, you pass them, phone to your ear. frank catches your eye.
"you're here!" he says excitedly, pulling you in for a quick hug. you hug him back sweetly and point to your phone, covering the speaker with your hand.
"babysitter calling. i'll be right back in there! good to see you, frank!" you whisper-yell as you head toward the foyer. santos looks from you to frank, you to frank.
"ok, take me to the mystery wife." he rubs his hands conspiratorally.
"that was her!" santos gestures to you dramatically. you're already out of earshot. frank furrows his eyebrows.
"oh, her and robby aren't married, she's with--" he cuts himself off. "damn it, who is her husband?"
"you have to be kidding me," santos gripes.
"it's someone on the night shift, i just don't remember who." he rubs the back of his neck. "she's really nice though. and funny. and makes good cookies."
"that's a lot to know about your coworker’s wife without knowing which one she's married to." she hisses and takes a long breath. "i'm gonna go ask robby."
she makes her way back through the hall, the kitchen, into the room where everyone is still gathered. robby is talking with dana and mohan now. she doesn't really care. her heart is pumping fast. urgency overwhelming her senses. she needs to figure out who you are, and more importantly, who you’re married to.
"dr. robby," she says. "can i have a second?"
he nods, excusing himself. they walk just a step away from the group, forming their own two-person conversation in the middle of the party.
"what?" his question is exasperated. he doesn't try to sound so bothered. that's just how he talks.
"i saw you with my patient." is how she starts, because she really didn't think this through. "you know her?"
"i do." he nods. "i've known her for a very long time."
"and you didn't think to say anything to me?" she wants to shout. would shout if she were talking to anyone other than her senior attending.
"when you brought up the issue, i wasn't aware that i knew the patient." it's not a total lie. "i addressed it with dr. abbot and then came to the realization. you didn't do anything wrong in telling me."
"so who is her husband?" her eyes dart around the party like she's ready to make anyone in here her enemy. she's thought about you every day since christmas, just hoping that you're ok. and here you are in a silky gown at dana evan's new years party looking completely well, aside from the stitches she gave you. "and what do we do about her needing help?"
robby's eyes glance behind her.
"she's back. please leave her alone, dr. santos. you did what you could. it’s not up to us anymore." he says quietly before grinning to greet you. your eyes meet santos this time, and you wave shyly at her with a polite smile. off the bat, she realizes that you don't recognize her.
"hi, i don't think we've properly met." you extend your hand and introduce yourself by name. fuck. she has heard that name before. princess and perlah said something about you and mohan and someone else she can't remember. fuck, she’s so mad at herself.
"trinity santos," she greets you. "it's nice to meet you. do you work at the hospital?"
"oh, no. my husband does. he was with me tonight, but got called in. figured since i had the babysitter i should stay a little bit anyway and see everyone." the way you speak is so charming. she hopes the deadbeat coworker you're married to is at least a hot one. you deserve that. then, you say something that catches her off guard. "santos... you weren't working the night of christmas, were you?"
she nods, like this is what she's been waiting for all night. you laugh to yourself.
"i thought you looked familiar. thank you for helping me that night. i hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, it was good to meet you outside of the pitt." you're turned back into the conversation with robby, dana, and mohan before she can ask you any more questions. that was way too short. she didn’t collect the information she needed to solve her mystery.
fuck. she feels like nancy drew right now.
her answer hits her hard and fast.
princess and perlah.
it's easy to find them. they're in a large huddle with ahmad, donnie, and a few of the other nurses. santos taps perlah on the shoulder.
"you got a sec?" she nods her head away from the group, signalling to go someplace quieter. perlah narrows her eyes suspiciously, but obliges, pulling princess, too. not what santos asked for, but exactly what she wanted. the three of them walk to the backdoor. they stay inside, but near the door where they have a perfect view of everyone around them.
"what's up?" perlah asks, looking around at the groups around the room. santos points to where you're standing with robby, dana, and mohan.
"who is that?" she asks. both nurses give small smiles. princess says your name. "yeah, she said her husband works here."
"he does, works night shift." princess nods. "dr. abbot. attending physician."
santos feels her heart drop out of her ass. you couldn't be abbot's wife, right? why wouldn't he have done your stitches? why wouldn't he have treated you? why would he deny... oh. oh god. this was so much worse than she thought.
this was a crime. and not on her part.
"if you tell her your birthday she'll send him with homemade cookies," perlah adds. "too bad he's totally flirting with mohan. i don't want to lose cookies."
santos isn't listening. she's too busy staring at you from a distance. wondering how she can save you.
she excuses herself, moving back to her corner with whitaker. he's with javadi, talking about something santos doesn't care to listen to. she stands there, staring, plotting. when you put an arm on dana's bicep and excuse yourself, she rushes you.
"oh! you scared me!" you jump back a little when she pops up out of nowhere.
"i was wondering if you have a second to talk." she says quickly. god, it feels like she's pulled everyone at this party aside to talk.
you look around nervously. the two of you are in the hallway. standing outside the bathroom you were heading toward before being ambushed. a nervous laugh leaves your lips.
"um, sure, i guess?" you respond like it's a question. you're not even sure if she's allowed to be talking to you. "everything ok?"
"i just-- i've been thinking about you a lot since the other day. i didn't know that you were dr abbot’s wife, and i would've approached things differently if i'd have known." she swallows a hard lump in her throat. you put a hand on her shoulder.
"you were a total angel to me, dr. santos." your voice is so soft and reassuring. "i promise i told jack that you took very good care of me."
you’re not not understanding what she was trying to say. she tries to reword.
"no, no. i mean... after we talked, i tried to get dr. abbot to sign off on an evaluation that i deemed medically necessary. a psychiatric evaluation." she swallows hard. you tilt your head like you’re hearing it for the first time. she's speaking a mile a minute. "and he denied it. and i just want you to know that i wouldn't have asked him if i knew he was your husband. and i also want you to know that there is help out there for you. and i think you might benefit from seeing someone about some of the things that you and i talked about during your visit, because that's a lot of things for one person to be handling alone. and it's not fair that your husband can deny you the right to be seen. i just want you to know that i see everything happening and i tried to help."
you take her in. her flushed cheeks. her shaky hands. the way she's rushing through every word like she's on a timer.
"hey, hey, it's ok. i promise you, it's ok." you rub her shoulder a bit awkwardly, not knowing what to do. "there isn't anything to worry about. i was having a bad night. i was overwhelmed and in pain and said some things that i didn't mean." lie.
but what were you supposed to say when an intern questions your mental stability in front of the bathroom at your husband's work party?
right. not exactly a handbook for handling that.
"i'm not asking you to say that it's all okay. i just needed to let you know that there's help available if you need it." her eyes are wide, boring into you. you take a step back, toward the bathroom you were originally heading for.
"thank you." you smile politely and turn to walk away.
a beat passes. you think you're in the clear. almost to the bathroom door.
"why do you stay with him?" santos couldn't help herself. you whip around. of course jack's therapist told you to stop defending him. but this isn't therapy. this is a stranger questioning your decade long relationship with the man you love.
"i think you should go back to the party." you suggest firmly. "this is already an incredibly invasive conversation. for both our sakes, i'll pretend that it didn't happen. but you need to go."
"i'm not trying to offend you," she excuses. "i just-- you're right. i should-"
"dr. santos what the hell are you doing?" robby snaps. you hadn't noticed him walking up behind her.
he saw her chase after you when you left for the bathroom. after a minute passed and neither of you returned, he knew he had to intervene.
"she was just leaving." you turn to look at him. "nothing happened."
robby eyes you. he knows you're lying. he knows santos better than to think that she just came over and didn't confront you. and he knows you better than to believe the wobble in your voice right now.
"i was just heading out," he decides then. decides to get you out of here, away form the prying eyes of interns who are too invested in their patients outside of the hospital. who don’t understand implied boundaries. "do you need a ride?"
"yes, please. do you mind if i use the restroom first?" he shakes his head, and you finally excuse yourself to the hall restroom. it takes a physical effort not to slam the door behind you.
why the hell are all doctors so nosy?
why did she care about your personal life? about whether you choose to seek mental health care? about why you were married to your husband?
it annoyed you, the way she spoke to you like you had no idea how to handle your mental health. like she hadn't really heard you when you told her that your insurance didn't cover care. it isn't that you haven't tried. there's just been a roadblock at every corner.
and maybe if you had a therapist, you'd divorce jack. maybe your therapist would open your eyes to the neglect. but you knew already.
the hardest part of it all was that your husband isn't who you married seven years ago. you married er cowboy jack abbot who would ask you to stay in bed until 2 p.m. on the days after his shifts because he didn't want to sleep without you there next to him.
jack abbot who made you breakfast no matter if it meant waking up with you on his days off, or preparing pancake mix at 7 p.m. for you to put on the skillet in the morning.
he showered you with kisses every chance he got. he begged you to have a child. he took six months of paternity leave, blew threw half his savings, to be with you and your son for as long as possible after he was born.
and on his long days, he'd wake you up at 7 a.m., knowing you didn't mind. he'd sit on the bench in the shower while you shampooed his hair and took care of him. and then you'd hold him when he got into bed.
you loved him, no matter what he asked of you. no matter what time of day. and you knew he loved you, too. but something had changed in the last couple of years.
it started with the police scanner in his truck. you knew he had one, it was there the entire relationship. when you first got together, he used to tell you stories of the times he'd rushed to the hospital on his days off to take care of traumas he heard about through the radio.
but when you got together, he stopped. he had other things to do with his time. namely, you. and suddenly, a little over a year ago, the habit picked back up. you'd find his truck parked in the driveway. he'd be sitting there, sometimes with closed eyes, listening to the scanner.
and after your son was born, jack stopped going into the hospital when they called. he would pawn shifts off like candy, giving them to robby or yeo or shen. he wanted nothing to do with it all after he was within the walls of your home.
yet again, around the time the police scanner habit picked up, he started going in on his days off. started messaging robby more, asking if they needed more hands. you'd seen robby's reply on numerous occassions:
family needs you more. we're good here.
it all rushes into your head. you grasp both sides of the toilet bowl and throw up. your heart is racing. palms are sweating. tears are running down your face quicker than you can wipe them away.
what the fuck?
you throw up again, sobbing.
"robby?" you call weakly, hoping he's still in the hallway. a soft knock comes at the door.
"hey, everything alright?" it's him.
"no." your sobs are getting louder and louder. you move to unlock the door. as soon as the click sounds, he's opening the door. he slides his body in and shuts it behind him, relocking it. "something's wrong. i-i don't know."
he takes in your shaking frame. the tears running down your face. your flushed, sweaty face. you throw up for a third time. he rushes behind you, collecting your hair at the base of your neck.
"it's ok." he rubs a soothing hand down your back. "did you have anything to drink tonight?"
you shake your head. he didn't think so.
"i want jack." the words are so broken, so vulnerable. "can you ca-"
you're interrupted by needing to vomit again. it's a headrush, all happening so quickly. robby shushes you when you try to speak again. you hear the ringing tone of his phone. he holds it in front of you both, on speaker.
"hey brother." jack answers. he really answers. his voice somehow makes everything better and worse at once. your stomach flips and you're hurling into the toilet bowl again. "what was that?"
"hey. are you able to leave? she's really sick. i think it's a panic attack. sweats, shaking, vomiting, tachycardic, hyperventilating."
are you hyperventilating? fuck. you hadn’t realized.
"shit." you hear rustling on the other end of the line. "you still at dana's?"
"yeah. in the bathroom with her right now. don't think anyone else knows." robby's voice is tight.
"alright. thanks. any way you can bring her up here and switch with me?" a sense of calm, only calm, washes over you. he's leaving work. for you. robby inhales slowly.
"of course. we'll be there in a minute."
"can i talk to her?" jack asks. robby takes the phone off speaker and holds it up to your ear.
"hi," you answer weakly.
"hi, babe. what happened?" you sniffle, fighting back another sob.
"i-i don't know. one of the interns-" you know exactly who, but you're not going to tell him, "was asking me who i was married to and she was asking all of these questions and i just started getting so sick."
you choke out a sob.
on the other end of the line, jack feels his heart seize.
"i just want to be with you," you beg.
"i know, i know. robby's gonna bring you here and take the rest of this shift so i can bring you home with me. is that ok?" his voice is soft. you hear someone calling him on the other end of the line.
"thank you jack." you're broken. the call ends abruptly. robby puts his phone back into his pocket. "can you p-please take me there right now?"
"of course. can you stand?" he rises first, holding out a hand to you. you take it, letting him help pull you to your feet. "good job. alright, let's get you out of here."
he lets you lean your weight into him. with each step, your legs wobble in your heels. santos is gone. it's just the two of you here in the hallway, and you let him practically carry you to the front door. you don't stop to say goodbye to anyone.
robby makes sure you're steady on your feet before he lets go of you to grab your coat from the coat rack. wordlessly, he guides each of your arms through the sleeves. when it's around you, he takes the time to secure each button up the front, leaving the one closest to your neck open.
and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. he's never kissed you before. you consider your current state and tell yourself that he's just trying to comfort you. even if it does make your stomach feel sour. the look in his eyes is too soft, too caring for someone who is just a friend. you swallow hard, bile stinging at your throat.
he takes a step toward you and wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you out onto the snowy porch. his car is parked on the curb outside, and you walk silently next to him all the way there. when he opens the passenger door for you, you slide in.
"i'm sorry that you're having to sacrifice your night," you apologize when he sits in his seat. "i don't mean for everything to be so dramatic all of the time."
robby shakes his head.
"never apologize." he puts his hand on the back of your seat and reverses the car before putting it into drive and heading toward PTMC.
I’d reach into your body and fix you if I could (TW SA)
When Jacks girlfriend is brought into the Pitt as a patient, he feels like he’s trapped in a nightmare.
Obviously, mentions of SA, brief depictions and details, reader is mentioned once to be a teacher.
When you came in, he was in emergency surgery.
A fact he’ll kick himself over for the rest of his days.
Him and Mohan were inside someone’s chest cavity, and at some point, an ambulance came in, with you inside.
He’s going to spend the rest of his days wondering which second that was. When you needed him and he wasn’t there. What he was doing when he should have been doing everything in his power to make you okay again.
He’d just gotten in. He’d come in not even an hour ago, and Robby was only still there becuase of that. He came in, someone coded a minute later, and him and Samira were in trauma 2 a minute after that. So the handoff had to wait, and Robby stuck around. None of that was remotely unusual, but everything that fallowed was.
Just as he was comfortable telling Shen and Mohan to finish up without him Robby was grabbing his shoulders and telling him he needed to go with him, now, that it was urgent.
He listened, because when Robby said urgent he meant it.
“What the hells going on Robby?”.
Robby shook his head, not speaking until they were in a room, doors and curtain closed.
“Mike-“
“A few minutes ago, while you were in surgery, Y/N was brought in.”
Jack froze.
“What do you mean?”
“An ambulance came in, and Mckay retrieved the patient, and it was Y/N.”
“Mike- man. You’re not telling me my girlfriend’s dead. You’re not-“
Jacks head spun, in a way it hasn’t in a damn long time. He was usually level headed, calm in the chaos. But the fear was miles deep.
“I’m not. I swear. I am not. Jesus fuck. Sorry man. She is alive and completely stable. Everything that happened to her is non life threatening. She will make a complete physical recovery I can promise that.”
“So what are you telling me right now? Where’s the catch here? Where’s my girlfriend and what’s wrong with her? Because I’m freaking the hell out here man.”
Robby closed his eyes and breathed in.
“Y/N was raped.”
The words his like a punch to the fucking gut. All the air, out of his lungs.
“No. Robby don’t tell me that-“
“I am so sorry brother. McKay retrieved her from the ambulance, she’s being taken care of in 7 south. ‘Bout 20 25 minutes now. There’s a police officer we told to take a lap so she can get the care she needs before she’s questioned- seems like she means well but Y/N comes first. I wanted you to be with her when she’s questioned, god knows that’s what she’ll want. And my patients health comes before the police, always. Jack- there is no one besides you that is better suited to take care of her right now than Cassie, and you know that, right? She’s in good hands.”
“I’d be better suited.”
“No shit. But- there was nothing else we could do, man. Right now Cas and Dana are treating what they can before they-“
“Before they do a rape kit. God fucking damn it. Have you seen her?”
Robby shook his head. “I took the liberty of assuming she wouldn’t want any men but you around right now.” Robby explained.
Jack nodded. It was probably a fair assumption.
“Thank you. That’s- that was really kind of you man. 7 south?”
“7 south. Hey. Do you need a breather before you go in there?” Robby asked carefully.
Jacks eyes were wild and wet when he shook his head, throat tight. “I just need to see my girl.”
When Jack made it around the snake curve of the Pitt to 7 south, Mel stood at the door like the world’s friendliest guard dog. Something ticklish in Jacks chest told him that Mel was a formidable rival right now, never the less. He wouldn’t want to be on King’s bad side.
One day maybe this would be a funny memory. When Mel King has the scariest expression he’d ever seen on her, for his girls protection.
“D-Dr abbot-“
“Tell me what I need to know, Dr King.” Jack asked softly.
Mel blinked. “Female patient, t-“
“I know how old she is, Mel. I know her height, weight, and Chinese zodiac down to the elemental. I need a summary of injuries, and status of care please.” Jack requested, robotically calm.
“Sexual assault victim, being treated for genital trauma, a broken ankle, multiple broken ribs-“
“How many ribs?”
“Two.”
Jack breathed slowly, nodding for Mel to continue.
His sweet girl should never be in that kind of pain.
“A black eye, a severely split lip that will require stitches, and multiple abrasions across the body. And the last I checked Dr McKay was assessing if the strangulation left any permanent damage. But based on her status the preliminary assumption was no.”
Fucking strangulation.
He’s going to throw up. “Jesus Christ. How’s she doing?”.
His voice was soft as cotton.
“She’s hanging in there. She’s conscious, alert, fully present mentally.- she’s very calm. I don’t think it’s shock, but she’s calm.”
“Okay. Thank you Dr King. If you’d excuse me-“
“Of corse Dr Abbot. I- would you wish her well for me?”
“Of corse.”
When Jack opened the door, and ideas of professionalism, or staying strong for you went out the window. All the injuries Mel described were real now, on your delicate precious little body.
The sob you let out at his presence had him scrambling over to your bedside, collecting your torso carefully in his arms, your head cradled in his hand as you sobbed against his chest.
“I know baby girl, I know. I’m here now, I’m so sorry baby. I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got you. You’re safe now, you’re okay.” He whispered, clutching you as hard as you clung to him.
He let you cry it out. All the fear, all the pain, all the violation. The relief to be here, to be at the Pitt and safe, to be in Jacks arms. To know nothing could hurt you here, not without getting through him, Robby, and a dozen residents. He let you lean into him, soak up his warm touches and the smell of his skin and familiar cologne, and cry. Cupping your head close, feeling your heart beat against his stomach, whispering assurances in your hair.
Jack ignored everyone else in the room, attention narrowed on you. “How’s the pain baby?” “I’m on the good stuff. I’m okay” you answered. Cassie rattled off the cocktail you were on and he mumbled his approval. He had a million questions, and no idea where or how to even start.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here” was what he settled on, voice weak and wet.
“Robby said you were in surgery, please don’t beat your self up over this. Please.”
He shook his head, collecting himself.
“What have we done so far?” He inquired about your treatment, not leaving your side even as his attention shifted to Cassie. Or letting go of you.
“Not very much. We started an IV to administer some fluids and the pain killers, assessed for a concision- all clear-, assessed for damage done by the strangulation- our lucky girl should be a-okay with some tea with honey- examined her ribs, I’m sure Dr King told you the situation there, paged ortho, but we had to wait on everything like the cast and the stitches, obviously.”
“For the photos.” Dana gently added as a reminder.
Right. The photos. He always forgot that was part of the kit too.
“Have you explained-?”
“We did.” Cassie promised.
Jack looked at you. “Is that what you’d like to do? There’s no correct answer, this is your choice. You are in no way obligated to if it’s too much right now. It’s an option, but it’s not a requirement. It’s all up to you baby.” Jack reminded you.
“It is.”
“Okay honey. Okay. So, Dana or Cassie is able to preform the evidence collection, they’re both more than qualified, or, if you’d be more comfortable with someone you don’t know I can make some calls. I can step out-“
You looked past Jack to Cassie and Dana, who nodded kindly.
“I- I asked them if I could ask you to do it?”
Jack furrowed his eyebrows.
“Are you sure that’s what you want? Baby, I’d do anything for you. You know that. But I don’t want you to feel any sort of discomfort talking about this with me. I don’t want to be another man invading your privacy tonight-“
“I just want to feel safe, Jack. Please. You make me feel safe, I want it to be you.” You pleaded.
Jacks mind was made up. “Of corse. Of corse baby, of corse. I have to go collect what I need, and then I’ll come right back and it’ll be just us for that, okay?”
You nodded.
“If you decide to submit your clothing as evidence, normally what we’d do is raid the lost and found for you but you’re different. Most of us keep a change of clothes around, if we put our heads together I’m sure we can pull something together” Dana offered.
“You’d do that for me?” Your heart throbbed.
“Baby, we’d do anything for you.” Jack whispered.
“I know that I, for one, have a tee shirt in my locker you’re welcome to and my fleece I wore in. If we can find Y/N some pants and underwear that’s all we’d need.” Jack volunteered.
“I can absolutely help with the later, but not the former. Priorities, I know. Mom things. I’m sure I can find a pair of sweats someone doesn’t mind parting with. My moneys on Javadi she always comes in comfy and cozy.”
“I’ll send everything back washed with Jack as soon as possible.” You promised.
“Don’t worry about that right now. Worry about feeling okay, honey. I’m going to go get the camera and the evidence boxes, and I’ll be right back.” Jack explained, leaving you with a kiss to the cheek.
Once it was just the two of you, the room felt deadly quiet.
Curtains drawn, door locked. Sign on the door to not disturb at any costs.
“You sure you want me to do this?”
“I don’t want anyone else to touch me. Ever again.”
Jack nodded.
He felt the same, truly.
“Okay, honey. You have to be 100% honest with me, even if you’re afraid the answer will hurt me, okay?.”
You nodded.
“Alright.”
He opened the chart, filling a lot of it in by memory.
“I’m going to ask some questions you know I know the answer to, because legally I need a spoken answer so I can write them down exactly how you say them. If it gets too much, say the word and we stop, okay?”. You nodded.
“Are you sexually active?”
“Yes.”
“In the past 24 hours, have you had any consensual sexual encounters?”.
He felt like an idiot asking. No shit you did. Last night, he had you pretty and preening in his arms, whispering his name into his neck. There were still scratches on his back.
“We ask because it accounts for the presence of other dna in the sample.“ Jack explained. “It’s not to judge you. I promise the lab just needs to know.”
“Yes.”
“Was protection used?”
You blushed. Right. Thats what he was asking.
Humiliation flushed your cheeks. “Always. Condoms. We always use condoms.”
Jack was always careful, citing how your safety, comfort, and peace of mind came first. Swore he’d never be careless with the body you were so generous in sharing with him. And he’d never pressure you into any kind of birth control, even if he had full trust in them as a doctor. What you said for your body went with him.
“I’m going to give you some pills for that after this. Don’t worry about that stuff, we’re gonna take care of that. Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.” Jack swore.
You nodded fighting the tears.
“Do you need a break, sweetheart?” He asked, cupping your cheek.
You shook your head.
“Are you sure?.”
“It’s just not fucking fair.” “No, it’s not. I’m sorry honey.”
“We’re so careful. We do everything right. And this fucker-“. Your voice fell off with a crack.
“I know. I know baby.”
You reached for his hand squeezing it tightly.
“He doesn’t get to have something you’ve never had from me. That’s not fair. You deserve-“
“I don’t deserve anything you’re not comfortable giving me. And he had no fucking right to take it. Okay? Im so sorry, sweetheart.” He said yet again, kissing your hand.
“Can we continue?”
“If you’re ready.”
“Did he ejaculate anywhere on your body?”
He knew the answer coming, he just hated the fact that he was going to hear it.
He squeezed your hand in his, accepting that he would be using only one to type from now on.
“Yes. I-inside me.”
“When I collect the evidence, if you allow me to collect a sample, that part may feel incredibly invasive. You can say no to anything, okay? If that’s where you draw the line-“
“I want him caught.” You said with a burning rage.
He nodded. “You’re being very brave, baby. I will be so, so careful. I promise. Where else do you think we’ll collect DNA? Did you get any blood, skin, hair… typically if you scratched him you’d have some under your nails.”
“My nails. I scratched everywhere I could. I- I think some of his blood is on my elbow. Some of it might be mine too. I don’t know if you can use that-“
“Well take it anyway.”
A faint smile came over Jacks lips. “Where’d you get him?”
“The head. I got him when he was vulnerable. It’s how I got away.”
“You’re a fucking badass, you know that?”
“I woulda done it before but- he had my arms so tight and I-“
“Can I see your arms?.”
You gave him your wrists, delicate and awkwardly posed. “Tell me if any of this hurts.”
You still held the marks, but thank god nothing seemed broken, just bruised. Reported as much.
He hummed, leaning in to kiss both wrists. “Don’t seem too hurt here, I think it’s just bruised thankfully. When I take photos, we’ll get these in there. And I’m gonna take a real good look at that elbow too.”
“Okay. Now I have to ask you to describe what happened. Once again, honey. It’s not about judgment or shame, it’s about getting a record of the facts. No matter what happened, it wasn’t your fault. When the police officer comes in for your statement, she’s probably going to ask a lot of these questions again. I know it is fucking shitty to relive all of this twice. But everyone here is here to support you” Jack promised.
“You’re really good at this.” You realized.
Jack smiled sadly. “Well, I’ve done alot of these in my time here, sweetheart. And this is by far the most important one to me. I just want to make my baby to feel better.”
He reached over holding your hand and stroking your knuckles.
“Keep in mind, the more detailed, the better this will fair in court. We can take as many breaks as you need, and you can start whenever you ready.”
And so you began.
You began telling him about how you stoped at the grocery store coming home from work, and how the lot was packed and there’s those spots on the side of the building, so you went into one of those. And how you were bringing things out, and that’s when this guy appeared.
All the gorey details, all the pain, every moment of it until the ambulance arrived.
You could see the way he swallowed hard and his eyes filled with water.
The only thing he could say at first was “I love you. So much.”
Clearly he needed a break too. “I love you too Jack.”
“I love you so much. And I’m so fucking sorry Y/N. I’m so sorry baby.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not. But I’m still so sorry this happened to you. No one should ever lay a finger on something so precious. That fucker could have killed you with his hands on your neck, not even trying. No one deserves to play with life like that. Not with yours.” He swore.
“Jack-“
“We’re getting you a new car too, by the way”.
You giggled wetly.
“Seriously. Whatever the fuck you got has been just, stewing in there for hours. So we’re getting you a new SUV ASAP. I don’t even wanna step in it.”
“People ever tell you you’ve got a good bedside manner?” You giggled.
“You, mostly” he winked.
It was nice for him to flirt with you, just a little bit. Just a little normal.
Jack collected the DNA samples quietly with a tight, angry jaw to his jaw, and the most careful hands anyone ever had. He reached for yours, squeezing your hand ever so often in support. He was gentle with every centimeter of your skin as he photographed every injury, some making him breathe heavily to calm himself. Every soft sound of pain you made cut him to the core. He narrated every step, checking in, reminding you how brave you were being and how much he loved you. How proud he was of how strong you were.
You probably wouldn’t have gotten through it without him and his sweetness.
When it came time to remove your clothes for the evidence box and dress you in a gown, he was reverent with his touch, careful of every injury, and so gentle. The sight of the underwear he watched you dress in after a shared shower not 12 hours ago stained with blood nauseated him. The juxtaposition of the memory of your teasing smile then and your tear tracked face and split lip now. It was a fucking sin what was done to you. For anyone to mar something so precious.
You were just trying to get home from work.
Weren’t you all? Just trying to get home from work. Just trying to enjoy a night out with your friends. Just trying to go to school. Just trying to sleep in your own bed. Just trying to walk in the park. Just trying to go to a party. Just trying to go on a first date. Just trying to live your fucking life, when some entitled fucker-
Deep breath.
He tied your gown and eased you back into bed, promising it was over and praising how great you did, and that after he delivered the box he’d be right back to patch you up.
He returned fast, blanket in hand, saying the police officer was near by being kept in place by Robby playing scary Mr Bossman.
It was easy to forget how imposing and intimidating your boyfriend’s friend could be in their place of work. Mike was just the sad clown you had over for dinner some nights. Dr Robby was an asshole. For good.
Jack tucked the blanket over you, adding a little extra modesty to the hospital gown, and a little warmth. A little cozy comfort.
“Okay. Here’s my plan. I’m going to give you some ice, to ease the swelling while I take care of your lip, and then, in a little bit, Dr Ali is coming from ortho to look at your ankle. I’ve worked with her many times, she’s very kind. Great doctor great lady. And, I can do my best to handle this myself, but I’d prefer if you let me call in gynecology for a consult. Dr Hoffman is wonderful, I’ve worked with her many times too. Great lady, great bedside manner. I would just really like her to check you out and make sure there’s nothing really serious for us to worry about.”
His concern and stress at your state was so clear on his face, just wishing he could heal you with a snap of his fingers.
“You picked all women on purpose.” You called out. “I did. I don’t want any men near you but me. And maybe Robby if you let him. But no man is coming within 50 feet of you but me for a while.” Jack confirmed.
“I’m so okay with that” you sighed.
“You know, when I was with Cassie and Mel and Dana, Mel said that’s you’re the feminist king around here.”
He quirked his lip at that. “Is that so?” “Mhm. She said no one has faith in the girls down here like you do. That you champion them in a way no one else does. Trust them. That people come to you when they have creepy patients or problems with other doctors, that you always protect them. You’re a big softie. Even with patients. You always look out for the girls, and they appreciate it a lot. I appreciate it a lot.”
“Look, Robby would go to hell for Langdon, and he damn well may. And Whitaker is his new son. Someone’s got to remember the women down here. They’re just as capable. They deserve all the opportunities they earn, and to work in a safe environment.” Jack smiled.
“Someone’s been living with a history nerd too long if he’s quoting Abagail Adams at me. Don’t think I missed that.” you teased.
“Not nearly long enough.” He whispered, kissing your hand softly.
“I put in a second page and lit a fire under their asses. They should be here in the near future. I’m happy to keep that cop waiting until you’ve been taken care of.” Jack explained.
You nodded softly, letting him continue his work. Relaxing, trusting his touch in a way you’d never be so relaxed with another physician. You were almost drifting half to sleep as he stitched your lip. You trusted this man to the end of the earth, even after what you’d gone through.
“Are we gonna be okay?” You suddenly asked.
“Us? Of corse, baby. Of corse we’re gonna be okay. Why would you even ask? I’ll be here every step of the way, no matter what.” He said with a steady calm sureness.
“What if-“
“Sweetie. There’s no what ifs that will change how much I love you, even if you’re done with me one day, I’ll still hold space for you in my heart. You’re my girl. We’re in this together.” He swore.
“Are you sure? That you want to deal with- all this-“
“Hey” Jack said sternly.
“I’m in it with you. No matter what. I’m in it. We’re in this together I mean it. You think I’m gonna take off when you, what? When you snap? When you cry? You wanna know what keeps going through my head right now, honey?”
“What?”
“That I’m gonna fuckin’ marry you. You’re afraid this is gonna get too tough for me? And I want to put a rock on your hand.”
The admission surprises you to your core, not remotely what you expected.
“What?”
“Not today. Not tomorrow. Not soon. Not until your body is healed, and your heart and mind start to heal, too. But I am going to marry you. Because every couple of moments, when it gets a little too quite in here, my mind starts racing, and yelling that some mother fucker put his dirty fucking paws on my wife, and I should kill him with my bare god damned hands for it. And then. This little evil voice reminds me, for some stupid fucking reason, you aren’t my wife yet. And I just can’t have that. Because I can’t think of a single good reason why not. So honey. We are okay. We are going to be just fine. I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? Push me away, scream your throat raw, cry your eyes red, pound your fists on my chest until it stops hurting. And I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”
Eyes full of water you nodded, allowing Jack to pull you into his arms again. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of anymore, baby. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay now that I’ve got you” he swore, kissing your temple slowly.
It was really easy to believe, sinking into his arms like that. That nothing could ever hurt you again in this man’s arms.
“Dead serious, sweetheart. Ordering you the biggest fucking rock I can find later. You deserve it. Anything you want, as expensive as you can get, heavy too. That way it’ll double as a weapon in the future.”
You just snorted and Jacks arms stayed tight, leaning down to kiss your head again. It really was going to be okay, wasn’t it?
The doctors came in one by one, each noting the scary little blonde girl at the door much to Jacks amusement and praise of Dr King. Both looked at you and suggested that Jack get some coffee or take a walk, met by you squeezing Jack’s arm tightly and begging that he didn’t go anywhere.
He didn’t.
Plaster cast to the ankle, jokes about how now you’re gonna have even more fucking crutches laying around the house for a few weeks, talking shop about the most insane deliveries Jack and Natasha had worked together on, it was almost normal. Like any other function you’d met Jack’s colleagues in.
You could see why Jack liked the women. And why all these women liked Jack. You were one lucky lady for sure. You’d caught yourself the very best guy.
As things quieted down and Jack considered deciding if the officer could come in now, Jacks phone buzzed. “Robby” He mumbled to you.
“Yeah man what’s up?” “Hey, I’ve got a little care package here. Cool if I bring it by or you wanna come grab it?”
He looked at you for the answer, and you nodded.
“Come on in.”
When Robby entered he had quite a bit in his arms and a soft smile.
“Hey, got some stuff for you. How’s the pain?” He asked with that soft, wrinkled smile of his.
“Could be worse.” “But you sure could be better. You know, anything you need, just ask. Skys the limit. Anyway. The girls pulled together some things for you to wear, and I believe these are Jacks.”
Indeed, the shirt and sweater were Jacks. “And I picked up one of these for you. We have a charity that puts these together. Use what you need, don’t worry about what you don’t”
Realization dawned on Jack. “Oh. That’s great. Thanks. It’s some little toiletries and some resources. It’s really nice.” “And I didn’t think it was fair to subject you to hospital food, so I thought you’d like this. And I got Jack a very large coffee, and picked up your scripts so you don’t have to think about it later.” Robby added, placing the bag from the cafeteria on the table too.
“Thank you brother.”
The last thing made Robby freeze. “Right. This was Mel’s contribution. Hope it’s not weird. Take it up with her not me.” Robby blushed.
A stuffed rabbit from the hospital gift shop.
“Oh. That’s so sweet.”
Tears welled in your eyes.
“Women get women I guess.” Jack smiled.
Robby shrugged.
“So, did the cop tell you what the deal is with that scumbag?” Jack asked. He knew Robby would be working her for details.
Robby chuckled.
“Oh. She did. She definitely shouldn’t have but I got it out of her. Apparently our little big mouth here told the fucker, and the cops, and the paramedics that when they got him to the Pitt her boyfriend was going to kill him and enjoy every second of it. Sound familiar?”
Jacks lip quirked looking at you.
“Is that so, big mouth?”
You blushed. “I was angry.”
“Damn right you should be. You’re not wrong, but I sure wish you’d a kept it to yourself so I could have. So where’d they take him if he’s not our problem?”
“Presby. In custody.”
“Why’d they take him to Presby.?”
“Elbow to the noggin seems to have caused quite the deep cut, blood loss, and a possible concussion, last I heard.”
“Very nice work” Jack praised.
You just leaned against him smiling.
“Thank you for everything Mike. I appreciate it.”
“Of corse, honey. It’s the least I can do. Fucking hate seeing you here. You’re not just Jacks girl, you’re my friend, too. Never wanna see you in this ED again, you hear me?” “Yeah, Mike. I hear ya.” You smiled.
“I’d come give you a hug, but-“
“I’d appreciate a hug, please.”
How could he say no?
He pulled back with a kiss to your temple.
“I’m gonna send her in in about ten so you can get changed and wash up. You feel good, okay sweetie pie? I’ll see you two before you leave.”
Jack helped you dress ever so carefully, satisfied to see you comfortably fully clothed, half in his. It was almost normal, like you were at home, besides the bruising.
He didn’t miss the way you snuggled into his sweatshirt. Nosing the collar for his cologne.
God it felt good to be reminded that you still loved him after that. Still wanted and needed him. That you were clinging to him instead of pushing him away- at least for now. He’d take it.
He helped you brush your teeth, holding a water bowl and bottle with a saint like humility and humbleness, and washed your hands and arms with the same disposition. It was a raw kind of love he showed in those moments. This kind of work was reserved for lower level nurses, and here he was, a senior attending, caring for you this way. So quiet and devoted.
He helped pull your hair back and brushed through the tangles and knots carefully, helping you feel as put together as he could.
Jack held your hand the entire time you gave your statement, squeezing back when you needed support.
The officer didn’t have the nerve to say a word about his presence. Not at the first set of his jaw, the shimmering attending tag on his badge, and his reputation around the precinct for protecting his doctors from them and saving one of their own during the Pitt fest. He also, plain and simple, was intimidatingly protective, just the way you liked it.
He was sturdy, consistent, and there.
“Okay, sweetie pie. Ankle is set, stitches are handled, evidence is shipped off. We are finally set to start to motor, but before I start your discharge paperwork. We’ve got an important question to cover.”
You nodded patiently as Jack sat on the edge of the bed.
“You have a broken ankle, which is going to prove very obnoxious with bathing- but I promise I’ve got tricks for you. And you have two broken ribs which limit your mobility. And you just went through something terrible and violating and invasive. What is our game plan with bathing tonight? Because I know you want to, asap. You thave options, and they fall into two categories, which are either help from me at home, or help from a nurse here. What would make you feel most comfortable?” Jack asked kindly.
“You. At home.” You answered easily. “You sure?”.
You nodded. “We have a bathroom literally designed for limited use of one leg.” “That we do, but you’re still gonna need some help.” he agreed. “What’s going to happen then is I’ll wrap a bag around your ankle to keep it dry, and we’ll try to keep it out of the spray in general. The tech on these things has gotten really good, to be honest. Back in the day we really toughed it out. Anyway, you still might need some help because of your ribs. You’re okay with me helping you?”
“Yes, Jack. I promise. Shower cuddles with you sound really nice, actually.”
“Shower cuddles sound perfect” he agreed. “As long as you don’t try to steam me to death.” He teased.
Jack managed to sneak- and it really was a sneak- you out of the Pitt impressively. In your condition you needed to be wheeled out to the truck- to your sheer humiliation- which he insisted he could do himself. A swift kind goodbye from Robby and a warm hug from King later, you were on your way out through some kind of back-or-side exit, prescriptions, rabbit, and purse in your lap.
Jack didn’t say a damn word about how silly you looked on crutches, something equally merciful and painful, knowing he normally would.
It was times like this you really appreciated having a one story home. An accessible home.
The shower went pretty smoothly. Jack washed your hair gently, carefully, brushing it out too, bearing your weight as you leaned against him for as long as you needed. Whispering sweet words, soothing your back with his brilliant hands. Sweet kisses without heat were pressed to your shoulders, and pills were put in your hands one by one with explications you truly tuned out. You trusted Jack.
Jack helped dress you with that familiar careful reverence, in his large, cozy pajamas instead of your own so you could continue to drown in the comfort and safety of being surrounded by him.
You’d listened earlier as Jack stepped out, explaining to Robby and Shen that he was obviously going to be out the next few days. They were so, so understanding. So kind, lacking any complaints about the hours they’d be taking on.
Everyone was being so kind to you both.
“Hey, so just putting it out there. If you want, I can sleep in the spare room tonight.” Jack offered casually, soothing a hand over your cheek. “Why would I want that?”.
“Lot of reasons why, but that doesn’t matter. I just want to make sure you feel safe in your bed.”
“It’s our bed, Jack. And I need you there. It’s not home if you’re not there. You make me feel safe” you swore. “I don’t think I could sleep alone if I tried right now. Please don’t make me” you begged gently.
“I won’t make you, I swear. I just wanted you to know the option was there. I’m sorry I upset you.” He promised.
It was weird how normal everything was after that. Life just… moved on. Things had to be normal in some ways. Even when your world stopped, the other worlds kept spinning, you supposed. Charging your phone now, you saw the emails, texts, and social media notifications you couldn’t give a damn about right now. Frivolous things now. Evidence in the normality outside your bedroom walls. You put on your skincare, he did his, he rubbed biofreeze into his stump as he sat on the edge of the bed, aching familiarly after a long day and yearning for the memory foam. You mentally noted the laundry needing to have been done today. But evidently, it was not.
Suddenly, once in bed, everything was as if nothing had happened. How was that possible?
“What if it takes a long time for me to let you touch me again?” You suddenly asked, once you were spooned up in the dark.
Jack snorted against your neck.
“Hate to break it to you but I’m touching you right now. Quite alot.” Jack teased.
“Jack-“
“I know. I’m kidding. Sorry. I’m not worried about it, so don’t be.”
“How are you not worried about it?”
“Y/N. Sex is the last thing on my mind right now. I’m not kidding. I’m thinking about that weird sound in the garbage disposal more than sex right now. My only priority right now is your recovery. Sex will happen whenever the fuck is happens, and believe me. I’m in zero fucking rush. We’re gonna be fine.”
“But what if-“
“It won’t” he snorts.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I’m not worried. You’re obsessed with me. You can’t keep your hands off me. We’ll be back to it in no time. Stop worrying about something stupid as sex and go to sleep. We’ll talk about feelings. We’ll do therapy. I’ve got faith in us, baby. The last thing we need to worry about is sex, okay? Just trust me and trust us, and get some sleep, your body needs it” Jack urged.
“I’m taking some time off. To take care of you. To focus on your recovery. Already told the troops.” Jack added, as if he thought you’d missed it.
“You didn’t have to-“
“I absolutely did, and that’s not anything to feel guilty about. You’ve got 2 broken limbs and a broken ankle. I want you on the couch and in bed until further notice, so you need me to stay home take care of you. And that’s okay. Just let me” he urged.
He was impossible to argue with.
You could sob at how much of an angel the man was, but you feared you’d cried all your tears earlier tonight.
Instead, you just leaned back into your boyfriend’s arms.
“I love you” you swore.
“Baby, there’s not words for how much I love you” Jack agreed.
content warnings: allusions to sex, heavy heavy angst, reader has leukaemia, reader progressively gets sicker, reader dies, one mention of religion
summary: after feeling sick for weeks, you finally decided to get it checked out. unfortunately, you’ve been diagnosed with cancer and you’re facing a rapid decline of health.
tags: heavy heavy heavy angst, medical inaccuracies, no previous wife au, jack works day shifts au, no use of y/n, reader isn’t a doctor, jack is super sweet and loving, jack loves his wife, throwing up, passing out, talks of chemotherapy, reader loses some hair but is able to get it to shoulder length before she dies, jack was raised christain but no longer is, mentions of some sort of weird energy afterlife (because i wrote this at two a.m. after having seven shots of espresso), lots of cheesy stuff, talk of soulmates, reader dies at home because she requested to, jack holds her while she dies, bad writing, it’s pretty random i think, let me know if i’m forgetting anything
a/n: hey everyone!! this was a little project that was supposed to be a blurb that i started working on while i waited for my poll to finish. just a disclaimer, i wrote this on less than two hours of asleep while listening to the song over and over again so it’s most likely going to be terrible. i had this idea and just went with it, let me know what you guys think. please skip this one if it’s too much for you, it won’t hurt my feelings or anything like that. next up is going to have reader pegging jack, so you won’t miss anything if you skip this.
wc: 3.4k+
now playing -> how it ends by devotchka
It started off small. Being tired despite a full night of sleep, losing your appetite, random sections of your body being sore despite being careful.
It was just a virus, you would tell yourself, no need to worry about it.
Then it developed into disruptive symptoms, ones that forced you to take a break. Nose bleeds, vomiting, dizziness. You knew something was wrong, Jack did too.
gonna put it to the test
After running the labs, they had called you, asked you to return to the doctor’s office so they could discuss the results.
When it’s finally over, your appointment had taken three hours in total.
Coming home to him, he’s sleeping in the bed, blankets askew over his half-clothed frame. Soft snores fill the room, his lips just barely parted.
God, he looks so peaceful. You don’t want to disturb him, not when he’s been working extra shifts for Robby. He must be exhausted.
Quietly, you get into the shower to wash away the antiseptic scent that lingers on your skin. The water burns, licking at your skin harshly. It feels scalding, even if it’s the same temperature it’s always been.
At least it takes your mind off the diagnosis.
Slipping on your loose pajamas, you climb into bed next to him. Burying yourself into his side, you wrap your body around his, ignoring the sting in your back and the weakness of your limbs.
Jack’s warmth is welcoming, comforting you in silence.
Nuzzling your face into his chest, you can’t stop the tears from slipping out.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shaky and strained, as you press a kiss to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Jackie.”
you know it to be true
Waking up to him, his lips are peppering kisses all over your face. Your mouth curves into a small smile, that morning fog making you oblivious to the words you heard yesterday.
“Morning, pretty girl,” Jack’s voice is raspy, lips moving to your jaw and up to nibble your earlobe. “Sorry I missed you coming home yesterday, I knocked out after my shift. How was your appointment?”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him in for a proper kiss.
You don’t want to tell him, not now.
It’s tender, fiery, and desperate all at once. Tongues tangle, teeth clash, lips are bitten.
The answer’s hidden in your distraction, doom thinly veiled by love and desire.
Your head quiets down as he starts removing your clothes, the thoughts silencing as his kisses trail downwards.
you know what you gotta do
Two months have gone by. He still doesn’t know.
The aches are getting unbearable, your joints are stiff and your body bruises from the slightest of impacts.
You’ve been taking medications, ones that are supposed to help with the pain. They make you tired.
It’s early morning when you tell Jack you’re getting a glass of water. You don’t make it past the doorframe.
Jack watches as your steps falter. He thinks you're just sore from last night, until you sway, legs folding beneath you.
He’s up within seconds, falling beside you. Your name falls from his lips, helpless and broken.
“Come back to me, honey,” Jack pleads as he checks your pulse, voice cracking as he desperately shakes your shoulder. “Sweetheart, please wake up.”
It takes a few minutes to come to, your side throbbing and your mind dazed.
“There you go, there you go,” Jack soothes, pulling you delicately into his lap. With him holding your body to his, you crumble in his arms.
You’re sobbing, you realise after a hand cups your face, brushing the tears away with a gentle reverence.
Wet lashes line your eyes as they meet his dark hazel ones. You see it, the concern, the worry, the fear. “What did they say at your appointment?”
Lower lip wobbling, your breaths are shaky, ragged even. You don’t want to ruin this, don’t want to hurt him like this.
It takes a while to find your voice, and when you do, it’s barely a whisper, “I have leukaemia.”
you already know how this will end
It’s been a little over a year since your diagnosis.
Your hair is shorter than it used to be, the strands falling out more and more with every chemo session.
It became too hard to take care of, even with Jack’s help. Taking a break from work, he’s with you almost all the time. He helps you with everything, meals, chores, even dressing.
Every day, it gets a little harder. A little harder to breathe, a little harder to stand, a little harder to live.
You know there’s nothing you can do. The treatments are failing.
Jack has high hopes, saying the next one will work, as if he hasn’t said it before.
So far, the radiation has done nothing but degrade you.
Some days, you say you feel better, just to see him smile.
In moments like those, you wish you could freeze time.
You love watching Jack’s lips curve up into a boyish grin, the way his eyes fill with a warmth that was once so foreign to you. It’s your favourite thing about him. From the sharp points of his canines to the little lines that crinkle with joy, his smile is everything to you.
Now, sitting next to him on your couch, you’re both eating some sort of soup he cooked earlier. Grey’s Anatomy (you force Jack to watch it with you, but you know he secretly loves it) plays on the tv as you lean against him, slurping spoonful after spoonful of the rich liquid.
You ignore the way your hand trembles, just letting the comfort of the moment wash over you. It’s just like how things used to be after he would get off his shift.
Setting his empty bowl on the coffee table, Jack rests his hand on your hip, nestling you in closer. He has always been touchy, but now it’s as though not touching you is a crime. At all times, he’s making some sort of contact.
Your lips wrap around the silverware as you take another sip, humming at the delectable taste.
The spoon falls from your lips when Jack runs his thumb over your hip bone, the innocent touch feeling far too intimate. Soup splashes upwards as the utensil meets its surface, effectively splattering all over the two of you.
It’s silent except for the show playing in on in the background, tension thick as the both of you turn your heads in unison, gazes meeting.
The red liquid is all the way up on his bridge of his nose, sliding down on his face unceremoniously. There’s more of it on his cheeks, forehead, clothes.
You’re not much better. You can feel it in your short hair, on your neck, and in the dampening of your band shirt.
Jack’s face morphs from surprise to pure amusement, his laugh loud and heady. You can’t help joining in, laughing so hard you can’t seem to stop.
“I love you so much,” he chuckles, moving the now empty bowl out of the way. Manoeuvring you with gentle hands, he lays you down and hovers above you.
There’s this playful glimmer in his eyes as he grins down at you, a devious plan written in his expression.
Without warning, his tongue is on your skin, licking away the soup staining your neck.
Jolting in surprise, you playfully hit his shoulder in protest. “Ewww, Jackie,” you squeal, unable to keep the smile out of your voice. “You’re a doctor, you know how unsanitary that is.”
He mumbles something incoherent as he moves his lips up, pressing kisses all over your face.
“What was that, baby?” You giggle, wrapping your legs and arms around him, effectively closing the distance.
You love the feel of his weight on you. It’s both grounding and overwhelming in the most delightful way. He hasn’t fully laid on top of you in months, too afraid of hurting you. You’ve missed this carefree affection.
Jack is relentless, peppering kisses all over your face and neck. “You’ve never complained about it before,” he repeats between pecks, making you laugh again. “Besides,” he starts, pulling back for just a moment to look into your eyes, “You make the cutest noises whenever I do it.”
Heat burns in your cheeks, more giggles leaving your lips as he rubs his stubble against your skin. “I hate you!”
“You love me,” Jack counters, sucking at your neck.
A little sigh leaves your lips, lava flowing through your veins at such a delicious sensation. “I do.”
there is no escape
Today was a bad day.
The chemo makes you feel sicker, constantly nauseous and sometimes barely able to stand.
It’s been an endless couple of hours of vomiting and crying. Jack’s always there to rub your back, trying to comfort you in the only ways he can while you’re so ill.
He’s soft, whispering praises and giving you the gentlest of touches. He just wants to ease your suffering.
It’s challenging to do when your body is eroding, slowly turning on itself. It’s visible just how bad this sickness is, it’s killing you in almost every way possible.
Jack sees it, you know he does. The way his smile fades into the small frown, and in the sadness that lingers in his eyes. He’s breaking too.
The guilt consumes you every time you notice him looking at you with that rueful gaze. This wasn’t what you had planned, dreams of growing old fading faster after every disappointing session.
That night, lying against his chest, you listen to his heartbeat.
You’re both awake, reality settling in. It’s not harsh, not at first. Just a small ache growing until sharp pains blooms from it. Grief has cultivated its roses inside of you both, their thorns cutting deep into your hearts.
“I don’t want to die, Jack,” you breathe, throat hoarse and words shaky.
You can feel his fingers tremble as he massages soothing circles into your skin. “I know,” his voice wobbles, breath hitching. “I know.”
forever’s not so long
It’s been five years since you were first diagnosed.
Every visit, your deadline moved closer and closer until now, it’s finally here.
You don’t want to die in a hospital, not when it feels so much like your graveyard. You just want to be with Jack.
With less than two days left, you spend every moment together.
His kisses are soft, his hugs are so fragile, and his touches are the most delicate.
Hours are spent in bed, tangled in a mess of arms and legs as you cling to his body.
Whispers are constant, laughs and smiles coming too easily as the clock ticks down. Jack makes it effortless, your comfort in this overwhelming darkness.
It lasts until first light, the night gone with all the words you’ve exchanged.
Jack had positioned the bed to face the large windows that overlooked the Delaware River. Perfect for watching the sun chart its path across the sky.
Light slowly filters in through the windows, reflecting off the water with every ripple. It’s a mesmerising tango of sun and shadow.
It casts a pattern across the room, dancing across your intertwined bodies with a grace that seems damning. It’s an angelic ruining, a beauty within the eternal devastation of your love.
“What will happen to me when I die?” You ask, the heaviness returning to your chest as you run your fingers along his perfect face, mapping out and memorising the contours of him.
“I’ll bury you under that willow in the cemetery, just like you asked—”
Shaking your head, you quiet him with a quick peck to his lips. “You're talking about my body, I’m talking about my soul,” you clarify, smiling lamentably, “What do you believe will happen to my soul, Jackie?”
He presses a kiss to your head before meeting your gaze again. “Y’know, I used to believe in heaven. And all the things I was taught in Sunday School,” he pauses, just watching your expression, “but after I lost so much of myself in the military, I couldn’t believe in a god anymore.”
Jack lets out a soft sigh, tucking you in closer to his body like it would shield you from death itself. “An old army buddy of mine told me about this idea of his,” he swallows thickly, voice strained as he continues. “It’s that, when someone dies, they become part of the world. Their soul transforms into something else as they leave their body behind,” his hands slide up and down your arms, your back, and your legs.
“Not as a ghost or anything like that,” he clarifies when you give him a look, making you let out a small laugh despite the ache in your lungs. “They become a sort of energy that’s absorbed into all things full of life. That way, their loved ones aren’t so far from reach,” he pulls back, just enough so his lips brush against yours, foreheads resting together.
“Leo said that when their soulmates— souls they’ve connected to in a way that transcends death— die, they are reunited,” smiling tenderly, Jack’s fingers trail up to your cheeks, cupping your face in his hands.
“They wrap and twine themselves around one another, so tightly they can never separate,” his voice softens further, thumbs caressing your cheeks as a few tears fall. “That way, they stay interlinked forever.”
The thought alone of an eternity with him makes the pressure inside of you ease, a breathless gasp leaving your lips as hot tears flow helplessly.
They don’t stop, not even as you smile or as you laugh with relief.
Jack smiles with you, a rough laugh rumbling out of his chest. “I know, I know. When I say it out loud, it seems ridiculous,” he mutters with a teasing lilt to his voice. “I promise Leo explained it a lot better than me. Made me feel a whole lot better after losing my friends.”
Your hands travel up to mirror his, scraping against the stubble he’s started to grow along his jaw. “I like it,” you whisper, drawing back so your eyes meet his. “Forever with you wouldn’t feel so long.”
“I’m the luckiest man in the whole world,” Jack says earnestly, taking in the sight of you as the morning light hits you perfectly.
You’ve let your hair grow out since you stopped chemotherapy a year ago, the cancer too far spread for it to be effective anymore. The wisps are down to your shoulders now, the light shining through them in the most beautiful of ways.
Your skin is pale, but in the sunlight you seem healthier. There’s an orange coloured warmth that’s painted along your body. It almost looks like you're glowing.
Despite your slow decay, your eyes have stayed the same. In this hue, he can see every different shade in your irises.
Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze is full of reverent affection. “You’re absolutely radiant, honey.”
You roll your eyes, unable to hide that small smile of yours. “You’re just saying that because you’re my husband.”
“I’m saying that because you’re my world and my world is absolutely beautiful,” before you can argue anything back, he presses his lips to yours.
With a little sign, you melt into his touch entirely as he kisses you so delicately.
It’s soft, but firm. It’s the tender, unyielding connection of two hearts. The tethering of red strings, pulling until they’re taut.
In every concept of it, every meaning of the word, you are soulmates. In every universe, every world, every lifetime, you’re his, just like he’s undeniably yours.
Breaking away, you pant between pecks, “I love you, Jack.”
Then you kiss him again, smiling against his lips.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
come on, it’s time to go
It’s happening. You know it, Jack knows it.
You’ve barely been out of bed, just a few trips to use the bathroom, but otherwise you didn’t have the energy to do anything besides talking and hugging him.
The medicine makes the pain turn into something numb, it helps, even if you know the reality of your fate.
It doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel like the end of life. If anything, it’s the end of suffering. It’s the type of mercy that comes with agony. It’s peace in its final form.
The sun is already starting to fall, the sky turning into somber shades of purple and lingering oranges. The colours reflect into the room, blending and mixing with the candle’s flames.
Lying on top of him, his arms are around you, yours are around him.
It doesn’t last for long, your chest starting to rattle with every breath.
Only hours ago, you were laughing and smiling in that ethereal sunlight. Now, you can feel the minutes slipping away, each second stealing the time you have left.
“Jackie? Will you hold me until you see the moon come out?” You croak, even though you know you don’t have that long.
His hand moves to your hair, combing through the strands with his fingers. “Of course, sweetheart,” Jack agrees, his voice raw with emotion. “Anything for you.”
Angling your head back and resting your chin against his chest, you gaze up at him. “If that’s the case… don’t close yourself off to love,” you whisper, eyes holding a melancholic reckoning. “I want you to find happiness even if I’m not here. Promise me you’ll try.”
Jack’s fingers cascade along your spine, up and down in a soothing manner as he listens to you. “I promise.”
The genuine ring to his voice makes you relax, arms loosening around his neck as you press your cheek just above where his heart is.
“I love you, Jackie,” you fight back a cough, instead pressing a sweet kiss to his chest. “My happiest memories are with you… my only regret is that we didn’t have time to make more.”
Hushing you gently, he cradles you in his arms as he recognises some of the sure sounds of your body slowing down.
“I love you too,” your name slips from Jack’s lips, breathy and soft. Swallowing thickly, tears sting at his eyes as he feels your breaths take on a languid rhythm. “We have forever, honey. Forever.”
Humming softly as you nuzzle into him, he watches your eyes flutter shut. The look on your face, purely peaceful. “Forever,” you repeat, lips barely moving as you fade in and out of consciousness.
The sunset is in its last moments, watching over you as your body begins to yield to its disease.
You can hear his heartbeat, steady and familiar. The solid warmth beneath you is grounding, even if you feel yourself falling away. You feel his breaths and his touch, comforting you as the darkness creeps in.
While listening to the stable sound of Jack’s beating heart, it’s only natural that yours comes to a slow, final halt.
beyond your wildest dreams
Nobody asks why Jack switches to the night shift, not after he took years off work to take care of you. They already know.
He didn’t even why he stayed on the most brutal shift, not until he went up to the roof.
The first time he did, it was during the darkest hour of the night. He stayed, finding comfort in the familiarity it had.
You had always loved stargazing with him when you went on vacations.
On his third break up there, he managed to catch the sunrise.
Leaning against the railing, Jack watches as the sky starts to wake up. It's a beautiful, bright bloom of ambers, yellows, and pinks.
Despite the bite in the air, the sight warms something inside his chest.
It makes him think of that last morning he had with you. The way the warm morning glow had made you look ethereal. How you told him you loved him and sealed it with the sweetest of kisses.
Looking out at the skyline, Jack smiles even as tears cloud his gaze.
It’s the first time since you died that he’s let himself relive the memory.
It’s the first time in months that he’s felt true and total peace.
In the end, it’s the rising sun that brings you back to him.
final a/n: thank you so much for sticking with this!! let me know you’re thoughts, advice and suggestions are greatly appreciated!! i’ll be writing some smutty and fluffy stuff just to clear the air after this heavy one. if anyone wants to be added to my taglist, just let me know or preferably fill out the form in my bio. i hope you have a great day!!
The sound of tires on gravel pulled me away from the sink. I had just finished rinsing Brynn’s sippy cup when I saw Maverick’s truck lurch into the driveway, too fast, too sharp, the way he never drove when she was around.
I frowned. My dad didn’t show up unannounced. Not like this.
Before I could even dry my hands, the front door burst open and there he was—hair windblown, face pale, chest rising and falling like he’d run straight from base.
“Dad?” My voice caught in my throat. “What’s—”
“Y/N—” His voice cracked. His hands flexed at his sides, useless, trembling. “I need you to—”
But he never finished.
Because not a minute later, a knock rattled the door behind him. Firm, deliberate, practiced. The kind of knock that didn’t belong in a home like mine.
I felt something in my stomach collapse.
Maverick turned slowly, his jaw tight. I followed his gaze. Two men in uniform stood on the porch, their hats in their hands, faces carved into solemn lines I didn’t want to read.
“No.” The word slipped out of me before they even spoke. I shook my head, backing up into the wall. “No. No, no—”
“Mrs. Bradshaw,” the taller one said gently, voice steady in a way that made me hate him. “We regret to inform you—”
I didn’t hear the rest. I couldn’t. The words blurred together, their syllables muffled under the rushing in my ears. The room tilted sideways, my knees giving way.
I crumbled before the sentence was finished, my body folding in on itself like paper.
Maverick caught me before I hit the floor. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest. He was shaking so violently I could feel it through his jacket.
“Not Bradley,” I gasped into his shoulder, clawing at the fabric like I could anchor myself to it. “Not Brad—please, no—”
His face pressed into my hair, hot tears spilling onto my temple. He was breaking right there with me, no attempt to hold it back. “I’m sorry, baby girl,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know how long we stayed there, collapsed on the floor by the doorway. The men stood silent, their presence both unbearable and necessary. Eventually, one of them left something—papers, a folder, I didn’t look—on the table and slipped away. The other murmured condolences I couldn’t process before leaving us in the wreckage.
All I knew was the sound of Maverick’s sobs, raw and unguarded, mixing with mine.
⸻
“Mama?”
The word was small, fragile.
I lifted my head, eyes swollen and burning, and saw Brynn standing at the edge of the hall in her pajamas. Bunny dangled from her hand, its ears brushing the carpet. Her hair stuck out in sleep-tossed wisps.
She blinked at us—me crumpled against Maverick, his arms wrapped tight around me, both of us red-eyed and broken.
“Mama sad?” she asked.
My throat closed.
Maverick tried to swallow his sob, scrubbing at his face with one shaking hand. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, sweetheart,” he rasped, reaching his other arm toward her.
She padded over, her little face scrunched with confusion. When he pulled her onto his lap beside me, she studied us both.
“Cryin’,” she said, patting my cheek with her tiny hand. “No cry, Mama.”
The innocence of it split me open again.
I pressed my forehead to hers, choking back a sob. “I’m okay, baby,” I lied, my voice cracking. “Mama’s okay.”
But she frowned, clutching bunny tighter. “Where Daddy?”
The air left the room.
Maverick’s breath hitched audibly beside me.
I couldn’t answer. Not yet.
“Daddy work?” Brynn asked, her little head tilting. “Mavy, Daddy fly?”
Maverick’s face crumpled, his lips trembling. He kissed her hair instead of answering, his tears falling into the strands.
And Brynn, not understanding, just cuddled closer, pressing herself between us, her small body warm and trusting.
⸻
The crew came that evening.
First Phoenix, her eyes red but determined as she carried groceries into the kitchen like it was her mission. Then Bob, quiet and steady, following with a case of water. Hangman showed up not long after, his usual swagger stripped down to something quieter, more respectful. Fanboy and Payback too, both carrying casseroles someone’s wife had made.
They filled the house without needing direction, moving like they’d rehearsed it. Phoenix took Brynn into the living room, coaxing her into building towers with blocks while the others hovered nearby, ready to catch me if I swayed.
I sat at the table, Maverick beside me, his hand gripping mine so tight my knuckles ached. Every time I thought I had no more tears left, another wave would hit, and Phoenix’s eyes would flick toward Brynn, making sure she didn’t see me fall apart.
At one point, Hangman came over and crouched by my chair. His voice, usually cocky, was low and careful. “We’ve got you,” he said simply. “Whatever you need.”
I nodded, unable to form words.
Brynn climbed into my lap after a while, her weight grounding me. “Mama tired,” she whispered, curling against me.
I kissed the crown of her head, tears wetting her hair. “Yeah, baby. Mama’s tired.”
Maverick rubbed her back gently, his own eyes glassy. “We’ll keep her safe,” he whispered to me, his voice breaking. “We’ll keep you both safe.”
⸻
The days blurred.
I woke in the middle of the night to Brynn’s cries, stumbling into her room to find her standing in her crib, calling for “Daddy.” My chest tore in two each time. I held her until she fell back asleep, whispering promises I didn’t know how to keep.
Maverick was always there in the mornings, making coffee, taking Brynn out in the yard to give me a moment to breathe. The crew rotated through, never leaving us alone too long. They cooked, cleaned, held Brynn when I couldn’t stop shaking.
Still, nothing filled the void.
And then the day of the funeral came.
⸻
The chapel was cold, the kind of cold that sank into your bones even through black dress fabric. I carried Brynn in my arms, her little dress crinkled from her refusal to stay still while I dressed her. Bunny dangled from her fist, a constant presence.
People stood as we entered, a wave of uniforms and somber faces. My legs nearly gave out under the weight of all those eyes, but Maverick’s arm at my back kept me moving forward.
The casket sat at the front. Flag-draped. Heavy. Final.
I felt my stomach heave, bile burning my throat.
Brynn squirmed in my arms. “Daddy?” she whispered, pointing.
I froze.
Maverick leaned down, his face ashen. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked. “Daddy’s… Daddy’s sleeping.”
But Brynn wriggled free from my hold, toddling down the aisle on unsteady legs.
“Daddy!” she cried, her voice echoing in the silent room.
I stumbled after her, panic flooding my chest. “Brynn—baby, wait—”
But she reached the casket, stretching her arms up toward it. “Daddy! Hold Bynnie! Daddy!”
Her cries pierced through the chapel, raw and desperate, the kind that made strangers in the pews wipe their eyes.
I dropped to my knees, gathering her into my arms even as she kicked and sobbed, reaching toward the man she couldn’t understand was gone.
“Daddy, no sweep!” she wailed. “Daddy, hold Bynnie!”
My body shook with silent sobs, my face pressed into her hair. “I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered over and over, rocking her against me. “I’m so sorry.”
Maverick knelt beside us, his hand on Brynn’s back, his other gripping my shoulder. His face was streaked with tears, his chest heaving.
The three of us clung together in front of the casket, the world blurring around us.
Brynn’s cries eventually softened into hiccups, her small body collapsing against my chest. She clutched bunny tighter, murmuring “Daddy” into its fur.
And I held her, held her with everything I had left, knowing Bradley’s arms would never again circle around us.
⸻
The service moved on around us, words spoken, flags folded, salutes rendered. But all I could hear was my daughter’s voice echoing in my chest: Daddy, hold Bynnie.
And all I could do was promise her silently, fiercely, that somehow, some way, we would find a way to keep moving forward.
Together.
Even without him.
⸻
The sound the casket made when the hinges creaked and the lid began to lower would never leave me. It wasn’t loud, not really, but in the quiet of the chapel it was deafening. A final sound. A closing.
I sat in the front row, Brynn curled in my lap, her arms wound around my neck so tight it was almost choking. She’d been quiet for most of the service, worn out from crying, her small head tucked against my chest. But the second the pallbearers moved, the second the lid started to swing down, she realized what was happening.
“No!” Her scream tore through the silence. She lurched forward, reaching out with both arms toward the casket. “Daddy! No close!”
Her body writhed in my arms, fighting against me. I tried to hold her, but she kicked and shoved, desperate.
“Baby, no—” My voice broke. I tried to stand, stumbling toward the casket, Brynn nearly leaping from my arms. “Please, wait—”
I collapsed against the side of the pew, sobbing openly now, my body shaking under the force of her cries. My arms felt too weak to hold her, but I couldn’t let go.
Maverick was there suddenly, kneeling beside me, his hand on Brynn’s back, his eyes brimming. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, voice cracking. “He can’t hear you, baby girl.”
Brynn shoved her fists against his chest, desperate. “Mavy! Help! Daddy!”
Maverick closed his eyes, breaking, and pulled her gently from my arms. I clutched at her dress, unwilling to let go, but his hands were steady even as his shoulders shook.
“I’ve got her,” he murmured to me, his voice raw. “I’ve got her, Y/N.”
I released her reluctantly, sobbing harder, my arms falling useless at my sides.
Brynn clung to Maverick now, but her eyes stayed fixed on the casket as the lid lowered fully. “Noooo!” she wailed, her face blotchy, her voice cracking. “Daddy, no seep! Daddy!”
The lid closed with a dull, final thud.
Maverick’s entire body shuddered. He buried his face in Brynn’s hair, tears spilling freely. “I know, bug,” he whispered, rocking her. “I know.”
Brynn’s cries eventually broke into hiccups, her small body sagging against him. Then, suddenly, she twisted in his arms and wriggled down to the floor. Before anyone could stop her, she toddled over to the casket, her bunny clutched tight in one hand.
“Daddy,” she whispered hoarsely, standing on tiptoes to reach the edge. “Bunny for Daddy.”
She dropped the stuffed animal inside, the well-worn fabric falling against the polished wood. Her hand lingered on the edge for a moment, then pulled back.
The room was silent but for her sniffles. Even the officers in uniform were wiping their eyes.
Maverick moved to her side, crouching low. “That’s very brave, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Daddy will take care of Bunny now.”
She nodded solemnly, her face streaked with tears. Then she reached for his hand.
⸻
The rest of the service blurred. Words spoken, prayers offered, salutes made. I barely heard any of it. My world had narrowed to Brynn’s soft cries against Maverick’s shoulder, to the hollow ache in my chest, to the sight of that closed casket with Bunny inside.
When it was over, people rose slowly, filing past to offer murmured condolences. Some touched my shoulder, some hugged me briefly, but I barely registered their faces.
The crew lingered close. Phoenix’s eyes were swollen, her usually steady composure cracking as she hugged me tight. “We’ve got you,” she whispered fiercely. “We’re not letting go.”
Bob’s hug was awkward but warm, his voice breaking as he murmured, “He loved you both so much.”
Hangman’s usual swagger was gone. His jaw clenched tight as he gripped my hand, holding it longer than necessary. “We’ll take care of her,” he said, nodding toward Brynn in Maverick’s arms. “We’ll take care of both of you.”
Fanboy and Payback flanked me silently, their presence a shield.
⸻
The reception was held in the hangar, tables set up with food none of us wanted to eat. I sat in a folding chair, Brynn asleep in my lap, her face sticky with tears. The noise of voices around us felt distant, muffled.
Maverick sat beside me, his hand gripping mine under the table. His other hand rested lightly on Brynn’s back, as though he needed to feel her chest rising and falling.
Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of Bradley. Photos propped up on easels. His flight suit displayed near the entrance. A slideshow looping on a screen, his grin lighting up every image.
I couldn’t watch. Every time his face appeared, my throat closed.
But Brynn stirred once, half waking, and pointed at the screen. “Daddy,” she murmured sleepily, then nestled back into my chest.
I kissed her hair, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.
People came by our table, offering words I couldn’t absorb. “He was the best of us.” “He’ll never be forgotten.” “You and your daughter will always be family.”
I nodded, whispered “thank you,” but the words slid past me, meaningless. Nothing anyone said could touch the raw wound inside me.
The only thing keeping me upright was the weight of Brynn in my arms, the warmth of Maverick’s hand holding mine, the steady presence of the crew around us.
⸻
Hours passed like that—faces, voices, hands on my shoulder. Brynn woke again eventually, groggy and disoriented.
“Mama,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. “Daddy home?”
My chest cracked open all over again.
Maverick leaned in, his own eyes wet. “Daddy’s not coming home, bug,” he said softly. “But he’s with us. Always.”
Brynn frowned, confused, her little hand clutching at my dress. “Daddy hold Bynnie.”
I hugged her tight, rocking her gently. “I know, baby,” I whispered, my tears soaking into her hair. “I know.”
She whimpered, tucking her face into my chest.
Maverick’s hand pressed against her back, his thumb stroking slowly. He looked at me over her head, his eyes hollow but resolute.
“We’ll carry her through this,” he whispered. “Together.”
And I nodded, because there was nothing else I could do.
⸻
The night ended with the hangar mostly empty, just the crew lingering, helping pack up the tables. Brynn finally fell into a deep sleep, her little body limp against my shoulder.
Maverick walked me to the car, his hand steady at my back. He opened the door for me, his movements quiet, deliberate.
Before I slid in, I glanced back at the hangar one last time. At the photos, the suit, the empty space that used to be filled by Bradley’s laugh.
The ache in my chest threatened to consume me.
But then Brynn stirred slightly, murmuring in her sleep, “Daddy…” and cuddled closer against me.
I kissed her forehead, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, and held her tighter.
summary: The clock starts now. Every moment counts.
warnings: Pittfest, Shootings, Medical inaccuracies, Previous character death, Suicidal tendencies
Word count: 13k
a/n: Trying different formatting and trying alternating POV's. If this is bad do not look at me. I tried. I do not like the end I may go back and change but for now this is out of my hands
Dividers:@strangergraphics
6:01 AM
11 hours and 59 minutes until disaster
You woke to an empty bed. Not the most comfortable way to start the day, but not unusual either. Most mornings you half-expected Robby’s long arms wrapped around your middle, his face buried against your neck, savoring those last few moments of peace before the world ripped him away. Instead, there was only cool sheets and quiet.
You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face as your eyes swept the room. No Robby. Not that it surprised you, today was going to be difficult for him, and you knew better than to take the distance personally. All you could do was try to ease his load, starting with something small. Breakfast.
Slipping from bed, you padded down the hall, pausing to peek into Jude’s open door. His floor was a mess of clothes and books, one arm dangling off the side of the bed, fingertips brushing the carpet. A soft huff of amusement slipped from you before you moved on, pressing your ear gently to Stevie’s door. Her even, steady snores gave you all the reassurance you needed.
With both kids accounted for, you headed downstairs.
Robby was already in the kitchen, standing stiffly by the coffee pot, scrubs on and shoulders squared like armor. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his middle, pressing your face into his back. The faint scent of cheap soap clung to him, clean and sharp. You breathed him in before speaking.
“You know you don’t have to do this today,” you rasped, your voice still thick with sleep. You rested your cheek against his back, tilting your head just enough to catch his side profile. His expression was stone, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the window.
The image might’ve been comical—this brooding man holding a mug with “World’s Best Farter” scrawled across it in Stevie’s handwriting—but the heaviness in his silence made your chest ache.
“I’m fine. I’m going,” he said flatly, not looking away from the glass.
You pulled back a little, searching his face. “Are you—”
“I said I’m fine.” The snap was sharp, cutting you off mid-word.
You blinked, taken aback, then studied him. His chest rising and falling too fast, like he was holding up the weight of all of Pittsburgh on his own shoulders. Slowly, you nodded.
“Alright… Can I make you breakfast?” you asked, careful not to prod too hard.
For a beat, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. Just stared at the window like it might give him answers. Finally, his shoulders dipped, the fight bleeding out of him. He set the mug down with a soft clink and shook his head.
“Not hungry,” he muttered.
You studied the rigid line of his jaw, the way his knuckles whitened where he gripped the counter. He was fraying at the edges, and every sharp word, every heavy silence was just proof of how close he was to unraveling.
“Robby,” you said softly, reaching out. Your fingers brushed his wrist, but he pulled back, tugging at the cuff of his scrubs like he needed something anything to keep his hands busy.
“I just need to get through the fucking day. You babying me isn’t going to help.” The words came out rough, sharp enough to sting.
You jerked your hand back immediately, staring at him in bewilderment.
“Okay—” You stopped yourself, inhaling deeply, forcing your voice steady as your nerves rattled.
“I understand you’re upset about Dr. Adamson—”
Robby’s head snapped toward you, his glare sharp enough to cut.
You held his gaze. Didn’t flinch.
“I know today is difficult for you,” you said firmly, “but that is not what we do. I’ll let it slide for now, but I expect an apology tonight, Michael.”
It wasn't fair and Robby knew it. He sighed, eyes dragging back to the window, shame flickering across his face before pride forced it down.
You moved quietly around the kitchen, packing up his lunch. Leftovers from the night before, plus a few snacks to get him through the day. The silence between you stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
“I’m gonna go in a little early,” he said at last, voice low.
You handed him the lunch bag without meeting his eyes, already turning toward the stove. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”
Leaning in just enough, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before cracking eggs into the pan, four scrambled for the twins, two runny for Jack whenever he got home.
Robby lingered in the doorway, watching the set of your shoulders, the way you kept your back to him. His mouth parted. An apology right there on the tip of his tongue. But pride clamped it shut.
He turned, and left without another word.
7:07 am
10 hours and 53 minutes until disaster.
“Alright, everyone up! Teeth brushed, faces washed!” you bellowed down the hall, pounding on Stevie’s door until her muffled scream of frustration echoed back. You grinned—one of motherhood’s underrated perks was getting to irritate your kids guilt-free.
You stomped down to Jude’s room, calling his name. The boy bolted upright with a startled, “Ma!” that made you laugh out loud.
“Look,” you teased, standing in the middle of the hall like a drill sergeant, “if I’m letting you two skip school for this thing today, you’re gonna make it worth it for me.”
“Brekkie’s ready! Dad will be home soon,” you added, before heading back into your room to get yourself together. Comfortable clothes were laid out in minutes, and you had just started the shower when your phone buzzed violently on the dresser.
Robby’s name lit up the screen.
“Hello?” you answered quickly, still breathless from moving around.
For a moment, there was only deep, uneven breathing on the other end. Then Robby’s voice:
“Hey—uh. Look, Jack was ‘getting some air’ when I came in.” Your face falls. You hate to think about everything your boys take on during the day. You hate to think about the things that lead them to their increasingly often rooftop visits.
“Is he okay?” you asked, urgency spiking in your chest.
“Yeah… yeah, he’s fine. Just… rough night.” His throat cleared. “Can you keep an eye on him?”
“Of course,” you said instantly, before the sentence had even finished leaving his mouth. How could you not?
Silence stretched. Both of you knew there was more sitting between the lines, but neither wanted to tip first.
Then, lightly—too lightly—Robby said, “Oh—uh, I forgot to give you the PittFest tickets last night. Still in my bag if you want to come grab them today.”
You could almost hear him circling the words he really wanted to say. Finally:
“It’d be good to see you guys.”
Your shoulders eased, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course. We’ll swing by later. Kids want to get there early to see some pop singer anyway. I’ll text you when we’re on the way.”
The tension from this morning thinned, at least a little, enough to let you breathe again.
You quickly exchanged your “I love yous” before hopping into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the lingering tension of the morning. Somehow, the twins had convinced you to let them go to a music festival. You could think of a hundred things you’d rather be doing than camped out with them and their friends for hours under the sun, but you agreed anyway. Seeing the excitement in their faces, the way Stevie bounced on her heels and Jude practically vibrated with anticipation, made it impossible to say no. They were growing up too fast, and you didn’t want to miss a single moment, no matter how chaotic.
You stepped out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a towel, and opened the bedroom door. Jack was on the bed, sprawled out like he owned the mattress. His prosthetic leg was tipped awkwardly on the floor. You moved carefully, trying not to disturb him.
“Need a massage?” you asked, nodding toward his leg, your voice soft.
Jack lifted himself on his elbows, that corner-of-the-mouth smirk, soft, familiar, reassuring, playing across his face as he shook his head. Then he lifted an arm, silently inviting you in. You leaned against him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with the lingering aroma of coffee from his shift.
“You wanna talk?” you murmured, fingers tracing the line of his shoulder.
He shook his head quickly, a small, resigned movement.
“Gonna schedule an appointment with Meredith tomorrow. I’m off,” he said quietly, almost as if saying it out loud made it real.
You shifted slightly, letting your hand rest over his chest, careful not to push too much. Therapy had always been something Jack took seriously, something he didn’t shy away from. You let the silence stretch, soft and warm, letting him settle.
“You know,” you murmured, voice soft and teasing, brushing a stray curl from Jack’s forehead before pressing a quick kiss to his freckled cheek, “Maybe we can get Robby set up with a therapist at Meredith’s practice?”
Jack snorted, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good luck with that,” he said, shaking his head. “Been trying before you were even in the picture, toots.” He grinned, clearly enjoying the bark of laughter he pulled from you.
“Toots? What are you, a Soprano?” you laughed, shaking your head as you swung your legs off the bed and threw on some clothes.
“Come on, let’s go eat breakfast, and then you can crash, old man,” you teased, handing him his crutches as you walked ahead.
Jack muttered something about how easy it would be to trip you with one of those crutches, but he followed behind you, hobbling slightly but still managing a cheeky grin.
The kitchen was already alive with morning chaos. The table was laid out—pancakes stacked high, scrambled eggs steaming in their dish. Stevie and Jude were already seated, each trying to claim the best seats while reaching for syrup bottles and cutlery. Jack made a beeline to the bread, tossing a couple slices into the toaster with a soldier’s precision.
“Mom! Jude is kicking me!” Stevie yelped, tugging her chair dramatically away from the table.
“Mom! Stevie made me spill my orange juice,” Jude shot back, pointing accusingly at the spreading puddle near his plate.
“Guys, please, just separate,” you sighed, sliding napkins across the table to mop up the spill. “I can’t do the fighting all day.”
Jack glanced over his shoulder, smirking as he leaned against the counter. “You know, back in my day, if you spilled your orange juice you just had to lick it off the table.”
“Ew, Dad!” the twins groaned in perfect unison, which only made him chuckle harder.
“God you're weird” Stevie muttered, but the corner of her mouth betrayed a grin.
The toaster popped, startling everyone with its sharp clank. Jack plucked out the toast and set it on his plate. It was already a shade too dark.
“You burnt it again,” you teased, sliding a butter knife toward him.
“It’s artisanal,” Jack replied smugly, smearing butter over the blackened edges as though he’d planned it that way.
“Yeah, artisanal garbage,” Jude muttered under his breath, earning a stifled giggle from Stevie.
Jack gasped, clutching his chest. “The disrespect! Do you know how many wars I fought to earn this toast?”
“Zero, Probably two for Oil.” Stevie answered flatly, grinning as she drowned her pancakes in syrup.
Jack sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes like a martyr. “Alright, so what’s the deal with the music thing tonight? This your Woodstock?” He reached across the table, swiping a piece of bacon off Jude’s plate.
“Hey!” Jude protested, glaring at him.
“Weren’t you old enough to go to the first one?” Stevie quipped back, smirking.
Jack pointed the stolen bacon at her like a weapon. “First off, I’m not that old. Second off, I went to Woodstock ’99. You brats wouldn’t survive.”
The twins immediately groaned in unison, already sensing what was coming.
“Dad, don’t—”
“Pleaseee, don’t start—”
But Jack was already leaning into it, eyes shining with mischief. “What! I’m serious. Chili Peppers, Korn, Metallica—time of my life.” He waved the bacon around for emphasis. “Crowdsurfing, mud everywhere, the heat—” His voice faltered, lips pressing together. “I think… I can’t really remember after—”
Stevie sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “After what? What don't you remember?"
“Yeah,” Jude added, pointing at him. “what's up with that?”
Jack froze with the bacon halfway to his mouth, then barked out a laugh that was a little too quick. “Well, I wasn't exactly sober” he said, smirking at them.
The twins gawked at him in unison, and then Stevie’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god—you were on drugs!”
Jude’s face lit up with mock horror. “Dad was a crackhead.”
Jack held up both hands like he was about to swear an oath. “Okay, one—relax. Two— It was the nineties. Everybody was on something. Three—don’t do drugs. Ever. Four—pass the syrup.” He stretched across the table, smoothly snatching the bottle and pouring it over his plate like nothing happened.
“Dad, you can’t just—” Stevie started.
“Pancakes are getting cold,” Jack cut in firmly, shoving a forkful into his mouth. “Priorities.”
The twins groaned again, but the gleam in Jack’s eyes dared them to push it further. You hid a smile behind your coffee, catching his fleeting glance that said he knew exactly what he was doing—dodging without ever admitting it.
You clapped your hands on the table and stood.
“Okay. Enough confessions for the day. You two, start cleaning up. And make sure to clean your rooms—hey, I’m serious. And hurry it up. Papa took the tickets with him, so we gotta swing by the Pitt.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Stevie’s head snap up. Jude let out a long, dramatic “oooooh,” only to yelp when Stevie slapped his arm.
“Shut up!” she hissed.
Jude, grinning like a fox, tilted his head at her. Stevie gave him a warning look.
“Stevie has a crush on M—”
He didn’t even get the name out before Stevie lunged, smacking him harder and clapping both hands over his mouth.
“Stop it! Stop it!” she shrieked, climbing halfway onto his chair while Jude laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
Jude seized his moment of freedom, pointing an accusing finger. “Stevie has a crush on Mateo!”
Stevie groaned so loud it rattled the windows. “JUDE HAS A GIRLFRIEND!” she screamed back, her voice cracking with the betrayal.
Jack was practically wheezing with laughter taking in the sight, watching as Jude tries to pry Stevie’s hands off his face then Jude shouts back his defense. The kitchen erupted into full-blown chaos. Stevie and Jude red-faced and yelling over each other, Jack egging them on like a bad influence, and you standing there wondering how breakfast had escalated into a jerry springer episode.
“Everyone shut up!” you finally shouted, though the corners of your mouth were twitching with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.
The silence lasted all of three seconds before Jude muttered, “snitch…” and Stevie launched a slice of bacon at his head.
"Alright. Everyone go do your jobs. Quietly!" You point at Jack. "Stop egging them on and go to sleep"
Jacks laugh followed you down the hall as you started to clean before bracing yourself that the chaos had in store for you today.
9: 30
8 hours and 30 minutes until disaster
You shuffle quietly through the closet, hands grazing past coats until you snag one of Jack’s hydration backpacks. A soft huff of victorious delight escapes you as you sling it over your shoulders and tiptoe past Jack’s steady snores.
In the kitchen, you drop the bag on the counter and start weighing your options: granola bars or trail mix, chips or candy, what’s worth the smuggle into the festival?
Your phone buzzes violently in your back pocket. You slip it out, frowning when Robby flashes across the screen. Once during a shift was rare. Twice? Almost unheard of.
You answer fast. “Is everything okay?”
There’s shuffling on the other end, the faint thud of a door closing.
“Is Jude around? I tried calling him but…” Robby trails off, voice unsteady, fraying at the edges.
Your chest tightens. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Your voice softens, melting down to that tone you know he needs. In your mind’s eye you see him—shifting his weight, rubbing the back of his neck, restless.
“Got an OD in. Just a kid. Little older than Jude.” He drags in a breath, shaky. “On a vent, he’s brain-dead. Nothing we could do.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Oh, baby… I’m so sorry.”
There’s a sniff on the line before he continues. “Had to talk to the parents, give them their options, and I just… I can’t help but think about if it were us—”
“Don’t.” The word cuts sharp, firmer than you mean, but necessary. “Don’t even go there. Jude is okay. Stevie is okay. We’re okay. Don’t do that to yourself, baby.”
He exhales slowly, the weight easing just a little.
“Look,” you murmur, leaning against the counter, “We’re finishing packing up now. We’ll be your way soon, okay?”
A pause. Then his voice, softer. “Yeah… yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see you guys soon.”
10:44
7 hours and 16 minutes till disaster
You barely had the car in park before Jude tried to launch himself out of the backseat. You caught the collar of his shirt mid-flight, tugging him back with practiced ease.
“Guys, hospital. Not a playground,” you said, starting in on the usual spiel.
“We’re not six anymore, Mom.” Jude protested, squirming against your grip.
“I know, I know.” You softened, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “Just… be extra nice to Papa when you see him, okay? He’s having a rough day"
The shift was immediate. Jude stopped fighting, falling into step beside you as you herded both twins through the automatic doors into the chaos of the pit.
The waiting room was its usual cacophony. Loud coughs, groans, the low drone of names being called. The air smelled of antiseptic and burnt coffee. You locked eyes with Perlah at the desk and lifted a hand. Her face lit up, and she buzzed you through without hesitation.
“Abbots! Wasn’t expecting to see you all today. Everything okay?” she asked, scanning each of you with quick, clinical precision—never off duty.
“We’re fine,” you promised with a laugh, waving her off before she could start diagnosing anyone. “Just coming to grab our tickets. Maybe cause a little trouble while we’re here.”
Her laugh followed you into the lion’s den.
Jude spotted his target first. “Frankie!” he shouted, already sprinting toward Langdon hunched over the computer.
Langdon’s head snapped up, irritation written clear across his face—until recognition hit. His whole expression flipped to pure delight.
“Jude-dude! What is up, my man?”
You smiled as Jude skidded to a stop and launched into rapid-fire chatter, hands flying as he filled Langdon in on something that happened at school.
Stevie tugged at your arm, then darted away. “Auntie Dana!” she called, weaving through the chaos to where Dana stood. The teen flung her arms around the woman, and you caught the flash of an indulgent smile on Dana’s face as she shifted to hug her back.
By the time you caught up, the two of them were already leaning close, talking in hushed tones that were theirs alone. Stevie turned to you, eyes bright.
“Auntie says I can hang out in the lounge until we leave,” she said, voice all hopeful and seeking freedom.
You granted it. “Go ahead — but stay there. Don’t wander off. And don’t get kidnapped!” you hollered after her as she slipped down the hall.
Dana shook her head, smiling. “Oh, you’re gonna miss this when they get older. Trust me.” She bumped hips with you and folded you into a quick side hug.
“Miss it? Dana, this morning I found out Jude has a girlfriend and Stevie has a crush on one of your nurses,” you muttered, still half in disbelief.
“Which one?” she asked, steering you around the bay toward where Robby might be.
“Mateo.”
Dana snorted. “Well, at least the girl’s got taste.” Her snicker warmed the knot in your chest. You and Dana had grown close over the years — she’d taken on a present, steady role in the twins’ lives, a kind of chosen family that made the edges of your life softer. She’d also been the shoulder you leaned on when things got hard.
“How’s he doing?” you asked, lowering your voice.
Dana’s lips pressed together; she gave a small shake of her head. You huffed. “I figured as much. He was real snappy this morning, I knew it would get worse being here.”
“Keep him off the ledge for me today?” you asked, voice thick.
“Always, kid,” she said, pulling you in briefly before being tugged back to the rhythm of work.
You scanned the busy trauma center for any familiar face. Robby, or at least someone who could tell you where he was, when a soft voice asked from behind you, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
You turned. A skinny boy with wide, earnest eyes stood there, peering at you like he genuinely wanted to help. “Are you hurt?” he asked, voice already tipping between concern and professional curiosity.
“Hurt? Oh—no! Sorry, honey. I’m looking for my husband,” you said, brushing him off with a smile. You tilted your head, studying him. “Are you a student?”
He shifted on his feet, hands tugging at the hem of his black scrub top. He looked young. He looked sad. He reminded you so much of Jude that your maternal instincts flared up on instinct.
“Uh—yes, ma’am,” he started, but before he could say more a big paw landed on his shoulder, steering him with zero subtlety.
“Dr. Whitaker, I believe you’re needed in Bay Twelve,” Robby said firmly, pushing the poor kid more than guiding him.
“Robby!” you scolded, reaching out to pat the boy’s hand in reassurance. “Stop being so rough with him.”
Whitaker blinked between the two of you, his wide eyes darting as if trying to make sense of this strange dynamic.
“Ah, he likes it,” Robby muttered.
“He looks terrified,” you countered flatly. You leaned toward Whitaker, giving him a kind smile. “Don’t mind him. He’s not usually this bad.”
“I’m just trying to get him used to working here,” Robby defended, practically shoving the boy down the hall. You shook your head as Whitaker vanished into the chaos.
“You shouldn’t terrorize your interns so much… you’ll get a reputation,” you teased, delighting in the way his eyes crinkled just enough to show a fleeting smile.
“How are you?” you asked softly.
The smile vanished. He scrubbed a hand down his face, already moving, and motioned for you to follow.
“Had a nineteen-year-old OD come in. A mom brought in her eighteen-year-old who’s got a list of girls he wants to ‘eliminate.’ Trying to talk another family out of putting their dad on a ventilator—”
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed, following him as he pushed open the locker room door and held it for you.
“There’s rats—”
“Rats?!” you yelped.
“Don’t ask.” He muttered, checking his watch. “So yeah, my day’s peachy. Still got eight hours. What about you? Got anything that can distract me?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels as his eyes flicked down to yours.
“Well, lucky for you, your lovely children gave us quite a show this morning. Apparently Jude has a girlfriend now—”
Robby’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “A girlfriend?”
You nodded. “Seems like it.”
He huffed a laugh. “I’m guessing it’s that girl in his science class… Alani? He talks about her all the time.” A grin spread across his face. “My guy.”
“Don’t get too proud. Our daughter apparently has eyes on one of your nurses.”
His grin collapsed. “One of my nurses? She’s too young—”
“She’s sixteen, honey. I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. I mean, I had a crush on Jeff Goldblum when I was, like, six.”
His face drained of color. “It’s not Jess—”
You cut him off with a laugh. “No, not Jesse, that would be my choice.”
Robby shot you a comically offended glare, and you couldn’t help but grin wider.
“Relax. She’s got a thing for Mateo. Harmless. He’s a sweet boy, closer to her age. It makes sense. She’ll be over it in a few weeks.”
You reached into his bag, plucked the folded tickets from inside, and held them up like a prize. “You sure you don’t wanna call out? You’d have way more fun embarrassing the kids in front of their friends.”
Your hand slipped up to the collar of his hoodie, tugging him down until you were eye to eye. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over his tired face. He gave you a small, grim smile and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“I have to do this today,” he said quietly, his voice a low rasp swallowed by the murmur of the ER around you.
You nodded, easing back but keeping your eyes on him. “Then come on. Give your pep talk to the minis, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
The two of you stepped into the main hallway. The air carried the faint sting of antiseptic layered over something sharper—burnt coffee drifting from the nurses’ station. Phones rang, a monitor beeped steadily somewhere down the corridor, and gurney wheels squeaked against linoleum as a team rushed past with hushed urgency.
You spotted them just beyond the commotion. Langdon spinning himself wildly in a wheeled chair, his sneakers scraping the floor for momentum, while Jude doubled over in laughter beside him. The contrast of carefree energy against the tense rhythm of the ER made you smile in spite of yourself.
Robby moved forward, broad shoulders cutting through the flow of staff like a stone in a stream, but you reached out and caught his arm before he could get too far.
“Are you being nice to Langdon?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.
He snorted, folding his arms like a teenager caught red-handed. “Is Langdon being nice to anyone?”
You arched a brow, holding your ground until he shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. “I’m being nice!” he tried again, the defensiveness in his tone undercutting the claim.
“Good. Just keep an eye on him—he seems upset.” You let go of his arm, and he rolled his shoulders before heading toward Jude.
“I’m gonna grab Veve,” you called, turning down the opposite hall.
The hospital was alive, a constant pulse of urgency and care, and you moved through it with practiced ease. You slowed in front of the staff lounge, peering through the narrow glass window. Empty. Of course. You muttered a silent curse under your breath—just like her father, Stevie never listened when told to stay put.
You started down the hallway again, weaving between a pair of nurses pushing a supply cart, when a familiar voice made you pause.
Stevie’s voice.
You slowed, pressing yourself to the side of the hall as you caught sight of her trailing close behind McKay and Kiara. Her eyes were lit with curiosity, rapid-fire questions tumbling out of her before either adult could get a word in.
“So what’s the hardest part? Do people ever… I don’t know, yell at you? How do you not take it home with you? And—and do you need, like, a psychology degree first, or is it different?” Most of her questions aimed squarely at Kiara, whose easy patience and warm smile gave away that she was used to being bombarded like this.
You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, quietly taking in the scene. Stevie was so intent, so open in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. There was no mistaking it, your daughter wasn’t just making small talk. She was hungry for answers.
Then she saw you.
Color rushed into her cheeks like someone had flipped a switch. Her voice faltered, and she immediately stepped back from Kiara, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets.
“Hey,” you greeted softly, pushing off the wall.
Her eyes flicked away, suddenly shy, the Stevie who had been so bold seconds before shrinking down in the face of your knowing look. “I was just… uh. Talking. Y’know. Being polite,” she brushed off quickly, waving a hand as if the last two minutes hadn’t happened at all.
You arched a brow but didn’t press, only reaching to loop an arm loosely around her shoulders. “Come on,” you said gently. “Say bye to papa before we go.”
She nodded, grateful for the lifeline, and followed you back down the corridor. Though you didn’t miss the way her eyes darted once more to Kiara, lingering with unspoken curiosity before she finally let you guide her away.
By the time you and Stevie made it back, the boys had settled. Jude was leaning against the desk, clutching the folded tickets like they were golden, his grin hadn’t dimmed once since Robby had pressed them into his hand.
“Thanks, Papa,” Jude said earnestly, straightening to meet his father’s eye. “We’ll send you a ton of pictures, promise. And I’ll make sure Stevie doesn’t spend all her money at the merch table.”
Stevie elbowed him, but she was smiling too. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll behave. Mom’s in charge.” She glanced at you for confirmation, then softened, reaching to squeeze Robby’s arm. “Thanks, Papa. This is… really cool.”
It was the kind of chorus Robby never quite knew what to do with, all gratitude and softness pointed squarely at him. He ducked his head, ears a little pink, and gave a small grunt that was almost a laugh.
But before the moment could settle, a flurry of movement cut through the hallway. A pair of nurses rolled a gurney past, monitors blaring a harsh rhythm, the too-young frame of a boy strapped down. His skin was pale, his lips tinged with blue.
Stevie’s chatter died. Jude stared and shifted uncomfortably.
Robby’s eyes hardened, following the gurney until it disappeared into a room. Then he turned to the twins, his voice low, firm.
"OD, just a little bit older than you guys..." He trailed off slightly. "Look that stuff is in everything. Don't touch it. I'm serious."
They blinked at him, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.
“Don’t touch that stuff. Ever. I don’t care what excuse, I don’t care who offers it. Don’t make me see you come through here like that kid. Promise me.”
“Promise,” Jude said immediately, his voice steady.
“Promise,” Stevie echoed, a little softer.
Robby nodded, jaw tight. Then he turned, stepped into an empty supply cart, and came back with two slim boxes. He pressed one into each of their hands.
“What’s this?” Stevie asked, brow furrowed.
“Narcan,” Robby said. “You keep it with you. You see a friend do something stupid, you use it. Don’t ask, don’t wait. Just use it.” His gaze swept over both of them, hard and unyielding, before softening as he hooked an arm around each set of shoulders. He pulled them in, pressing a kiss to the crown of each head.
“I want you guys to have fun,” he murmured, letting them go. Then, louder, as you all started toward the door: “Listen to your mom. Don’t do anything stupid.”
The kids laughed faintly at the familiar refrain, but it stuck with them, heavy and true.
You glanced back once, catching him standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, posture taut, watching the three of you go. His eyes lingered on your silhouette, softer now, like he was holding the moment close.
“Dr. Robinavitch?” a nurse called from down the hall, a chart clutched in her hand.
Robby blinked, shoulders squaring again, and turned toward the case that needed him.
1:17
4 hours and 43 minutes until disaster
You looked over the mismatched group of teens clustered outside the row of food trucks, the smell of frying oil and grilled onions hanging heavy in the air. They buzzed with restless energy, already craning their necks toward the distant stages, sneakers bouncing against the asphalt.
“Alright, listen up,” you called, raising your voice above the hum of generators and the chatter around you. You did another quick count—six heads. Not many, but still four more than you were used to wrangling.
They stilled just enough for you to continue. “I know there are two stages, and I know you guys don’t want me following you around all day, so here’s what we’ll do.” You gave each of them a pointed look, waiting until their eyes found yours.
“You are all almost adults, so I’ll let you roam free without me—”
Your words were cut off by whoops and cheers, the teens exploding in triumphant celebration.
“But!” you barked, louder this time, and the noise faltered. “We are meeting back here at seven. On the dot. Everyone has my number, so text me if you need anything. And you stay together. No exceptions. Everyone needs to have a buddy.”
A few groans rose up, but you kept your voice firm, cutting over them. “I’m trusting you guys here. Don’t make me regret this.”
You smiled as you watched them split—a few kids trailing after Jude like ducks, while Stevie and her friend peeled off in the opposite direction, already angling toward the second stage.
Pulling out your phone, you dialed Jack, hoping to ease his nerves before alternating between groups. The call barely rang once before his voice cut in, sharp and alert.
“Hello.”
You tsked softly. “Not getting much sleep?”
There was the creak of a mattress, then a grunt as he shifted upright. “Got a few hours. Don’t need much. How’s everything there?” he asked, quick to redirect.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Gave the squirts a rundown. Buddy system, meeting point, the whole thing.”
“Mhm. And they actually listened?”
“More or less,” you said with a small laugh. “You know, it’s not too late for you to come hang out. You might even like it.”
His snort was loud enough to make you hold the phone slightly away from your ear. “Sweetheart… me? In a crowd like that? It’s a no-go. Especially not with all that noise. Sorry, you’re on your own for this one.”
You sighed loudly. “Whatever, Abbot. You better make it up to me when I get home,” you teased.
“Well, Mrs. Abbot, I think I have a few ideas that might make you happy,” he replied, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasingly seductive tone you both knew too well.
“As much as I’d love all of that, I think maybe just a massage tonight,” you said, smiling, “at least until we know Robby is okay.”
“How was he?”
“Rough shift, rough day,” you admitted. “He’s just gotta get through today.”
“Amen to that. I’ll check on him when he gets back. What time are you heading out?” His voice softened, concerned but still playful.
You glanced at your watch and back at the festival schedule. “Maybe nine-ish? That pink-pony girl is going on later, and I know Stevie’s dying to see her.” You hear Jack tut.
"alright, well be safe. Try not to have too much fun without me" He says dismissively.
"As if that's possible"
4:37
1 hour and 23 minutes until disaster
You felt her before you saw her—small hands bouncing on your shoulders, a squeal of excitement that left the girl practically vibrating with energy.
“Mama! Can you buy us a funnel cake?” Stevie begged, her eyes wide and pleading, puppy-dog style. She and her friend practically crowded you, weaving between you with impossible enthusiasm.
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched in a smile. “Yes, but I want a bite too,” you said quickly, letting them lead you toward the nearest food truck.
“Have you seen your brother and his friends?” you asked, scanning the chaotic festival grounds.
“Nah,” Stevie replied, shrugging, “I think they were trying to crowd-surf at stage one.”
You whipped your head toward the music, eyes wide in disbelief.
“Relax, Mom. Joking! They’re fine,” she said, giggling at your reaction.
You shook your head, exhaling slowly, as the vendor handed over a plate heaping with powdered sugar. The total flashed on the screen, making you grimace at the over-priced indulgence. You snagged a bite for yourself before passing the plate to the girls.
“Go find your brother, please. Make sure they’ve eaten something,” you instructed, trying to assert a little authority over the whirlwind of energy before you.
“But mo—” Stevie started, but a sharp look from you made her freeze. She raised her hands in playful surrender.
“Okayyyyuh. We’ll go find him.”
“Thank you,” you said, watching them scamper off, laughter trailing behind them as they disappeared into the crowd.
5:57
Three minutes until disaster.
You sighed, glancing down at your phone again. No messages from any of the kids. You’d been waiting by the food truck for at least thirty minutes, scanning the crowd, your patience fraying with every passing second. Finally, you made your way toward the main stage, weaving through the throng of festival-goers. You spotted a few of Jude’s friends and called out.
“Hey! Where’s everyone at?” you yelled, trying to keep the edge out of your voice. The boys turned, eyes wide, faces flushed from the heat and music.
“Sorry, Mrs. A! We got separated after we ran into Stevie. We’ve been trying to call, but no service,” one of them shouted back. You pursed your lips and nodded, pushing down the swell of worry.
“What stage?!” you bellowed over the pounding music.
Then pops cracked through the air. At first, you froze, foolishly thinking they were fireworks, but the sudden screams and chaotic shouting and scrambling from the crowd quickly shattered that illusion. Your heart slammed in your chest as adrenaline surged. Without thinking, you grabbed the two boys and dropped down instinctively, pulling them close.
You lifted your head just enough to take in the scene: people scattering, arms flailing, friends clutching each other, staggering in every direction to find safety. Dust and debris swirled at ankle level, the stench of spilled drinks and smoke hanging heavy in the air.
You whipped your gaze back to the boys, forcing your voice calm but commanding.
“Look at me. Stay low. Walk—no, move—toward the food truck entrance. Do you understand me?” You gripped their hands firmly, weaving theirs together so they’d stay connected.
“Get as far away from here as possible… and call the police the second you’re safe. Do not stop. Do not look back.”
Your voice left no room for hesitation. The world around you had become a chaotic blur, but the boys’ wide eyes held yours, and you hoped your resolve would anchor them as you prepared to move through the chaos.
“Stage one,” one of the boys said, voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide and trembling. “We… we saw Jude over there. But Stevie… she's.... We don’t know where she is.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering, and gave a sharp nod. “Okay. You two, listen to me—stay low, stay together, and get to the food truck entrance. Call the police as soon as you can. Move. Now.”
Their hands gripped each other tighter. “Yes… yes, ma’am,” one of them stammered.
“Go. Go!” you urged, giving them a quick squeeze for reassurance before letting them disappear into the panicked crowd.
You watched them go, then pressed a hand to your chest, taking a steadying breath before heading into the chaos to find the others.
6:10
Ten minutes since impact.
You raced through the panicked crowd, every step fueled by a singular goal. Cracks of gunfire echoed around you, sending shivers down your spine as you ducked and weaved through the chaos. Your voice pierced the air, desperate and raw.
“Mama!”
Stevie’s voice cut through the cacophony, carrying across the field to your ears. You whipped your head toward the sound and saw her crouched on the ground, hands pressed tightly against her friend’s abdomen. Adrenaline surged, and you sprinted toward them, sliding to a stop beside Stevie and shielding her with your body as best you could.
Her hands trembled as she pressed into her friend.
“I don’t know what happened! I couldn’t find Jude and I—”
“Are you hurt?” you cut in sharply.
She shook her head violently.
“No, Chrissy’s bleeding on her side. I’ve been putting pressure on it,” she said, voice quivering.
“Good. That’s good. We’ve got to get her out of here, okay?” You spoke firmly, trying to keep your voice calm despite the panic clawing at your chest. You crouched to check Chrissy, offering what reassurance you could, before helping Stevie lift her friend. Together, you rushed through the thinning crowd, gunfire cracking around you at random intervals.
Finally, you reached the exit and spotted a pickup truck idling nearby. You waved frantically, catching the driver’s attention. With Stevie’s help, you hoisted Chrissy into the bed of the truck, then shoved Stevie in beside her.
Rounding the front, you took in the driver. Blood spattered across her shirt, frantic movements matching the terror of the passengers.
“PTMC! My husband works there! It’s the closest!” you yelled, voice raw with urgency, hoping she understood. Y
Stevie’s eyes widened as she looked at you, panic still lingering from the chaos.
“Wait… you’re not coming with us?” she asked, voice trembling slightly.
“I can’t, baby,” you said softly patting the side of the truck to signal for the driver to start.
"I gotta find Jude baby. You're going to papa, I'll be there soon okay?" You call back watching as her frantic scared face drives away. You take a breath and turn to head back into the fire.
6:17
17 Minutes since impact.
Jack sauntered around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients from the fridge and pantry. He picked up the meat he had been defrosting, intent on seasoning it to perfection, dreaming of a warm, homecooked meal waiting for Robby when he returned. The distant chatter from his police scanner drifted through the room, and he frowned.
He crossed the kitchen and cranked the volume, straining to make out the words.
“Mass casualties.”
“All units on standby.”
“Pittfest requesting back up.”
“Multiple shots fired.”
Each announcement ripped through the speaker like a bolt of ice, freezing him mid-motion. Panic surged, a wave of white-hot fear he couldn’t shake. His hands fumbled for his phone, dialing your number—once, twice, three times—each attempt met with your cheerful voicemail.
Jack’s stomach dropped. No time. No hesitation. He snatched the nearest clean scrubs from the counter, yanked them on, and bolted for the car. He couldn’t get to the festival grounds, too chaotic, too dangerous, but he could reach the hospital. He could do something. He had to.
Slamming the car door, he felt the weight of urgency press down, every second stretching unbearably. His heart hammered as he merged into traffic, the scanner blaring in the background, each word a reminder that lives. Your life, your kids lives, were on the line.
6:23
23 minutes since impact.
You kept low, forcing calm into your movements as you weaved through the crowd. The air was thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder, layered over sweat and spilled fruity drinks until it became a sickly sweet haze that clung to your throat.
Stage One loomed ahead when something caught your eye—one familiar sneaker half-hidden in the grass, smeared dark with blood. Your stomach dropped.
That shoe.
You remembered Jude begging for them at back-to-school shopping. You remembered Jack snorting that he’d had the same pair in the nineties. You remembered Robby muttering under his breath that this was the ugliest things he’d ever seen before buying them anyway, just to keep Jude smiling.
So why now, staring at the abandoned, bloodied thing, could you not remember what shoes your son had put on this morning?
Your heart lurched into your throat. You stood, legs unsteady, and stepped toward the shoe in a daze.
Two sounds cracked the air at once—
“Mama!” Jude’s voice, sharp and terrified.
And a gunshot.
Pain tore through your shoulder, hot and sudden, but instinct jerked you toward the sound of your son.
There, by the stage a cluster of figures huddled together. You locked on them, adrenaline drowning out everything else, and pushed forward, teeth clenched against the pain in your body.
“Jude?” The word tore from your throat, half-sob, half-cry, when your eyes finally found him sprawled in the grass. Blood streaked his jeans, pooling beneath his leg.
“Oh my God—” You dropped to your knees, scanning him, hands hovering but afraid to touch. Relief punched through your fear when you realized he hadn’t been shot, though it was fleeting. His ankle bent at an unnatural angle, already swelling, the skin mottling an ugly purple.
“Not me—not me, it’s not me, Mama,” Jude babbled, his voice high and frantic. He latched onto your hands, desperate, as your eyes darted over his frame searching for bullet wounds.
A shaking hand clutched yours from the side—his friend. His face was pale, eyes too wide.
“It’s not us,” he rushed out, words tumbling. “It’s not our blood. That guy—he dragged us here when we fell.” He pointed toward a crumpled form half-hidden in the grass, still and unmoving.
Your chest clenched. You forced yourself to breathe, to press the heels of your palms into your eyes until black spots danced. Not now. You can’t break now.
“Okay. Okay,” you whispered, forcing steadiness into your voice. You dropped your hands and looked around, scanning the empty lot. No sign of any one, No sign of the shooter, No sign of where safety is. Just the echoes of screams and sirens clawing at the edges of your focus.
6:30
30 minutes since impact.
Jack skated into the parking lot on two wheels, adrenaline propelling him forward. He raced through the hospital doors, the antiseptic air and distant beeping of monitors doing little to calm his nerves. His eyes immediately locked onto Robby, who was standing near the triage area, clipboard in hand, instructing a group of wide-eyed interns and staff preparing for their first MCI.
Robby’s voice cut through the controlled chaos, steady and sharp. “Okay, listen up! Everyone follow the tagging system. We’re going color-coded. Red is immediate—life-threatening but treatable. Yellow is delayed—serious injuries, but stable. Green is minor—still need care, but you can wait. Black? Deceased. Take 'em to peds! I don’t want any mistakes. Check, double-check, then tag.”
He moved between the interns, demonstrating with a mock patient. “I know it seems overwhelming at first, but it’s the only way we keep this organized. Triage is about making tough calls fast. Don’t panic. If you’re unsure, ask for help—always ask for help.” He quickly turns to Jack and wraps and arm around him pulling him in for a tight brief hug.
"Anything?" He whispered in Jacks ear. A small shake of the head was all he got in return. Robby shakes his head and tries to focus on the task at hand. He assigns positions for everyone, and quickly tosses his phone to Dana.
"I can't-" She cuts him off quickly and calmy.
"Don't do that to yourself Robby, It's going to be fine. We'll reach them. I'll keep trying."
6:42
The hospital bay was chaos when the truck screeched in, floodlights bouncing off metal and glass. Stevie snapped her head up, scanning for anything familiar anyone and then she saw her.
“Ellis!” Her voice cracked as it tore from her throat. “I need help!”
She’d wanted it to sound loud, steady, grown-up—but the last word broke. Her gaze dropped to her friend in her lap, her hands pressing harder into the girl’s side, slick with blood.
“Hurry!”
They didn’t make her wait. A gurney slammed into place at the tailgate, practiced hands taking over, peeling Stevie’s fingers away from her friend’s wound. She let them, but her eyes never left Chrissy’s face as she stumbled through the details.
“She—she was talking when we left. I kept pressure on it the whole time. Then she—” Stevie’s breath caught, her chest tight. “She just fell asleep halfway here. I couldn’t wake her up.”
Strong hands steadied her shoulders, coaxing her down from the truck bed. The shorts you’d told her not to wear this morning did nothing against the rough metal, scraping her thighs as she slid down. She barely felt it. Her mind kept pinging between Chrissy, Mama, Jude. Too much.
She didn’t notice the tears on her face. Didn’t hear her own ragged sobs over the pounding in her ears.
“Stevie. Hey. You need to breathe, okay?” Ellis’s voice broke through, soft but firm, trying to anchor her. A hospital band was snapped onto her wrist, the sound sharp and foreign.
“Listen to me. I’m gonna take you to your dad, alright? But first I need you to—”
“No!” Stevie shook her head hard, yanking back from her grip. Her words tumbled out, broken and gasped. “My mom—she’s not here. I couldn’t find Ju—”
Her hands rose and flailed, fingers splayed as though she could shake the panic right out of them.
“Shen! Go find Abbot—or Robby!” Ellis barked over her shoulder, but she kept her focus on the girl, approaching slow, like she might bolt.
6:45
The Pitt was chaos. Robby moved from cot to cot, his hands never still, checking airways, pressing gauze, shouting vitals to nurses. He barely had a second to glance at each face, praying he wouldn’t find one of his own staring back at him.
Then he saw it: a flash of black hair, a silver charm bracelet dangling off the side of a gurney. His stomach dropped.
“Chrissy?”
He pushed forward, wedging himself between two nurses. The girl’s skin was pale, her breaths shallow and wet. Blood seeped through the shirt at her side, the soaked fabric already losing its battle to the steady ooze. His hands flew into motion before his brain could catch up.
“Type and cross—two units, now!” he barked, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves. “Somebody page surgery, I want Walsh here now.”
He pressed firm against her wound, feeling the hot seep of blood against the pads of his gloves. His gut clenched. Too much. Too fast.
“Entry wound’s low right quadrant,” he said quickly to the nurse jotting notes. “Possible liver involvement—her belly’s already rigid.” His fingers skimmed over her abdomen, the tautness beneath her skin confirming what he feared. Internal bleeding.
“BP’s tanking!” a medic called out from the monitor.
“She’s bleeding out,” Robby snapped. “I need more pressure here—give me an occlusive. Get me large-bore IVs, both arms, and push fluids until the blood’s ready. Keep her sats above ninety.”
Someone slid in at his side with a new dressing, and Robby clamped down with both hands, willing the bleeding to slow.
Someone slid in at his side with a fresh occlusive dressing, and Robby slapped it down hard, both palms pressing into Chrissy’s side. The steady gush beneath his hands slowed, the dressing finally holding back some of the flow. He leaned his weight into it, counting the heartbeats in his head, every one of them too fragile, too faint.
“Robby!” a voice shouted from across the room.
“Get someone else!” he barked, eyes locked on the girl’s paling face. His knees hit the mattress as he climbed onto the gurney itself, putting every ounce of strength into keeping the wound sealed.
“She’s stabilizing,” the nurse at the monitor called, hope breaking through the chaos.
Then came the words that froze him:
“It’s Stevie.”
His head snapped up. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, torn between the girl bleeding out beneath his hands and the daughter calling for him across the Pitt.
McKay slid into the gap at his side, gloves already red, voice calm but urgent. “Go. I’ve got her.”
Robby’s eyes darted between them, the weight of the decision crushing him. Chrissy’s pressure was holding, barely, but enough. He forced his hands to release, transferring the seal to McKay’s grip, his voice tight.
“Keep pressure constant. She’s got a liver hit—she needs the OR, now. Bump her up the list, don’t let them waste a second.”
McKay gave a sharp nod, already shouting for transport.
Robby staggered back, chest heaving, blood still slicking his wrists. He ripped off his gloves and shoved through the sliding door, the humid night air wrapping around him like a vice. His eyes locked on the girl pacing in frantic circles, arms wrapped tight across her chest.
“Stevie?” His voice cut through the din, urgent but soft.
Her head snapped up. Robby closed the distance in seconds, scanning her frame for injuries, his gaze darting over her like she was another trauma patient.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded.
Stevie shook her head so fast her hair stuck to her damp cheeks, her throat tightening around the sobs she was trying to choke back.
That was all he needed. He pulled her into his chest, arms locking around her as her body broke against him. Her sobs tore through the air, raw and helpless.
“I couldn’t—I didn’t stop the bleeding,” she gasped against his shirt.
Robby shook his head, pulling her back just enough to cup her face in his bloodstained hands, forcing her eyes to meet his.
“You did good. You hear me? You did really good.” His voice was steady, the kind he saved for patients on the edge. He nodded to make her believe it. “She’s gonna be okay. Where’s your brother, huh? Mama?”
Stevie’s face crumpled all over again, a second wave crashing over her. “She went to find Jude and I—oh my God, I just left them.” Her words splintered into another sob.
Robby’s hands tightened on her shoulders, grounding her before she unraveled completely.
“It’s not your fault. None of this is on you.” His voice carried the same edge of command he used in the Pitt. “Everything’s going to be fine. Look—”
He turned her gently, guiding her back toward the sliding doors. He raised his voice, sharp over the chaos. “Dana!”
The blonde nurse caught his eye and jogged over, expression already softening as she reached for Stevie.
“I’ve got her,” Dana assured quickly, looping an arm around the trembling girl.
Robby lingered just long enough to press a quick kiss to the top of Stevie’s head. Then he pulled back, jaw tight, scanning the chaos again and jumped onto the first red bracelet he saw.
6:50
You had finally worked up the nerve to move, the silence after the last volley of gunfire heavy in your ears. No more shots—at least not yet.
Jude couldn’t put weight on his ankle, not a chance. His friend wasn’t faring much better, struggling with each breath, his face pale and slick with sweat. You hadn’t gotten the full story from them in the scramble, but from the looks of it, he’d been trampled when the panic started.
You alternated between tugging Jude forward and steadying his friend, weaving from cover to cover, shielding them with your own body whenever you had to break across open ground. Every jolt sent white-hot pain screaming through your shoulder. You could feel your shirt clinging, heavy and wet, the spreading warmth of blood soaking into your back.
By the time you managed to drag them behind a splintered concession cart, your chest was heaving, vision spotted at the edges.
“Okay.” You wheezed, bracing one arm against the cart, forcing the other to stay steady. “Okay. Listen to me.”
Your eyes darted ahead—ten yards. Maybe fifteen. Just the stretch of open asphalt, then the parking lot. If you could get there, you could find help.
You swallowed hard and turned back to the boys. “I can’t drag you both over there.”
“I can walk,” Jude’s friend rasped, peeling his hand away from his stomach. The mottled bruise beneath told you everything. He pushed against the ground, trying to rise.
You shoved him gently but firmly back down. “No way.”
His wince was enough to confirm it. You shook your head, sharper this time. “You’ve got broken ribs, maybe worse. You can’t run across ten yards of open ground. You’ll collapse halfway, and then I can’t protect you.”
Jude’s wide eyes flicked between you and his friend, panic starting to bleed into them. You gritted your teeth, ignoring the way your shoulder throbbed with each beat of your heart.
“We have to be quick,” you said, voice steady, even though your chest burned and your shoulder screamed. The words were for them as much as they were for you.
Your eyes locked on Jude’s friend first. “I’ll take Jude. I will come back for you. Do not move. Stay low, stay quiet. Five minutes.” You leaned in, making sure he saw the conviction in your eyes. “I’m not leaving you.”
The boy nodded weakly, though his eyes betrayed the fear flooding through him. He was just a kid, too young to look this terrified. Your gut twisted at the sight, but you couldn’t let yourself falter. You hated yourself for having to pick, but if you froze now, you’d lose them both.
You cut him off, sharp but firm. “I am coming back.” You locked your gaze on his, willing him to believe it. “Nothing will happen to either of you. I promise.”
Jude’s jaw trembled, but he nodded. That was all you needed.
You slid your hands under his arms, ignoring the way your shoulder protested with every movement, and hoisted him up. His weight pressed into you, awkward and heavy with his ankle useless, but adrenaline carried you forward.
“Hold on,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
Then you dragged him into the open, heart pounding in your ears, every shadow and broken sound making you flinch. Ten yards. Just ten yards to safety.
6:55
Stevie’s wild eyes tracked the chaos like a pinball. Her chest heaving, hands balled into fists at her sides. Dana had stayed with her as long as she could, but the moment she was pulled away, the girl was left standing on her own in the noise, in the blood.
Her gaze bounced—Robby’s hands slick and steady, the crimson pooling on the floor, Samira elbow-deep in a chest cavity, voices shouting vitals, clamps, suction. Blood. That was all there was. The copper tang of it clogged her throat, turned her stomach. She couldn’t look away.
Just then someone stepped in, tall enough to block her view, his back broad and steady, gray curls damp with sweat where they curled against his neck. Her throat loosened. She knew that stance anywhere.
“Dad…” she whispered, almost too soft to hear. The word caught, half-prayer, half-relief. She opened her mouth to call again, louder this time.
But caramel braids came flashing down the hallway, bounding toward the chaos with the same fierce momentum Stevie had only ever associated with power.
“Kiara!” Stevie’s voice cracked as she yelled, her arm shooting out. The woman slowed, caught sight of her, and immediately veered off.
Stevie rushed forward, desperate. “I want to help. Tell me what to do.”
Her voice was trembling, but her jaw was set. She wasn’t asking to be comforted. She was begging to do something.
7:00
You moved as fast as your legs would carry you, lungs burning, every step a prayer. At last, the wail of sirens cut through the night, followed by the clipped chatter of radios. Safety, close enough to taste.
You shoved Jude behind the shelter of a car, pressing him tight against the metal as you crouched to meet his eyes.
“There are cops over there,” you whispered, pointing toward the flashing lights. “I want you to go, tell them to take you to PCMT.”
Jude shook his head instantly, tears welling in his wide brown eyes. “But, Mom—”
You pressed a finger to his lips, cutting him off. “I have to go back.” You leaned in and kissed his forehead, letting the moment linger for just a heartbeat. “We’re right behind you. I promise.”
“Mom, please—” His voice cracked, the sound slicing through you worse than the pain in your shoulder.
“I know,” you said, gripping his face between your hands so he couldn’t look away. “I know it’s scary. But I need you to be brave for me, just a little bit longer.” Your voice shook, but your words were iron. “I’ll be right behind you."
You pivoted sharply, heart hammering in your chest, and sprinted toward Jude’s friend. Every step felt heavier than the last, but fear left no room for hesitation. The boy was small, bruised, and vulnerable. And felt you were the only shield between him and whatever else might come.
Halfway there, your vision wavered. Your lungs burned, a wave of dizziness hitting like a freight train. Your legs buckled slightly beneath you, and you crumpled forward, pressing your hands to the cool asphalt for support.
“Not now… not now,” you muttered, gritting your teeth. You forced yourself upright, shaking off the stars dancing in your vision. Sweat and blood stung your eyes, your chest heaving violently, but you pushed forward.
Finally, you reached him. He looked up, fear etched into every line of his face. You didn’t have time to kneel or comfort him. With trembling hands, you hooked him under the arms, bracing your own body against his weight, and began dragging him toward cover. Each scrape, each jolt of pain in your shoulder and back threatened to topple you, but you forced your muscles to obey.
“Gonna be okay… almost there,” you muttered quietly, unsure if it was for him or for yourself.
The flashing lights of police cruisers came into view, officers shouting for people to move back. Adrenaline surged through you as you pulled the boy toward the nearest car, finally sliding him behind the barrier. You staggered, trying to stand upright, to get your bearings.
“PCMT…” you slurred, blinking rapidly, trying to push the black dots from your vision. Your legs wobbled beneath you, your hands trembling as you reached for the car to brace yourself.
But the world tilted, the air slipping away like sand through your fingers. You tried to fight it, to stay upright, but it was no use. Your body gave out, and you tumbled to the ground, darkness finally swallowing you whole.
7:10
The flashing reds and blues from the police cruisers painted the ambulance bay in jagged bursts, mixing with the harsh morning light and the smell of burnt rubber and fuel. Officers shouted over each other, herding news reporters, giving directions, and calling for stretchers. The chaos felt endless, a blur of uniforms, wheels, and frantic movement.
Jude sat in the back of a police car, his injured ankle tucked uncomfortably beneath him. The sudden stop made him lurch forward, gripping the edges of the seat. He quickly popped open the back door and tried to stagger out.
“Woah, woah, man, let’s wait—” Shen muttered, throwing his coffee cup down as he rushed to support Jude. He crouched beside the boy, scanning for new injuries, worry etched deep across his face.
“Need a wheelchair, and someone let them know we got eyes on Jude out here,” Shen called back, trying to maintain control over the frantic scene.
“I don’t need one!” Jude protested, trying to push himself upright despite the pain.
Jack appeared moments later, running across the slick concrete, eyes darting between the chaos and his son. The wheelchair rolled into position in front of him with a screech of rubber against pavement.
“J, get in the wheelchair,” Jack said firmly, his voice cutting through the chaos.
“I don’t—”
“Get in the fucking chair!” Jack barked, the fear in his tone breaking through any argument. Jude froze, the anger and stubbornness draining from him in an instant. His hands trembled as Jack gently but firmly guided him into the chair.
Once seated, Jude’s wide eyes darted around at the surrounding officers, paramedics, and the jumble of victims and survivors. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, the chaos around him pressing down like a physical weight.
“Are you hurt?” Jack asked, guiding him quickly inside the ambulance bay. Jude let out a shaky breath, his voice small.
“My ankle… I think it’s broken.”
Jack’s eyes softened, a flare of worry burning in them as he examined Jude in the brighter, harsh light of the hospital. Tears threatened to spill as he took in his injured boy, the helplessness of the moment hitting him full force.
“Okay, little buddy, don’t worry. Gonna fix you right up,” Jack said, the old nickname slipping out instinctively, the one he’d called Jude when he was smaller and every scrape had seemed monumental.
“Mom went back… I don’t know… I think she was bleeding. I couldn’t—she wouldn’t let me see,” Jude rattled off, the words tumbling out as the emotions fully overtook him. He shook his head, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“Stevie?” Jack asked after a moment, bracing himself for the answer. Jude shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her,” he muttered, the uncertainty cutting through him like ice.
Jack pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his hairline, trying to offer steady comfort amidst the whirlwind of fear and panic.
“It’s all gonna be okay, little buddy. Don’t you worry. I’m gonna have Ellis check you out. I’ll come get you as soon as I know anything about Mama and Veve, okay? It’s all gonna be okay.”
Jude didn’t know if he truly believed his father, but he wanted to. He nodded along, clinging to the thread of reassurance Jack offered, however fragile it felt in the storm of his own terror.
Jack rested a firm hand on Jude’s shoulder for a moment, grounding him, before the ER erupted into chaos once again. The sliding doors burst open and two EMTs rushed in, one wheeling a stretcher carrying a body, the other maneuvering a boy on a gurney. The organized panic of the staff, the clipped commands, the hum of monitors, it all collided into a wall of sensory overload.
Jude instinctively sat up straighter, eyes wide.
“That’s Jax,” he said, his voice trembling as he tried to lift himself from the chair. Jack quickly pressed him back down.
“I’ll check him out,” he said firmly, voice calm but authoritative.
Then a familiar voice cut through the clamor.
“Jude?” Stevie’s voice, sharp and panicked, pierced through the noise. She barreled toward him, eyes scanning until they landed on her brother. Relief broke across her face as she threw herself into his arms.
For a moment, the chaos of the ER faded. The twins, who usually bickered, teased, and tormented each other endlessly, held each other tightly. Stevie rested her head against Jude’s shoulder, and for once he didn’t flinch, didn’t roll his eyes, he just held on. It was a rare moment of closeness, a small beacon of normalcy in the storm.
Jack’s eyes softened as he watched, the familiar, warm tug in his chest making him glad they were safe. He stepped closer, voice gentle but firm.
“Stevie… are you okay?”
Stevie lifted her head, wiping away tears and giving a small, determined nod.
“I’m okay, Dad.”
Jack allowed himself a relieved exhale, his attention snapping back to Jude.
“Alright… little buddy, we'll make sure we get you patched up,” he said, before walking slightly to check Jude’s friend as well. That’s when his gaze lifted, scanning the room—and froze.
There you were.
Laid out on the gurney just ahead of Jude’s friend, Samira working frantically on you. Jack’s eyes locked on your still form, and without thinking, his voice rang out across the chaos.
“Robby—”
His gaze didn’t waver, but Robby’s head snapped up, finding your limp body in the center of the trauma bay.
Jack moved forward, slightly overtaking Samira, muttering sharply, “I got it.” He knelt beside you, sliding you gently onto your side. The entrance wound on your shoulder came into clear view. His voice rattled off the assessment instinctively, precise and rapid:
“GSW—right shoulder. Significant blood loss.”
He rolled you onto your back, eyes sweeping over your body.
“No exit wound. Possible head trauma.” His gaze flicked to your face, noting the thin trail of blood streaking down the side.
“The EMTs said she passed out, cracked her head on the concrete,” Mohan added, stepping closer.
Jack muttered under his breath, curses mixing with commands as his hands moved methodically.
“Alright. I want her first in line for CT. Start a bag of B-positive going immediately. I need to get the bullet out of her shoulder.”
Even amid the chaos, Jack’s eyes never left your face, scanning for signs of consciousness, gauging every shallow breath, every twitch. The trauma bay had become a storm of movement, lights, and alarms, but for him, the world had narrowed down to one urgent focus: you.
“Dad—” Stevie’s voice cut through the air just as Jack pushed the gurney into a more secluded room. He spared a glance over his shoulder, his chest aching at the fear in her eyes.
“Get back!” he barked, his voice sharp, instinctively protective. She didn’t need to see this. She didn’t need to watch if he couldn’t get you back.
“Robby—” he called, only to glance toward the space his partner had been standing and find it empty.
“Dana!” His voice boomed. The blonde nurse’s head whipped toward him immediately.
“Get them out of here. Now.” He didn’t wait for confirmation before slamming the glass doors shut behind him.
The room fell into the rhythm of organized chaos. Jack snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, his voice rattling off orders with machine precision.
“Two large-bore IVs—16 gauge—wide open with crystalloids. Prep a unit of B-positive. Suction on standby. Tray with retractors, clamps, and forceps.”
He leaned over you, eyes burning a hole into your chest, counting the rise and fall of your breaths—shallow, irregular. Not good enough.
“Oxygen levels?” he demanded.
“Eighty-seven and dropping,” a nurse replied.
“Prep for intubation.” Jack snapped. He tilted your head, inserted the laryngoscope, and in one fluid motion advanced the endotracheal tube, the ventilator hiss filling the room. The monitors steadied.
“Okay,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a prayer than a statement.
He cut away the fabric around your shoulder and peeled back the gauze, exposing the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the swelling and trajectory were bad.
“Projectile’s lodged—subclavian region,” Jack said through gritted teeth. “Retractors.”
A nurse slid the instrument into his palm. He carefully widened the wound, his eyes locked on the dark track of torn tissue. His breath caught when he saw how close the bullet sat to the subclavian artery. Millimeters. One slip, and—
“Clamp.” He took it without hesitation, securing a bleeder.
“Suction.” The steady whir cleared his field as blood pooled.
“There,” Jack murmured, his gloved fingers working with meticulous precision. He maneuvered forceps into the wound, feeling the scrape of metal against metal.
“Got it.” He pulled slowly, carefully, and then the bullet slipped free, slick with blood, dropping into the waiting basin with a dull metallic clink.
“Pressure dressing. Get me hemostatic gauze.” He packed the wound quickly, then sutured with swift, practiced motions.
His hands trembled just slightly as he stripped off the gloves, his eyes dragging back to your face.
“And someone get her a fucking CT! Now!” Jack barked, his voice cracking through the room like a whip. He reached down, fingers smoothing the baby hairs along your hairline, a gentleness that didn’t match the fury in his tone. A silent promise lingered in his touch: I’ll be back.
Then he turned, tearing himself away, stepping into the corridor where the chaos had dulled into something quieter, steadier.
His eyes fell immediately to the nurse’s station. Jude sat upright on one of the beds, pale but alert, while Mohan checked him over. Stevie had claimed her post at her brother’s side, her hand laced with his, her head resting against his knee. Jack exhaled slowly, relief flickering through the edges of his exhaustion.
Still, his gaze kept scanning. Searching.
“Check upstairs.”
The voice behind him pulled Jack’s attention. A younger intern. Jack recognized the face but not the name, stood awkwardly with a chart in hand.
Jack frowned, but before he could ask, the boy clarified quickly, voice lowering. “He was having a moment in Peds.”
Jack’s confusion must’ve shown, because the kid rushed to explain. “I saw her come in earlier.” He nodded toward your room. “It really shook Dr. Robby.”
Jack’s jaw clenched.
“And you—” Dennis hesitated, but pressed on, “you called for him. The way you looked around for him… I don’t know. I just thought you’d want to know.”
Jack’s lips pressed into a hard line. No more words, just a stiff nod, and then he was already moving, bolting up the stairwell practically two steps at a time.
He knew exactly where he’d find Robby. Back on the wrong side of the ledge where they’d crossed paths that morning.
Jack swung open the emergency door to the roof, gravel crunching beneath each step. Robby was at the guardrail, shoulders hunched, stethoscope hanging like dead weight off to the side. Jack’s stomach twisted. This was a man who never broke, never bent, now clinging to the rail like it was the only thing holding him up.
“Robby,” Jack said quietly.
Robby’s head snapped back toward him, red-rimmed eyes darting over Jack before fixing forward again on the dark stretch of city. His voice was hoarse when it came.
“I yelled at her this morning.” His knuckles whitened against the rail. “She was just—trying to help me, and I fucking snapped at her.”
Jack stepped up beside him, resting his own hands on the rail, letting the silence stretch before speaking. “She knows how hard today is for you. She’s not—”
“I’m mad at myself, Jack!” Robby cut him off, the words tearing out of him.
Jack opened his mouth, but Robby barreled on. “I should’ve called out. I should’ve been with her. That should be me—”
“Stop it. You know that’s not—”
“She asked me to go!” Robby’s voice cracked. “And I told her no, I told her I had work today, and now—”
“And now what?” Jack snapped back, their voices overlapping in the night air. “You think if you’d gone, you’d have thrown yourself in front of the bullet? You think she’d be fine with you on the table instead?”
Robby’s breath shuddered out of him, harsh and uneven, but Jack didn’t let the silence win. He leaned closer, his voice steady but fierce.
“You don’t get to do this, Robby. You don’t get to torture yourself with what-ifs. You know why? Because we’ve got two scared kids downstairs waiting on us. They need us. Together. She’s going to need us when she wakes up.”
Jack shook his head, planted his feet, and leaned in until Robby had no place to look but his eyes. “I’m not leaving you. But they need us downstairs.”
Robby’s breath hitched. For a long, ragged second he simply stared at Jack, the fight draining out of him like the tide. Then he closed his hand around the rail, swallowed, and let out a slow, uneven exhale. His shoulders squared just a fraction.
“Okay,” he managed, voice small and brittle. “Okay. Let’s go.”
They stepped away from the edge together, the city noise below swallowed by the gravity of the moment, and walked back inside.
The elevator doors creaked open with a soft ding. Jack’s eyes landed first on Jude, sitting upright on a bed near the nurse’s station, Mohan finishing up a wrap on his ankle. Jack pointed.
“Little man’s going to be fine—just a break,” he said with relief. His brow furrowed. “Stevie was just…”
His voice trailed as he followed Robby’s line of sight. Robby wasn’t looking at Jude at all. His gaze had locked across the room.
Stevie sat on the edge of another gurney, her small hand folded over the hand of a girl about her age. The girl’s eyes were red and swollen, but Stevie leaned in, speaking softly, steady as stone. Comfort came to her as naturally as breath.
Jack tilted his head, a quiet swell of pride warming the tension in his chest.
“Abbot.”
The voice cut through, pulling him back. Walsh stood at his elbow, file in hand.
“CT scans are clear. She lost a lot of blood, but she should wake up soon.” Walsh gave a brief nod toward your room before moving on.
Jack blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His eyes found Robby’s, the sharpness in them softened by that sliver of hope.
“Split up?” Jack asked.
Robby hesitated, then nodded once.
“You sit with her. I’ll watch the kids,” Jack said firmly, guiding Robby toward the doorway gently.
Robby stopped and turned to him. “Hey.” His voice cracked as he pulled Jack in for a tight hug, holding on longer than either of them usually allowed.
"Thank you" He whispered to Jack. Jack clapped his shoulder once, steady and sure, before letting him go.
Jack crossed back to Jude, crouching low to check his ankle wrapping, all while sneaking glances at Stevie flit from bed to bed like it was the most natural thing in the world— sitting and comforting, helping, offering a shoulder just like she'd seen Kiara do.
And Robby, for the first time all day, sat at your bedside. His hand found yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles. The steady rise and fall of your chest calmed the storm inside him, grounding him in something he hadn’t felt since the morning began. Peace.
Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Suggestive discussions, talks of kinks/interests (very lightly) mostly just silly and fluffy.
Summary: Clayton finds out you have a photo album on your phone of pictures and clips of him.
Notes: Inspired by the ridiculous number of pictures of Clayton I have on my phone.
Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)
Writing Masterlist
You're not really thinking when you say it, a passing comment after he shows you a picture he took with Schmaltz on the latest roadie. Just a quick 'adding that one to the folder', that gets an eyebrow raise and immediate curiosity from Clay.
It becomes a battle of wills. Your stubbornness not to show him the folder and his refusal to budge because he's simply too curious now to walk away from the conversation. In the end you're the one who folds; unlocking your phone and shoving it towards him already on the photo album that you keep your ridiculous number of photos and clips of Clay in...the folder you'd been adamant about never revealing to him because it was embarrassing.
The grin he has on his face says it all, wide, dimple on show as he swipes through photo after photo, clip after clip. You're groaning, sinking down against against the sofa cushions, a throw pillow pulled up to cover your face because you can't face the embarrassment.
"You really like me sweaty and bucketless, huh?" He flicks the screen over to the next picture of him on the bench. His hair is a mess, sweaty and sticking to his skin, chains out, the bucket is off, probably in his lap or handed off to someone to get adjusted. You have at least 10 pictures of him like that. All in a row, one after the other.
"Shut up..."
"It's cute, baby," It's cute how many pictures you have of him. It's cute how much you like him...he's had the nonchalant girls before. The one's that act cool, that don't make it clear how much they like you. You're not like that. You're a lover girl through and through, he can't doubt that you find him attractive or that you want him because it's all here in your phone for him to see, it's all written across your face, in your actions, in your words.
"It's embarrassing."
"It's not embarrassing to find your boyfriend hot, baby."
"Yes, it is!"
He just shakes his head at you and keeps scrolling. Photos of him with his hair free and sweaty. Clips of him spitting on the ice. So many clips of him chewing on a mouthguard or yelling orders at people. A few pictures of him with his black eye or bloody from some accident on the ice or another.
"Why are there so many clips of me yelling at people, baby?" He stops on one, he's frowning at someone, maybe Maccelli, yelling something that looks suspiciously like 'get your shit together'...it's a little embarrassing for him. He knows he can be a little intense on the ice sometimes, still trying to find that balance between giving direction and order and being a dickhead.
"It's hot..." You mumble pulling the pillow down slightly, enough to look at him over the top of it. You're all wide eyed, shy, feeling self-conscious because all of his attention is on you and what you find attractive about him.
"It's hot?"
"I don't know..." You try to pull the pillow back up to cover your face, but Clay's hand is there, tugging it down to stop you from hiding completely from him again.
"No, no, you don't get to back out of that one, sweet girl. Why's it hot?" He's being soft with you, gentle voice, rumbly. The one that makes you want to squirm in place and kick your feet...it makes it a little easier, even if the eye contact has your face on fire. Intense blue eyes fixed on your features, eager to see you as you answer him.
"I...I like when you're in charge and all captainy..." You've always liked Clay in charge. It's what drew you to him in the first place. He led and you followed and he led well. You could shut your brain off around him, it was easy to do because you knew he'd make sure you were good.
The smile he gives you is a little evil, smirking with one half of his mouth, looking at you from under his lashes as he starts to lean over you as you shrink back feeling giddy in the pit of your stomach in a way that has you pursing your lips in an effort not to giggle.
"You want me to tell you want to do, baby?"
"Shut up." It's got no bite at all, your face is as hot as it can get and Clayton knows he's got you as you squirm in place. You're practically lying on the couch, Clayton leaning over you like he's about to kiss you. Instead he just laughs, pulling back just enough to show you the phone again.
A clip of him spitting on the ice, something you can't even begin to explain...it's just hot. In a way that you can't fathom. It might just be because it's Clay. The idea of anyone else doing that a turn off not a turn on.
"Okay, okay, but what about these ones? You want me to spit on you too?" He's being mean, he knows he is, as you hide your face behind your hands, groaning in embarrassment, cringing away from your own phone.
"Clayton..."
There's a pause where he stops laughing, dropping the phone to the side so he can reach for your hands, pulling them away from your face so he can look at you.
"You know you can tell me if you do, right? I wanna know what makes you tick, what gets you goin' for me." He means it too. God, all Clayton ever wants is to please you. He doesn't care what that entails...so if you want him to spit on you he'll do it. If you want him to chew you up like a mouthguard he's all in. If you want him to get beaten up on the ice every night just to have something extra purple to look at he'd do it. For you he'd do it.
You shove at his shoulder but it barely moves him, frowning up at him with a pout.
"I'm telling your mum that you're a menace."
"What are you going to say? That I talk dirty to you and it's wrong? Think my mom might a bit scarred if you do that, baby." He laughs because the idea of you telling his mom anything that goes on in your bedroom is laughable. You'd never do it, you can barely talk dirty to him let alone tell his mom what he's been up to. Even if you did, his mom would just tease you about it probably. It'd be worse for you in the long run.
You throw your head back with a groan, neck long, cheek pressed into the couch cushions. Pretty. Embarrassed, but pretty. You're always pretty, it makes him lose his train of thought for a moment. It takes Clay a second just to get back to what he was going to say.
"Just talk to me...you've kept these for a reason, so why? Why all the mouthguard pics?"
You mumble under your breath, inaudible, as if you think he'll let you off the hook if you don't speak loud enough. His fingers come up to brush your hair from your face, backs of them grazing your cheek gently, softly. A reminder that he's not going to judge you, that he loves you.
"Can't hear you, sweet girl."
"I want you to bite me and mark me up like I'm that stupid mouthguard..." He's already laughing, head thrown back and it has you groaning, shoving at Clay's shoulders again, "shut up, it's embarrassing."
"It's cute." It's hot actually. His eyes already a little darker at the idea of marking you up like a personal painting, the idea that you'd let him even if you're acting all coy about it right now.
"It's embarrassing."
"What about the moustache pics?" The stupid moustache he tried to grow back in Arizona. Barely there, a laughable excuse for one especially when compared to Bainer and Schmaltzy.
"I don't know...thought you looked cute with it...even though its a pathetic attempt at facial hair." God, it was bad, you had it bad...because even that stupid moustache was cute. It made you want to kiss him. It made you want to kick your feet and squeal.
"Oh, you love me love me, huh?" He's back over you, hands on either side of your head, nose nuzzling against your own, invading your personal space because shit, you really do love him, huh? God, he loves it. He loves how openly you love him, even if you think it's embarrassing, even if you think he's going to run for the hills or laugh in your face.
"Shut up." You're mumbling, eyes looking away from his, off to the side, like he's not right up in your face right now, close enough that he might as well be kissing you.
"Well, I love you love you too."
The way he kisses you says it all really. Deep, passionate, loving like he wants to devour you because he does. God, you're it. You're everything. He loves that you keep photos and clips of him on your phone. He loves that you have an album just of him. That you screenshot pictures from the team insta and save pictures he sends you. That you love him so much that you keep that in your pocket every day.
What he doesn't tell you is that he has his own album too. Of you.
When a car accident leaves you with custody of your three younger siblings, your world crumbles. Navigating your own grief, funeral arrangements, and the children depending on you - it feels like there's no way out. But if there's one thing Bradley Bradshaw knows about, it's loss. A new position brings him back to San Diego, and back into your life right when you need it most. (from this anon request)
warnings: parental death, angst, hurt/comfort, sad dad bradley, w/c: 10k
for my 1k follower celebration! thank you so much to everyone who's ever read and supported my fics <3
It’s been seven hours since your parents died. Seven hours since the truck collided with your dad’s Chevrolet, on a freeway just two miles from your childhood home. They had been going out for dinner, their first night alone since the twins had been born.
They were stopping off at The Hard Deck to drop a birthday present off for Maverick, neighbour and long-time friend, before heading across town to hit the new Thai place that had just opened up.
At least, that’s what the babysitter had told the cops.
Your mom had been coming to visit you in San Francisco just next weekend. Want some time with my biggest girl, she’d said. Especially since we haven’t been around much recently, what with Olivia and Molly.
But now they’re gone, and your entire childhood resides only in your memory.
Never again will you go to a concert with your dad, continually teasing about his teenage girl taste, and the fact that you’re pretty sure he likes Lana Del Rey more than you do. You’ll never have coffee with your mom, gossiping about distant family members who neither of you have seen in years.
In a single instant, life has become abstract - you’re not sure who you are without them. You’re not even sure you want to find out.
The traffic’s slowed down, now that it’s after midnight. You’ve been driving since you got the news, knuckles white as you grip the steering wheel.
One second you were applying lipstick, getting ready to head out for a date. You’d met the guy on Hinge, and it was unlikely to go anywhere, but you’d been trying to force yourself to get back in the game. It felt like all your friends were starting to settle down, find their person. You’ve not had much luck on that front. Three months here, six months there - it never went anywhere.
You weren’t committal enough. Too unwilling to change. You’d heard it all.
Now all you can think about is your horrifically inappropriate shade of lipstick, and the fact that you’re never going to see your mom again.
You think you might be sick.
*****
You had been an accident. And unfortunate, but indisputable fact. Sure, your parents loved each other - but they certainly weren't planning for a baby at eighteen.
Fresh out of high school, they’d made the best with what they had - a tiny house in the San Diego suburbs, all while scrambling to find jobs. It’s a decision that would forever intwine your lives with the Bradshaw family.
Living in the slightly better house at the end of the street, Nick and Carole Bradshaw were approximately a year ahead of your family. Eleven months earlier, they’d had Bradley, and while they were slightly older than your parents, they were very much all in the same boat.
You don’t have many memories of Nick. Dying just after Bradley’s fourth birthday, you were barely even three. The last time you’d seen him had been at Bradley’s party - you’d spent the entire last hour perched on his shoulders, giggling as he chased Bradley around the back garden.
He seemed like a good man. A good husband. A good father.
But life went on, and your parents stayed incredibly close with Carole. Eventually both of you moved to another neighbourhood in San Diego, beside Bradley’s godfather Maverick, and his wife and stepdaughter, Penny and Amelia.
Things were good.
You don’t remember exactly when you became aware of your parents trying for another baby. There had been vague references to getting a sibling throughout your childhood, but when nothing ever came to fruition, you just shrugged it off. Bradley didn’t have any siblings, and neither did you. You didn’t need siblings when you had each other.
Each day was spent in your backyard or the Bradshaw’s, playing make-believe until you were exhausted.
Even in the throes of puberty, where Bradley was finding his footing in high-school, while you were still in middle school, he’d always make time for you. Would never let his cooler, older friends make fun of you, or make you feel less than.
You’re sure he must have caught his own flack for it, but he didn't let you see it.
Your teenage years passed, and still no sibling. Eventually, words like ‘infertility’ and ‘IVF’ began to get thrown around. Suddenly, nights when your mom was inconsolable became far more understandable.
It seemed like you were meant to be a three-person family.
Finally, they got Adam. Born three months before your twenty-first birthday - the jokes had made themselves.
It had been the last round of IVF they were going to have. It was too taxing, emotionally and physically, to keep going. Especially when you were coming of an age where you might want your own kids in a few years. Your parents didn’t want your kids to have aunts and uncles their own age.
You loved Adam. You did. You do. It’s just always been quite difficult to bond with a kid twenty years your junior. You were across the country at college for all of his major milestones, barely seeing your parents, nevermind anyone else.
It was also at this point that you lost contact with Bradley.
He’d joined the Navy, hellbent on following in Nick Bradshaw’s footsteps after Carole’s death. You wrote occasionally, sent Christmas and birthday cards, but it was never like it used to be.
That had been enough for your parents. Your family complete, mom and dad content with a son and a daughter.
If the cards had fallen differently, Adam might have been your only sibling.
Against every single odd, your mother found out she was pregnant again on her forty-second birthday. After fifteen years of fertility treatments, they conceived naturally just two years after stopping trying.
Oh how funny the universe can be.
Shock had quickly multiplied when the first ultrasound scan showed twins. You wanted to be happy for them. Really, truly. Your parents were finally getting the big family they’d once dreamed of.
You just wished it didn’t feel like you were being replaced in your own home. Your childhood bedroom had been immediately converted to a nursery, like there was no longer a place for you.
You understood. After some tears, you came to the conclusion that if losing your bedroom in a city you didn't live in was the worst thing in your life, you should be grateful. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt a little.
Visits thinned, relegated to holidays and summers, even after college. You moved back to the West Coast, opting for San Fran over Diego, and life has been fine. A little boring, not so great on the dating end, but fine. When you’d hoped for a change, this had certainly not been what you were wanting.
At least the kids are okay. A brief reprieve amongst the chaos. You’ve been on the phone to Maverick - he and Penny are staying with them until you make it there.
“Bradley’s here too.”
There was a name you hadn’t heard for a while.
You're not even sure when you thought about him last.
The roads start to blur together, until finally you're on your street. You haven't been home since Christmas.
The door opens as you pull into the driveway. You half-thought the tears would come as soon as you saw the house, but everything seems dry.
Bradley steps out, making his way over to you. He pauses for a second, allowing you to make the decision, before you throw yourself into his arms. His hands settle on your waist, and you let out a small sob as you bury your face into the crook of his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” He murmurs, voice deeper than you remember. With all his deployments, the last time you saw him was Christmas a few years ago. His first after Carole had died.
Other than the occasional Instagram post, you have no idea what he’s up to these days. You hadn’t even known he was even living in San Diego again.
He looks good. Really good. Sporting a moustache that would look ridiculous on anybody else, he’s filled out in a way that makes your throat constrict slightly. The Navy has served him well.
“A-are the kids okay?”
“Penny and Mav put them to bed,” He replies. “The twins are fine, but uh… Adam was pretty upset. He knew something was going on from the babysitter - we wouldn’t have told him straight away otherwise, but things were so confused, and-”
“Thank you,” You whisper, pulling back. “For being there for them. I-I didn’t even know you were in town.”
“For the past few months. Moved into mom’s house.” He gestures at the near identical house next door.
It’s a horrible club to be joining. That of the dead parents. But the smallest, most selfish part of you is endlessly relieved that he knows how you feel. How he might be the only one who does.
“Was the drive okay?”
“Hm?” You murmur, distracted by the windows upstairs. So many memories flash through your mind - sneaking out to go to parties with Bradley at sixteen, sitting and stargazing with your dad on the 4th of July. Or that time Bradley fell trying to climb up, and had been in a cast all summer.
“The drive? You must be exhausted.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m okay,” You dismiss, making shaky steps into the house. It looks exactly as you remember it. Mav and Penny sit in the living room, faces grave. After Nick, and then Carole, you can tell they’re vastly unprepared to bury another set of friends.
“Oh, kid,” Maverick begins, wrapping you in a hug. “I’m sorry.”
Something about Maverick’s embrace, the way he cups your head against him reminds you painfully of your dad. “I-I don’t know what to do,” You cry. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Don’t worry about any of that right now,” Penny breathes, tears staining her own cheeks. “We’ll help you with whatever you need.”
A glass of water is pushed into your hand, a kiss pressed to your head, and you’re sat in the living room.
Chat is stilted, dancing around the obvious, and soon you begin to insist that they all head home, get some sleep. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re a maximum of fifty meters away at any given time, you’re not sure you would’ve been able to convince any of them to leave.
It’s only when you agree to Mav and Bradley coming over in the morning to help with arrangements, while Penny helps with the kids, that they filter out.
Soon, you’re alone, and the tears return in waves.
Choked sobs that had hidden themselves in the presence of others, now nearly bringing you to your knees.
This isn’t right.
Your dad should be on the couch, watching Cheers re-runs, while your mom knits and pretends that she isn’t watching (she always is).
The kids upstairs should have a real adult looking out for them. Not a girl, barely out of grad-school, who regularly forgoes breakfast because she can’t be bothered making it for herself.
You get very little sleep that night - wandering through to the kid’s rooms every hour or so to make sure they’re okay. Outside of the occasional babysitting gig as a teen, you have no idea what to do with anyone under the age of ten. You opt for the couch in your parent’s bedroom, rather than their bed.
Still unmade from the night before, you don’t think you can bring yourself to sleep in it just yet. It still smells of your mom’s shampoo, your dad’s aftershave.
It’s such a strange sensation, to be somewhere that should be so familiar. Instead, it’s like you’ve wandered into another universe, one where your parents are dead and nothing makes sense anymore.
*****
Adam’s forgotten about yesterday’s incidents by the time morning comes round. He prances into the bedroom, face dropping into a frown when he sees the bed empty.
“Hey, kid,” You murmur, opening your arms for a cuddle.
“Where’s Mommy?” He asks, chewing on one of his fingers as he allows you to pull him onto your lap.
You swallow, trying desperately to come up with a way to tell your four-year-old brother that both his parents are dead. “There was an accident yesterday, and Mommy and Daddy got really hurt.” A lump forms, and you pray that you can keep it together long enough to get through this. “The doctors weren’t able to help them, and they died.”
There’s a moment of quiet, as Adam considers your words. “They’re not here?”
“They’re not here,” You repeat quietly, a tear trickling down your cheek. “But I’m going to look after you and the girls, okay? And Aunt Penny and Uncle Mav. S’ okay to be sad.”
“Mommy’s not coming back?”
You shake your head, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “No, honey. I’m so sorry.” A whimper sounds from the nursery. The girls are waking up. “Why don’t you head downstairs, and I’ll grab Liv and Molly, and I’ll make you pancakes?”
Seemingly placated, Adam nods and heads downstairs, while you try and wrangle the twins. It’s a challenge, but you manage to get them into their highchairs, just as the door rings.
It’s Bradley, looking far too put-together for 6:45am. “I uh, saw that the curtains were open - figured you were up. How are you holding up?”
“I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet,” You admit, leading him to the kitchen. “Kind of just feels like I’m playing pretend.”
Bradley greets Adam with a wave, and drops a kiss to each of the girls’ heads. It feels so natural that a guilt tugs at your stomach. Bradley isn’t even family, and yet he feels far more familiar to these kids than you do.
“It’ll feel like that for a while,” He replies. “You want me to make breakfast?”
“Oh. I was just going to make pancakes.”
“Are you any better at cooking than you were as a teenager?” Bradley asks, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.
Despite everything you laugh, shaking your head with your lip between your teeth.
“Got it. I’ll cook then.”
“I think I can survive pancakes,” You protest.
“Okay, grieving lesson 101. Learn to accept help.” His voice is firm, and you find yourself nodding. “Mav’ll stop by later - he’s got all the lawyer’s numbers, and funeral planning. Believe me, last thing you want to be doing is thinking about catering right now. Let us handle the paperwork, and we’ll ask you about anything important, okay?”
“Thanks, Brad.”
You’re overwhelmed by their presence, their willingness to drop everything to be here. A comfortable silence falls, Adam chattering nonsense in the background as Bradley cooks.
“Bradley?” You ask.
“Yeah?”
“When does it start to get easier?”
He looks over at you, with a candour that makes your heart sink. “My mom? I think it took me about a year.”
“That’s a long time,” You whisper.
“I know.” He reaches out, almost tentatively, taking your hand. His thumb rubs circles onto your palm. “But you’ll get through it.”
“Can you maybe help with changing Adam’s insulin sensor? It needs done every two weeks, but he doesn’t like swapping them out.”
Bradley nods. “Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”
“Just chat to him, keep him distracted.”
You and Bradley make an excellent team. Bradley keeps him talking about baseball the entire time, allowing you to swap his sensor with relatively few tears.
It’s one of the only things you feel like you can manage. Ever since Adam got diagnosed last year, your parents made sure that everyone in the family was up-to-date on what to do, how to keep him safe. Everyone knows where the insulin and glucagon can be found, and how often his Libre sensor needs changed.
In an attempt to get you all out of the house, Bradley suggests a walk to the local park. He’s got Adam on his shoulders, and you push the twins.
It gets your mind off of everything for a little bit, and for that you're grateful.
You wonder what it looks like from the outside. If people assume that you’re married, had kids straight out of college. You suppose they must. You don’t hate the idea as much as you should.
*****
“I guess, what we’re saying is that you have options,” The lawyer says, sitting back in her chair. You, Maverick, Penny and Bradley are crowded into the cramped office. “You’re the legal guardian of the kids, but we understand that’s a lot for a twenty-five-year-old to deal with. As you’ve discussed already, Pete and Penelope would be willing to take them-”
“I’m going to keep them,” You interrupt. It’s been a decision that’s eaten away at you for the past week. It was never a question of adoption - you couldn’t ever do that to your own siblings. But after a particularly hard night, when Penny had offered it to you, a tiny part of yourself had wondered.
Wondered if it would be so bad, for them to grow up with two parents, who were far more capable and experienced than you are. Penny’s a far better mother than you could ever hope to be - maybe you’d be doing them a favour?
Maybe everybody would be better off if you weren’t in charge.
Then you’d stood in the nursery, after the twins had fallen asleep, with tears streaming down your face, and realised that you couldn’t give them up. Not for anything. You owed it to them, and your parents, to try.
Maverick nods approvingly. “We’ll be here for whatever you need, kid. Whenever you need it.”
“I’ve got a permanent position in San Diego now,” Bradley adds. “I’ll still have to ship out occasionally, but I’ll be here too.”
The rest of the afternoon is spent going over will logistics, funeral arrangements, and adoption papers. Something about health insurance means you need to formally adopt the kids, a process that’ll take a while.
But with Adam and his diabetes, it’s something that has to be done.
Slowly but surely, things seem to be becoming a little more manageable. Maverick and Penny explained any of the financial aspects you don't understand, while Bradley's hand stays firmly on your knee the entire meeting, tracing soothing patterns onto your skin.
*****
You don’t fall apart until the tenth. Two weeks, four days and three hours after your parents die. The funerals are over, the flowers are dying, and now there’s just grief. Raw, unfiltered grief that’s been pushed under your need to care for the kids.
But tonight, Adam has been asking questions you don’t know how to answer. Crying tears you don’t know how to soothe, sobs only ceasing when Bradley arrives after work.
You busy yourself with the girls, trying to soothe Liv’s sore throat while Molly does everything she can to avoid a bath - all while pretending that Adam’s rejection doesn’t bother you.
The fact that Bradley’s the sun, moon, and stars to him - and you’re just the poor mother substitute. The perpetual bad guy. The one who won’t let him see Mommy and Daddy.
You hold it together for approximately ten minutes after the twins go down. Standing in the kitchen, leaning against the island, a small sob escapes as you wrap your arms round your shoulders. Trying to ground yourself, stop your head from pounding so viciously.
It’s only when you hear Bradley’s footsteps padding down the stairs that you swallow, turning to the mountain of dishes piling up in the sink and busying yourself. He’s just spent the last hour comforting Adam. You don’t want him to feel responsible for you too.
“Is he asleep?” You ask, voice far thicker than you’d like.
“Yeah - took some convincing, but he’s out.”
“There’s some pasta in the fridge, if you want to take it for dinner,” You manage, back still pointedly turned.
“You don’t want me to stay?” You wish you could unhear the hurt in his voice, the fact that he’s the only reason you’ve survived the past few weeks, while you can’t even look him in the eye.
There’s nothing you want more than for him to stay. To let this unsteady rhythm you’ve both concocted continue for as long as its able. Until he decides to move on.
Because he will. The kindness he’s shown you is immeasurable, and you’ll never be able to thank him enough, and yet you know it must be finite. One day, he’ll meet a girl, fall in love, and you’ll go back to just childhood best friend.
“Is everything okay?”
You’ve been quiet for too long. Bradley’s perceptive. He always has been. A normally endearing trait, you surprise even yourself when a cry slips from your lips.
A dam shatters, and the sobs wrack your body.
Bradley’s across the room in seconds, pulling you into him. His arms circle your waist, strong and steady as he keeps you upright. Just like he’s been doing since the crash.
“I don't think I can do this,” You whisper, voice hoarse. “I can barely look after myself. Nev-nevermind them.”
"I know it's hard," He murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "You're doing the hardest fucking thing in the world, kid. You've gotta give yourself some grace. They were your parents too."
"I-if I let myself feel it, I don't know where it'll end. I don't know if it'll end." Another cry bubbles up, and you bury your face in his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Bradley."
“Mav and Penny and I, we’re here for whatever you need, okay? Anything.”
You nod, trying to quell your tears. “Y-you’ve done so much already. I can’t ask you to do any more-”
“You aren’t,” He replies. “I’m offering. I love those kids, I love you all. I'd do anything for you.”
Your grip on him tightens just slightly, needing to ground yourself.
“Do you have the life insurance payout yet?”
You detach from him slightly, hands dropping to his forearms. “I used it to buy the house. There was still a lot of the mortgage to pay off. A-and I couldn’t afford the payments without it. The last thing they need is to be moved, on top of everything else-”
“Hey,” He interjects, voice soft. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? You’re doing what you need to. Go run yourself a bath, try and relax for a bit.”
“I need to do the dishes, and make lunch for tomorrow-”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got it.” Your protests die on your lips. A bath does sound nice. “We can watch a movie or something, after you’re done.”
You wipe the last of your tears, and press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He’s going to make someone incredibly happy someday.
The thought leaps into your head unprompted, and you swallow it back. You don’t need more reminders of how temporary this is.
*****
The next day is even worse. Adam’s doing his best moody teenager impression, while Molly’s contracted Olivia’s cold.
Penny spends the afternoon, and makes things slightly more bearable, but her and Maverick have theatre tickets that night. She offered to cancel, but you’d insisted they go. They needed some normality too. It’s easy to forget that Mav and Penny have known your mom and dad since their twenties. They’re grieving almost as much as you are.
You barely make it to seven before your tears start too. It’s all you can do to dial Bradley’s number.
“Is everything okay?”
“I-I,” You stammer, hardly able to even get the words out. “I don’t know what to do. T-the girls are sick, and I can’t get any of them down, and I don’t know what I’m doing-”
“I’ll be over in a second.”
The phone cuts off, and true to his word, the bell goes in approximately half a minute. You’ve never been more grateful to see someone in your life. You’re sure you must look like a total mess, hair unbrushed and mascara dripping down your cheeks, but Bradley doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes Olivia from your arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. He greets Adam, who looks considerably happier to see Bradley than he was to see you, and whispers a couple of words into his ear.
You can’t make out what he says, but Adam immediately softens, before approaching you and offering a hug.
“Why don’t you get Adam, and I’ll get the girls?” Bradley offers, and you nod gratefully.
Whatever Bradley said worked wonders, and Adam’s far more amenable to bedtime than he was before.
It takes Bradley a little longer, and a lot more sniffling, but forty-five minutes he appears down the stairs, and all is quiet again. “Come on,” He murmurs softly. “You’re exhausted.”
“It’s only eight,” You reply, voice barely more than a whisper. “I haven’t made myself dinner yet.”
“Sounds like a night for pizza in bed then,” He replies.
And so, twenty minutes later, Bradley’s tipping the delivery guy, before clambering into bed with you. It’s the best meal you’ve had in your life, tucked into his side as some cheesy rom-com plays in the background.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Bradley asks, eyebrow raised.
“How are you so good with them? So natural? It feels like I make the wrong choice at every possible turn.”
He shrugs slightly, pulling you in closer. “It’s easy when they aren’t yours. I’m a novelty to them - if they were my kids, you’d be the exact same.”
You’re not sure you agree, but you nod, placated with his answer.
It doesn’t take long to drift off to sleep, still curled up against him. And the next morning when you wake up to a solid shape beside you, an arm draped across your waist, your heart soars.
*****
You know you're being unreasonable. Bradley's been the best thing that's ever happened to the kids - endlessly patient, full of energy, always down to play. He's shouldered things you wouldn't expect from a close relative, much less a distant family friend.
When there was a problem with the house insurance, Bradley spent three hours on the phone to agents, working out a plan that worked best for you.
Every Saturday, when another week passes and your parents slip further from your grasp, he turns up at 7pm on the dot, armed with casserole and ice cream. He takes Olivia from your arms, and soothes them all to bed with his stories and tales, allowing you the briefest moment of reprieve.
For the first month, he'd end each night holding you while you cried, pressing soft butterfly kisses to your forehead as he promised better things. Promised that things would get easier, that he'd be there for whatever you needed.
But it can't last forever. Made starkly obvious by the woman in the park today.
You’d been having a picnic, while Bradley was continuing Adam’s baseball education. From your perspective, it was just throwing a ball back and forth, but they’d both insisted there was considerable technique and skill to it. You’d taken the girls to go get ice-cream, and had come back to a woman chatting to Bradley, while Adam busied himself with a mitt. You couldn’t hear what was going on, but Bradley smiled, shook his head, and she went on her way.
Turning back round, he was immediately by your side to help with the ice-creams, hand reaching out to push a stray hair back from your face.
You understand the thought process. She saw an attractive guy, with a cute kid, and no ring. You'd have taken those odds with Bradley if you were her.
And when he turned her down, you had no idea what to think. The last thing you want to do is hold him back. Keep him from any kind of happiness.
Even if it killed you a little, you'd be thrilled for him. Even if it meant you became relegated to his past, meant only for occasional visits and cards at Christmas.
Maybe you'd find someone else too. Someone that liked kids, didn't mind some baggage. Maybe this ache in your chest won't last forever.
You can tell he knows something's up when he slips into bed wordlessly, clicking the light off as he goes. You've been lying on the edge for the past twenty minutes, cheek turned out to the window as you try and quell the awful guilt festering low in your stomach.
Bradley's freshly twenty-six. The last thing he wants is to be tied down to three kids. To you.
You're being selfish with him. And it breaks your heart.
But he's in your bed tonight, and maybe that's enough for now.
When you shuffle over towards the midline, far closer to him than you've ever dared before, he finally speaks. "You alright?"
"Can't sleep," Is all you can muster.
"C'mere," He murmurs, voice gravelly as he reaches out for you. You let him loop a hand round your wrist, pulling you across the bed until you're settled against his chest. It feels so terribly right that you want to bawl. Instead, you press your face into the crook of his shoulder and let out a shaky breath.
His arm is draped across your waist, and you're almost chest-to-chest. It's the closest you've been since childhood.
"Better?"
"Better."
*****
Bradley gets orders to deploy the following week. It’s only three months, hardly anything by Navy standards, but the idea of going that long without him makes you feel a little ill. You don’t remember the last time he spent the night in his own house. Each night you somehow manage to get closer, waking up fully intertwined as the kids throw themselves on top of you both.
The house feels too big without him, even with three children racing around.
You both made the decision not to bring the kids to base to say goodbye. After the year they’ve had, neither of you want to make a big deal of Bradley’s leaving. Instead, last night he came home armed with three build-a-bears, each one with a sound-bite of him singing.
American Pie, Adam’s favourite song, much to Bradley’s delight.
Shake It Off for Olivia.
And that godawful new Benson Boone song for Molly.
The idea of Bradley Bradshaw standing in build-a-bear, singing quietly into a little machine, just so the kids have something to remember him by, makes you want to sob. If Bradley Bradshaw’s out to ruin all men for you, he’s doing an excellent job.
Penny said her goodbyes to Bradley at the house, before Maverick drove you both out to base. Now, you’re standing on the tarmac, watching on as Bradley and Pete say their goodbyes. As soon as Maverick’s pulling back, he suddenly spots someone across the lot that he’s got to go say hello to. A squeeze of your shoulder as he passes, and you’re left with Bradley.
“You'll write?” He knows the answer, but when this is the last time he’s going to see you until November, he’d like the reassurance.
“Every day,” You murmur. “I-we’re really going to miss you, Brad.”
He reaches out, pulling you in for a tight hug. “I’m going to miss you too. But it’ll be over in a flash. Promise.”
You somehow can’t imagine that being true. “Stay safe. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“When am I ever stupid?” He asks, smiling until he sees your expression. “Don’t answer that.”
Too quickly, it’s time for him to go. “See you soon, sweet girl.”
And then he’s gone.
Bradley wonders how you're getting on today. If Adam's talent show went well, or if the twins are still teething.
They'll be eighteen months by the time he gets back. Not much older, in the grand scheme of things, but he'll know.
At that age, consistency is everything. Adam's old enough to know Bradley, understand that he's going away for a little while - but Olivia and Molly? He might return a complete stranger.
Sitting in the barracks, head in his hands, he wonders if this is how his dad felt every time he left him and his mom behind.
He knows what Jake would say if he were here. Something snarky, probably. A comment about how they aren't even your kids, nevermind his. That Bradley Bradshaw must be the only bastard on earth who can land himself with diaper duties before first base.
He slips the picture out of his wallet. The one at the picnic. Nat had taken it, the five of you all crammed onto one blanket. Adam's clambering over Bradley's shoulders, and Olivia sits on his lap, reaching up for her brother. You've got Molly, smile wide as you watch the scene before you. Your eyes are on the kids, but his are very much on you.
A guilt festers in him, but he feels happier than he has in years. Ever since his mom died he’s felt totally aimless, drifting from one mission to another, little care as to whether he lived or died. Now, the idea of not going home to you all at the end of the day feels inconceivable.
It just makes him feel terrible that four people had to lose their parents for that to happen.
"Bradshaw," A voice greets, knocking him out of his trance. "How's it going?"
Seeing the picture clasped in Bradley's hand, Reuben steps forward to take a look. "Cute kids. This your first deployment since having them?"
They're not mine. They're my best friend's siblings, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her, and I think it would kill me if I don't get to see those kids grow up.
"Uh, yeah. It is."
“Ah, first one’s always the hardest. But it’s so much better getting to go home at the end of it. I used to go home to an empty house after deployments-” Other than a visit to Penny and Maverick, that had been Bradley’s experience with deployments. “-and let me tell you - going home to your kids after a few months? Best feeling in the whole world. I cried the last time I saw my wife on the tarmac.”
Bradley imagines what life would be like if you were his wife. If, when he gets home, he’d be able to pull you close, and kiss you until your lips are pink and swollen, before heading home to the kids.
He wonders what your own kids would look like. His and yours. He doesn’t even know if you’d want that now, not with the three you’ve already got, but he doesn’t mind. As long as you’re happy, he’d be happy too. In whatever form, whatever capacity that turns out to be.
*****
The babysitter’s left, and the house is quiet. You’d managed to transfer your work to the San Diego offices, but unfortunately that means two days a week in the office. You’re still grateful that you can stay at home with the girls most of the time, but you’re starting to feel it. Balancing work and the kids, all while worrying about Bradley every day is taking a toll.
All three of them are sleeping, totally exhausted after Uncle Mav decided that they should go to a local theme park first thing, before the babysitter arrived. You’ve never used her before, so Mav and Penny offered to take them in the morning to make her day a little easier.
You’re going to grab some leftover pasta for dinner, when you frown. Adam’s insulin is missing.
Pulling out your phone, you shoot a quick text to the babysitter.
You: Hey, have you seen Adam’s insulin anywhere? Green and orange pens.
Andie: it had fallen out of the freezer, so i put it back!
Your heart sinks. Frozen insulin is unusable. You must have knocked it out of the fridge this morning before work. Andie wouldn’t have realised, and just put it back in.
That’s a thousand dollars of medication down the drain.
You have no idea how you’re supposed to pay for more, if insurance doesn’t cover it. Hands shaking, you dial the number. Maybe you can catch them before they finish up for the day.
You get a polite but tired-sounding woman on the phone, who is very apologetic, but firm about the fact that they can’t do anything. You can only afford base coverage, and that doesn’t have any stipulations for accidents.
After the car payments, and school, and insurance, you’re running low. Really low. It’s not something you’d ever admit to Bradley or Maverick, unless the kids were at risk.
Maybe you can sell something. Your mom’s engagement ring, your dad’s watch - there has to be something you can do.
The tears come anyway, and it isn’t until your phone rings that you realise what time it is.
You let out a quiet curse. This is Bradley's call night. The single video call he gets for this entire month. After tonight, he'll be stuck with e-mails until he's home.
Four weeks of not seeing his face. You’re not sure how you’re going to cope. Hastily wiping at your eyes, you accept the call, and move through to the kitchen.
“Hi, Brad,” You smile, desperately hoping the camera doesn't pick up your tear tracks.
He looks tired, but happy. His hair is cropped closer than you like, an unfortunate side effect of military duty. But he’s okay, and that’s what matters. You can’t help the feeling of dread that seems to fester in your stomach each time you think about Bradley being somewhere in the middle of the ocean, doing things he can’t tell you anything about.
“What’s wrong?” He’s frowning immediately, and you want to curse yourself. You should’ve made more of an effort to freshen up before getting on the call.
“I-it’s nothing, just a long day at work.”
“Kid, you look like you're about to sob. Please tell me what's going on.”
“I dropped Adam's insulin out of the fridge today - i-it must've been right after I left for work, and the babysitter thought it was meant to go in the freezer. A-and all of his insulin for the month is ruined.”
“Did you call the insurance company?”
“They won’t cover it,” You reply, voice weak. “We don’t pay enough to get replacements - all we get is the base coverage. But uh, it’s fine, I’ll work something out. He has enough for tonight.”
“I can send you the money-”
“No!” You interject immediately. “God, Bradley, you’ve done too much. It’s okay, I can work it out to tomorrow - go to the bank, see what they can do-”
“Sweetheart, I really don’t mind. I don’t want you to have to sell anything, or take out a loan or anything. The money’s just sitting there in my account, anyway. I’d always rather it went to the kids, or you.”
“My dad has a watch, that-”
Bradley’s face falls, as he shakes his head. “Please. I’m not letting you sell your parent’s things. Let me send you the money.”
“I just- I don’t really want to talk about it, is that okay? Can we talk about anything else?”
He nods, eyes still concerned. “Of course. You decided what you want to do for your birthday yet?”
You shake your head. “Just a quiet day, I think.”
“What if I told you I had some Stevie Nicks tickets with your name on them? It’s the day after your birthday, so not quite-”
“You didn’t,” You gasp. “How the hell did you get them from Japan?”
“I left very detailed instructions with Mav and Penny. I think the seats are terrible, but we’ll have fun. It’s in LA, so I’ve booked us into the Garland too, so we don’t have to worry about the drive back.” Sensing the question on your tongue, he continues. “I’ve already asked Mav. They’ll stay with the kids.”
“You’re insane,” You laugh, still wiping at your eyes slightly.
“In a good way, I hope?”
“The best.”
“I’m glad. We can plan it properly when I’m back. Maybe catch lunch in the city beforehand, go to the pier? Whatever you want, honey.”
“You’re going to make me cry again,” You mumble, dabbing at your eyes.
“As long as it’s happy tears.”
“The absolute happiest.”
*****
Just minutes after you hang up, a notification comes through on your phone.
Bank transfer: $1500 has been deposited into your account ending in XXXX, from Bradley Bradshaw.
07/07. 21:37.
Dear Bradley,
You shouldn’t have sent all that money, it’s far too much! You’ve done so much for us already, I can’t even begin to thank you the way you deserve. But since I figure you wouldn’t take kindly to me sending it back, thank you <3 I think Adam’s insulin should be about 1k, so I can send the rest back afterwards. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
Missing you lots, and I’ve attached some pics of Adam’s last game - he insisted I send you some, so that you can see how he’s been practicing his throw! They lost, but it was a lot closer than it’s been recently. He attributes it all to you.
The girls are settling into daycare. I miss them during the day, but I really just couldn’t handle working from home and juggling them both at once. And the staff are so lovely - very hands-on, and they always come home with some kind of arts and crafts.
They’ve already decided that they want to go to the zoo when you’re back, plus a picnic. Sorry to start booking you in for social stuff before you’re even home.
Stay safe and thank you again x
07/08. 05:19.
Kid, I really truly don’t want to see that money back in my account. What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it for the people you love? Buy yourself something nice (and by that I mean by something for you, not for the kids).
Tell Adam he’ll be coming for the big leagues in no time, guy’s a pro! I think that calls for a new mitt when I get home. And I’m so glad Liv and Mol are doing well, I know you’d been worried about the time apart.
We’re about to go offline for a little while, but I’ll be in contact as soon as I’m able. Would you be able to send some more pictures? I have a few of the kids, but there’s only one with you. I don’t know, no worries if not - just missing all of your faces. There’s only so much of Reuben and Mickey that a man can take.
You’re doing so well, honey.
See you soon,
Bradley x
07/10. 18:03.
Hi Brad,
Hope you’re doing okay, and staying safe. As usual, we miss you loads. I got Adam’s insulin sorted, so we’re all good on that front. He says thank you, and I’ve attached a picture of the drawing he did of you both. You’re apparently on holiday in Paris - some not-so-subtle signals for after I get that promotion maybe?
Mav and Penny took the kids so that I could go to Nat’s birthday, which was really nice. They all send their love, and I sent a pic of everybody. I used most of the money left over for Adam’s baseball summer camp (I’m sorry! I know you said to use it on me, but you really should’ve known that was going to happen), but I did treat myself to a dress so you couldn’t be too annoyed. There should be a picture of that somewhere in the files too - I don’t know why I sent it really. Proof that I can spend money on myself? Anyway, feel free to discard.
Sent you a bundle - I didn’t really know what you wanted, so I thought too many was better than not enough. Please email as soon as you’re able - you know I worry.
Can’t wait to see you x
07/17. 03:58.
Hi honey,
That’s us just back to base - can’t tell you any more than that, but we’re all safe. Sorry for the stupid hour, but I wanted to reply before I went to bed.
The new dress looks beautiful. Really. Wish you’d spent more of the money on yourself, but I’ll take what I can get. Green is definitely your colour, though. I’m glad you had a nice time at Nat’s, and that the kids are still doing well.
I love Adam’s drawing, and it’ll get pride of place in my office back in San Diego. With the art and the baseball, I think we might have quite the ladies man on our hands in the future.
Can’t wait for these two weeks to be over, so I can come home to you all.
Love,
Bradley x
It’s the slowest two weeks of his life. Made bearable only by the photos you continue to send, he tries to have one on him at all times, slipped into his flight suit. More often than not, it’s the solo shot of you, in the floaty green summer dress that makes him feel dizzy each time he looks at it.
If Bradley Bradshaw were a smarter man, he’d realise that keeping your best friend in the crevice of your heart saved only for loves of your life is a very telling act. That you’re the first person he thinks about in the morning, and the last at night.
For the first time in his life, it’s not just Maverick and Penny waiting for him. As soon as Bradley’s feet are on the tarmac, he’s sifting through the crowds. Before he can even find you, a shape bursts forwards from the throngs of people, and Adam starts sprinting in his direction. Letting out a laugh, Bradley hoists his duffel bag higher, ready to catch him as he throws himself the final few feet.
“Bradley!” He exclaims, arms immediately wrapping around his neck.
“Hey, kiddo,” Bradley replies, arm tightening round the boy as he starts to move. “Long time no see.”
“We missed you.”
“I missed you too. Care to point me in the direction of your sister?”
Adam glances around, before offering a vague gesture to his left. Bradley follows his finger, and finally his gaze lands on you.
In the green dress.
Liv is balanced on your hip, Molly clinging to your leg. And when you smile at him, a lump forms in his throat.
He thinks he understands what Reuben was talking about now.
All of Bradley’s fears of the twins not recognising him evaporate when Molly smiles up at him, toothy and wide as he makes his way over. She takes some unsteady steps towards him, letting out a giggle when he scoops her into his arms.
Suddenly feeling left out, Olivia starts to reach out too.
“Let’s wait until Bradley puts the others down, okay-” You begin, but he shakes his head.
“Wait, hold on, I can make this work,” He murmurs, readjusting Adam and Molly as he takes Olivia, still somehow managing to find a way to hug you at the same time.
“Hi,” You breathe.
“Hi,” He replies, dropping a kiss to your forehead as he balances the three kids. Another second passes, and then Mav and Penny reach out to take the kids back, allowing you and Bradley a second alone.
“You’re okay?”
He nods, and then he’s hugging you again, far tighter than the one with the children. Your arms fasten round his neck, while his tighten round your waist, pulling you just off the ground as he holds you close. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. Thank you for the money, Brad. You really saved us.”
“Don’t mention it,” He mumbles. “Really. I’d do anything for you guys.”
“Ready to go home?”
Home. Not his mom’s old house, but the one next door. The one he can’t ever imagine leaving. “More than anything, honey.”
*****
You muddle your way through dinner, having spent three months trying desperately to get better at cooking. While there’s a marked improvement, you’re not sure you’ll ever reach Bradley’s level. But the pasta was edible, and Bradley seemed to appreciate the effort.
Exhausted from welcoming Bradley back, the kids all go down relatively easy, and when Penny and Mav head back home, it’s just you and Bradley. You’ve worked your way through a bottle of wine, and are sitting far closer than you normally would.
Your feet are in his lap, his thumb stroking gently at his ankle.
“Listen, feel free to tell me if this is insane - but uh, I was thinking that maybe we should get married.”
You almost choke on your drink. “What?”
“I get really good health insurance with the Navy - i-if you wanted to, we could get married, and I could adopt the kids - and you wouldn’t have to worry about them.”
“Bradley…” You start, totally at a loss for words. “I-I can’t ask you to do that.”
“What if I want to?” He whispers, eyes earnest, and you can feel yourself welling up. It’s not how you imagined a proposal going, not by any stretch, but the tenderness in his voice makes your knees weak. It would be nice to not have to spend every month wondering if you’d be able to make the healthcare payments.
“Y-you’re sure?”
“Yeah. I am.”
Things move pretty quickly. Neither of you are sure when Bradley’s going to get deployed again, and he needs to have formally adopted the kids to get them put on his health insurance.
Adam is ecstatic with the news, and has already signed Bradley up to talk at career day about being a pilot. And the girls, while not quite at the speaking stage, adore him too. For the first time, you feel like you might be making the right choice.
It’s a tiny affair. Just you, Bradley, the kids, Maverick, Penny and Amelia. You’d agreed not to dress up, and Bradley had suggested your new green one. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt, hair bleached a little from the sun.
It takes everything in you to remember that this isn’t romantic. It’s a platonic wedding, happening only for the sake of the kids.
Something that becomes clear when it’s time to kiss the bride, and Bradley kisses your cheek. You’d been expecting it. Of course you had. The two of you aren’t together, and there’s no reason to believe that Bradley would choose a room with his family and the kids to make his first move.
But it reminds you of what today really is.
A duty. Nothing more.
You wait until Bradley’s distracted by the twins to sneak off to the bathroom, allowing a few tears to escape as you go.
This isn’t how it was meant to go.
For you or Bradley.
Bradley shouldn’t be caging himself in at twenty-six to three kids. This is your reality, but it doesn’t have to be his.
*****
The two of you settle into a rhythm in the house, cautious and a little awkward. It’s hard to think platonically about a man who you wake up next to every morning, who you raise children with. No matter how far apart you start the night, by morning there’s always a knee between your thighs, or his face pressed into your hair. Normally you can untangle yourself before Bradley wakes up. Makes things less weird for both of you.
He’s still your best friend, and you figure it’s probably a lot better than some of your friends who married for love.
So things move on, and while the grief is still very present across all your lives, Bradley alleviates it a little.
Right after Christmas, you get a wedding invitation from Jake, something Bradley had assumed he’d never see. Ever the eternal bachelor, it seems that he’s giving it up to settle down with his girlfriend, Bea.
With everybody now stationed in San Diego, you’ve spent a decent amount of time with them both. They’re a nice couple, they make a lot of sense.
And they’re disgustingly in love.
Like, more love than you could ever have expected Jake Seresin to be capable of showing.
Adam is Jake’s number one fan, and had been thrilled when they’d asked him to be the ring-bearer. Bradley had gotten a little huffy, put out at not always being his favourite anymore. He’d been pacified when Olivia had crawled onto his lap, wanting cuddles during The Lion King.
The wedding is beautiful. Standing in a new dress that Bradley had insisted you buy, after he had seen you hovering over it online one too many times, you feel pretty for the first time in months. His arm has been settled on the small of your back all night, and you’d teased him relentlessly for crying when Adam walked down the aisle.
You can’t help but feel like this is what Bradley deserves. Someone like Bea, whom he can love completely and openly. Not you, riddled with trauma and baggage that would make even the most experienced therapists wince.
He deserved a wedding like this. Not a court-house cheek kiss, full of adoption papers.
“What are you thinking?” Bradley murmurs, lacing his fingers through yours as you watch Jake and Bea have their first dance.
“I-I was just thinking about our wedding,” You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice steady.
“Yeah? What about it?”
“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” You dismiss, feeling the familiar prick of tears in your periphery. You won’t cry today. You won’t make Bradley feel worse than he probably already does.
Sensing the tone, Bradley drops it, pressing a quick kiss to the back of your knuckles. “Can’t believe Jake’s getting married. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“I thought for sure Bob would get married first out of all of you guys - he’s been with Chloe for so long.”
“Did I tell you they were talking about getting married in London, to be near Chlo’s family? Would maybe be nice to make a holiday of it. Take the kids, do Scotland-”
He’s cut off by the DJ asking for couples to get up and join the Seresins. Bradley’s immediately on his feet, offering you his hand.
“Oh, Brad, I don’t know-”
He doesn’t reply, just laces his fingers through yours, and pulls you to the dancefloor. Holding you tightly against him, you rest your head on his shoulder as he starts to sway.
A Frank Sinatra ballad plays in the background, and you try and keep your attention focused solely on Bradley. This is a happy occasion. You shouldn’t be ruining it with all this over-thinking.
“You look really beautiful,” He murmurs, head dipped to speak directly into your ear.
“You don’t look half-bad yourself.”
“No, I mean. You look really beautiful. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
This feels like dangerous territory, and you swallow. “Brad-”
“I wish I could’ve given you something like this, like today.”
His words tip you over the edge, and a small sob escapes. Eyes widening, Bradley pulls back to look at you. A few of the nearest couples on the dancefloor also turn, concerned. “Oh, kid. I’m sorry- wait, fuck. Hold on.”
He’s leading you outside, pointedly ignoring any attention you’re both receiving. It’s colder than usual for San Diego, and he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders, thumb reaching out to wipe at your tears.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m sorry,” You cry, chest heaving as you try and regain control of yourself.
His arms are gripping yours, almost as if trying to keep you upright. “Don’t apologise, sweet girl. Was it talking about the wedding?”
“Y-you deserve better than this.”
“What?”
“You deserve a wedding like that. A wife like that. Not… whatever this is.”
Everything is pouring out. All the doubts of the past year, every insecurity, all the guilt about trapping Bradley. You don’t think you could bottle it up now if you tried.
“We’re holding you back.” Your voice is miserable, full of terror that he’ll agree. That he’ll leave, and you’ll be alone again. “That should be you in there. With someone that you love.”
“With you-” He begins, but you cut him off, another sob bubbling up.
“You don’t have to keep pretending, it’s okay.”
“Sweet girl, when I think about the rest of my life, all I can see is you. You, and the kids, and 23 Ridgemont Lane.”
The tears continue to trickle down your cheeks. “Bradley, you’re so young. What about if you meet someone, down the line-”
“That’s not going to happen-”
“You might want more, more than this - and I wouldn’t blame you-”
“Sweetheart, please let me talk for just once second-”
You’re spiralling. You know you are. But something about watching Jake and Bea in there makes you want to sob. That might not be in the cards for you, but you want it desperately for Bradley.
“I don’t want you to hate me one day.” The shake in your voice is borderline pathetic. It’s an admission. One you haven’t been sure you’re strong enough to make. That Bradley holds your heart in his hands, and he can do whatever he pleases with it.
“I could never hate you,” He whispers, reaching up to cup your cheeks. “God, kid, no. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You’re about to protest, when he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours. Your eyes flutter closed in surprise, hands resting on his chest.
He’s softer than you imagined, the slight scratch of his moustache the only friction.
It’s a kiss that knocks your world off its axis. One that you’re pretty sure would knock you off your feet were it not for Bradley’s arms holding you up - one curling at the nape of your neck, the other dropping to your hip, bring you closer, ever closer.
It’s a little uncoordinated, and it’s only when his nose bumps yours that you begin to realise that this is real.
You’re kissing Bradley, and he’s kissing you, and you’re not sure you ever want it to end.
He's smiling against your mouth, pressing you into the wall of the venue.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when he pulls back. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. “I love you,” He murmurs, nose brushing yours. “So much it kind of terrifies me.”
You let out an almost incredulous laugh. “I love you too.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, leaning in to kiss him again. “Can’t tell you how bad I’ve been feeling these last few months, thinking we were holding you back.
He’s shaking his head. “I'm right where I want to be, sweet girl. I want to be there for Adam starting elementary school, and for the twins starting to talk more. I want to fix up the basement, so that the kids have a playroom, and I want to build you one of those shed-things that give you a little peace and quiet after a long day.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?” You mumble, pressing butterfly kisses all over his face.
“I want to make sure the girls know that there’s no guy out there who will ever be good enough for them, and I want to teach Adam to play the guitar. Acoustic, not electric, for the sake of all our ears. But mostly, I really, really want to love you the way you deserve. I want to be a comfort during the bad times, and celebrate the good, and the rest of the time I just want to be near you.”
His arms are wrapped around you again, pulling you in tightly as you cry into his shoulder.
“What do you say?” He breathes. “Want to get married for real this time?”
How lucky you are to have Bradley Bradshaw in your life.
Summary: Robby's life is turned upside down and he has to figure out how to live with it.
Part of the Done For Series, but can be read without reading the other works.
Warnings: Death, grief, drinking
A/N: So, this broke my heart a little. I was trying to figure out how to wrap up Robby and Jess and this was really the only way to do it. Have tissues ready. I cried while I wrote it. Like, not teared up, full on crying.
He had always imagined it being a quiet sunny morning. He fought the thought, but Jess often brought it up. He knew it was a way for her to cope, but it always made his stomach twist. He rarely fought her on it, let her do what she needed to. He’d support her, always would.
He just thought they had more time.
Everyone thinks they have more time.
He opened his eyes, the sun warming his face as it filtered through his window. He groaned as he stretched. He was used to a wet nose nuzzling into his side when he woke up. Betty had to stay overnight at the vet after getting her knee fixed. It was peaceful.
“Weird not having the terror making us get up.” He mumbled, throwing an arm over his face.
The quiet that brought peace initially started to get filled with anxiety.
Robby looked over to see Jess facing away from him, still asleep. He rolled over, snaking his hands around her hips to pull her close. Her skin was cold, an all-too-familiar cold. He sat straight up, his chest tight.
She wasn’t breathing.
He checked her pulse.
No pulse.
He pulled her to the ground and started compressions. The tears made it impossible to see where his phone was.
“Alexa call 911!” He screamed out.
“Calling emergency services.” The robot stated.
“Please, Baby. Please, don’t do this.” He sobbed. He blew air into her lungs, cracked her sternum. He wasn’t supposed to have to do this to her. Anyone but her.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My wife’s not breathing, heart stopped. I started compressions. We’re at 586 Ridge Ave.”
“Okay, I have a team on their way. Are you CPR certified?”
“I’m Dr. Robinavitch at PTMC. Yeah. Fuck, I don’t know how long she’s been down.” His voice cracked.
“How long have you been doing compressions, Dr. Robinavitch?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” He was losing it.
“Doctor, check her pulse.” The dispatcher was doing her best to get him into work mode. Robby took his shaking hands and felt for a carotid pulse. Nothing. He looked down at her blue face.
“She’s gone. She’s gone.” He sobbed.
“Dr. Robinavitch, I need to recommend that you proceed with compressions. However, as a physician, you can determine if life-saving measures are no longer necessary.”
“Tell them no lights or sirens. Please.” Robby sighed.
“I’ll let them know. We’ll send the coroner to you. I’m so sorry for your loss. I can stay on the line until they arrive if you need.”
“No, thank you. Alexa, end call.” The robot hung up the phone.
Robby sat on the floor next to his wife, her body stiff and cold. Her mouth was blue and quiet.
“Why did you have to leave so soon?” He sobbed. He fumbled over to his end table, grabbing his phone and dialing Jack.
“It’s too damn early for whatever the fuck you two want from me.” Jack huffed.
“She’s gone.” Robby cried. There was a long silence, both men too afraid to speak.
“What do you mean?” Jack asked, there was a hint of hope in his voice, hoping she had just decided to run away.
“I woke up and she wasn’t breathing. Probably SUDEP. I tried, but…she’s gone.” Robby’s chest hurt, everything hurt.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Jack roared. There was another voice in the background, Robby couldn’t quite make out. “Sorry, Honey. No, I’m not okay. I gotta go to Robby’s. Jess…Jess is dead. I’ll be there in a few minutes, Mike.” Jack hung up.
Robby lay next to Jess on the floor. He reached over and held her hand in his. He thought about whether Betty had been there, could he have saved her? If it was SUDEP, there was no hope.
He was supposed to go first. He wanted to go first. He didn’t want to know what a world without Jess in it looked like.
A knock at the door made him flinch. It had to be the coroner; Jack would have let himself in. He climbed to his feet and fumbled to the door.
“Dr. Robinavitch, I’m so sorry for your loss.” A man in his fifties stood before him, in a black suit and with a gurney behind him.
“She’s…she’s upstairs in the bedroom.” Robby cleared his throat. “Sorry, how does this work? I never…I tried not to think about this happening, so I never paid attention.”
“Understandable.” The coroner nodded as he and the EMS workers went into the house. “I’ll confirm she’s passed. We’ll wrap her in a shroud and put her on the gurney. Due to it being unexpected, I’ll need to take her to the morgue for an examination.”
“She had epilepsy. I think she…I think…”
“It’s okay. I understand. Most likely it was SUDEP.” He put a hand on Robby’s shoulder.
“Where is she? Robby- Who are you?” Jack came barreling into the house.
“He’s the coroner, Jack. She’s in the bedroom.” Robby waved him off.
“When you’re ready, we’ll get her taken care of.” The coroner nodded.
“No one is touching her until I confirm she’s gone.” Jack snapped as he pushed past everyone. Robby didn’t fight him. He swayed on his feet, trying to make sense of his life now. A soft hand on his shoulder made him shiver.
“Robby, you should sit.” Samira’s gentle voice guided him to the couch. “I’ll go check on him.” She squeezed his shoulder and floated off towards the cursing and shouting from upstairs.
His ears were ringing. The world felt fuzzy, like Velcro that won’t stick anymore. He watched a bird out the window, it was sitting on a branch, pulling at twigs and flying off.
“When I die, the world won’t stop. Never does. Just make sure the funeral is fun. You’ll be okay.”
“It stopped for me.” Robby mumbled.
“Dr. Robinavitch, do you want to see her before we go in?” The coroner asked.
“Yeah. I think I do.” Robby slowly got to his feet. His legs felt like they were made of jello. He walked into the bedroom. Jack was kneeling next to her, Samira stood looking down at them. She covered her mouth to stifle the sobs.
“No, Kid.” Jack’s voice cracked.
“They’re going to take her. They have to do an exam, because it was unexpected.” Robby’s throat felt like it was coated with tar.
“Mike…I don’t know…” Jack tried and failed to come up with anything.
“I just need a minute.” Robby sighed.
“Of course. Jack, come on.” Samira pulled him to his feet. “We’ll be downstairs.”
Robby walked over to Jess. He hated how still she was. She was so full of life, she never stopped exuding energy. He used to complain about her kicking him in his sleep. He’d never have to again.
He lay next to her, tucking her hair behind her ear. He traced his fingers over her features, memorizing. He leant over and kissed her lips one last time. His head fell to her chest as the sobs took over.
“I don’t know how to do this!” He cried. “I love you. I’ll always love you.” He kissed her cheek and climbed back up to his feet.
He fumbled his way downstairs, giving a nod to the coroner, as he moved to collapse onto the couch next to Jack.
“She was only forty-one. It’s not right.” Jack mumbled more to himself than anyone else.
“She knew. She always did.” Robby said.
“Reva didn’t get enough time with her.” Jack broke again. “She was supposed to be here for Reva.”
“She was already planning her sweet sixteen.” Samira sighed, wiping the tears from her face.
“I can’t do this. I don’t know what to do.” Robby cried.
“We’re going to help you.” Samira said. She looked at the two men, broken and shattered.
The coroner brought the gurney downstairs, the EMS crew taking out to the van. He cleared his throat as he walked over to Robby.
“We’re taking her to the county morgue. I’ll do my exam and then we can release her to whatever funeral home you prefer. Right now, just make your phone calls. Worry about your family. We’ll help you with the rest.” He nodded and left.
“I have to plan my wife’s funeral.” Robby said, his voice trembling.
“She did most of the planning.” Samira said. Jack and Robby looked up at her shocked and confused.
“What do you mean?” Robby asked.
“She swore me to secrecy.” Samira sighed as she sat next to Robby. “She’d had it planned for years. It was just in case. I don’t know, maybe she knew. She’s got a will with funeral arrangements in the safe. She put it in a binder labeled Recipes to die for.”
“Of course she did.” Robby laughed. “It’s in the safe in the office. She knew I never cared about cooking.”
“What do you need, Robby?” Samira put a hand on his shoulder.
“Nothing you can give.” He shook his head.
“Maybe you should come stay with us for a few days. Until we can go through her things.” Samira suggested.
“No. No, thank you. It still feels like she’s here. I need to hang onto that for a while.” He nodded.
“We’ll bring food over. Do you want us to make any calls?” She asked.
“Yeah, let the team know. I’ll call her school myself. I just can’t deal with people I know right now.”
“Okay. Even Dana?”
“Yeah. She’ll probably show up here anyway.” Robby almost laughed.
“Alright. We’ll give you some space.” Samira forced a smile. “Come on, Jack.” She pulled him to his feet.
“I’m not ready.” He whimpered.
“I know.” She wrapped him in her arms as she guided him out of the house.
The quiet choked Robby. It was violent and careless. He walked over to her record player; she had made fun of him for hating records once, something about being there when they were invented. She had a bad habit of leaving her records on the player. He turned it on and dropped the needle. Love of My Life By Queen started playing through the speakers.
Robby fell to his knees.
He looked up at the window, the sun had shifted in the sky. He lost track of how long he had knelt there, hours probably. He forced himself to his feet. Dragged his body to the office to open the safe. He pulled the binder out and went back to the living room. He put it down as he poured himself a whiskey. There was no way he was getting through this without a stiff drink.
The liquid burned as it traveled down his throat, he welcomed it. A physical pain to match his emotional anguish.
He flipped the binder open and was met with a colorful piece of paper covered in clipart of confetti and frowning faces. In big, squiggly rainbow letters read:
I DIED! LET’S PARTY!
Robby couldn’t help the broken laugh that escaped. He turned the page to find an envelope with his name on it. He took it out and pulled the letter out.
Mikey,
I’m sorry. I know you called dibs on going first. Believe me, I had no intentions of leaving you. But, you know better than anyone else that we rarely get a choice. I’d choose you every time if I could.
I know this is going to feel impossible. I know that you feel like you lost everything. Please, don’t seclude yourself. Remember, there are people around you. They love you, too. They’ll hold you up, they’ll take care of you. They’ll take over for me. Just don’t expect Jack to do that thing to your balls, though. I don’t know, never hurts to ask.
I’m going to get sentimental now, so take a drink and read the next part.
Okay. I love you. I love you like no one has ever loved anyone, at least that’s what I think. You saved me. Not just the seizures. Me. I never said this, because I didn’t want to worry you or something. But, that day we met in the Pitt, I was so fed up and done with everything, I had a plan. I didn’t want to do this anymore. But your sad brown eyes, they made me question it. Then you smiled at me. Fuck you for smiling at me. I can’t put into words how much love I have for you. Too much, maybe. You made me feel so much love, there wasn’t a second where I doubted it. Even when you were being a dickhead. I think you might be the greatest person to ever live. I might be biased.
Now is the hard part. I’m gone, you’re alone. They picked up my body or rolled me to the morgue or whatever the hell happened. The world will keep moving. Don’t be mad at it. You’ll feel joy at some point, it’s okay. I want you to. Don’t get upset when that happens. Do not turn into a miserable shit. No one wants to be around a miserable shit. Jack and Dana can only handle so much of your shit.
I planned everything. I knew you wouldn’t want to do this, I didn’t want you to. I have a funeral home picked out. They have my preferences. You just have to lay down that Amex, Big Boy.
You’ll find my playlist and a link to the photo slideshow I made. I wanted to make sure no one picked a shitty picture of me. Samira will help you figure out how to use them.
You will also find my dress code. DO NOT WEAR BLACK. I hate that shit. I don’t want to be mourned, I want to be celebrated. You wear green. Preferably, that green shirt you proposed in, or one like it. I liked you in green. Made your eyes look like fall leaves.
There are letters for our people, make sure they get them.
I feel this goes without saying, but if you give my dog away I will haunt your ass. Let her take care of you now.
I made it as easy as I could for you. All you have to do is call the people in this binder, and they’ll take care of the rest.
You took such good care of me. Let me take care of you one last time.
Also, one last thing. I hope you won’t be mad about this. You don’t really have a choice anyway. I didn’t want you to never hear someone call you Mikey again. I’ve been training Reva. You’re going to be Uncle Mikey, sorry not sorry.
I love you, Mikey. You’ll survive this.
Robby’s hands shook as he put the letter back into the envelope, afraid to ruin it with his tears. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t want to survive this.” He choked out.
He flipped to the next section. All the pages in the binder were covered in saccharine cartoons and color. He found the funeral home that Jess had picked. Of course, it was called Bon Voyage Funeral Home. He dialed the number, just wanting to make sure she was taken care of before anything else.
“Bon Voyage Funeral Home, Director Christy speaking.” A chipper woman’s voice answered, it made Robby flinch.
“Hi. Um, my wife died this morning…Um…sorry.” His voice caught in his throat.
“Nothing to apologize for. Take your time.”
“She wanted to use you. Her name was Jess Robinavitch.”
“Oh. Oh no. Oh Jess.” The woman’s voice dropped a few octaves. “I am so sorry for your loss, Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Thank you. I just wanted to make sure she had somewhere to go after…the morgue.” His throat hurt, the words feeling like daggers tearing up his throat.
“Of course. I’ll get in contact with the county morgue. Let them know she’s coming here. We’ll take care of her.”
“I forgot to ask the coroner, maybe you know. How long is it usually? For them to release them.”
“Well, it depends. In her case, unexpected but expected, probably two to three days.”
“Okay. Thank you. Do you need anything from me?”
“Not right now. When we get her here with us, then we’ll go over details. She took care of everything, you just have to pay.”
“Okay. Thank you.” He mumbled.
“I am so sorry for your loss. Your wife…she was a special person. Please, call if you need anything. Bye.”
The phone call ended and Robby collapsed onto the couch. His phone clattering to the floor as he let himself break, his tears lulling him to sleep.
“Are you always so sarcastic?” Robby chuckled as he tried to stop the puck from entering his goal on the air hockey table.
“No. It’s usually worse. But I’m trying to look good for you.” Jess smiled.
“Oh, you look good. Don’t worry.”
“Oh? Are you the kind of guy to fuck on a second date?”
“Not usually. Exceptions can be made for the right person, though.”
“The right person?”
“I like women that are sarcastic and aren’t afraid to ask for what they want.” Robby leaned forward on the table.
“Well, I got good news for you.” Jess laughed as she landed the goal.
“Shit!”
“Get used to it.” Jess walked over and pulled him down to meet her lips.
“Robby?” Someone shook him awake.
“Jess?” He gasped as he sat up.
“Oh, Cap.” Dana sighed. “Your phone died. We were worried about you. No one had heard from you in a day.”
“I didn’t care about my phone.” He grumbled as he sat up.
“Sure. Makes sense.” She nodded as she picked up the glasses around the table. “The funeral home called Jack. She’s with them.”
“Why did they call him?” Robby felt like he was floating in a fog, nothing was making sense.
“He’s the second contact on her forms.” Dana brought a glass of water over and shoved it in his hands. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged as he looked out the window. The sun taunted him.
“Okay. Well, I brought some dishes over. It's in the fridge. Will you eat if I heat it up?” Dana put a hand on his shoulder.
“No.” He pulled the binder close to him.
“I appreciate the honesty, I guess.” Dana crossed her arms. “You need to shower.”
“Can’t stand up.”
“A bath?”
“I’ll drown myself.”
“Well, I’m not giving you a sponge bath.”
“I’ll shower for the funeral.” He waved her off as he rifled through the binder until he got to her envelope and handed it to her.
“What is this?” She held the envelope like it was a bomb.
“Jess wrote everyone letters. It’s my job to give them out.” Robby laid back down. “Be careful. They sting.”
“I’ll…I’ll read this at home.” Dana folded it and put in her pocket. “Are you ready for me to bring Betty home? Can you handle that?”
“Fuck, I forgot.” Robby rubbed his face. “Yes. Yeah, I want her here.”
“Good. She’s confused and it’s killing me.” Dana turned and left.
Robby let his head flop onto the couch, the whiskey in his hand sloshing as he put it on the floor.
“Get up, brother. You gotta sit up.” Jack grabbed Robby’s shirt and hoisted him upright. “Samira, get the shower going.”
“Maybe we don’t force him into a shower. That seems cruel.” Samira sighed, looking worried by the state of Robby.
“He needs it. I can handle it, just get it ready.” Jack sighed. Samira weighed the decision for a moment before going to get the shower ready.
“What are you doing?” Robby slurred. Betty was licking his hand.
“You have to go pay for the funeral. I can’t do it. You have to.” Jack said. “You’re not going to the funeral home stinking like this.”
“Fuck you.” Robby grumbled as he sipped his whiskey. Jack plucked the glass from his hand.
“No more. You’re done. This shit isn’t bringing her back.” Jack snapped as he grabbed the bottles from the bar cart and poured them down the sink.
“What the fuck are you doing!? That shit is expensive!” Robby stumbled to his feet.
“Look at yourself! You can’t even stand up!” Jack hissed.
“My Wife is dead! I don’t care!” Robby growled.
“Yeah, I know. I know what that feels like. But I didn’t have anyone to pick me up. I’m not letting you fall. She’d never forgive me.” Jack grabbed Robby’s arm as he dragged him upstairs.
“Get off of me!” Robby tried to push him off.
“Shower’s heating up- what are you doing!?” Samira jumped as Jack dragged Robby in by the shirt.
“Doing what needs to be done.” Jack growled as Robby tried to fight him off. “Get in the shower!” Jack wrestled him, throwing him into the shower clothes and all.
“Fuck!” Robby gasped as the hot water hit him.
“Do I need to scrub you, too? Or can you get your shit together enough to do that?” Jack panted.
“Get out!” Robby sobbed. Jack pulled him up, holding his face in his hands.
“You’ll get through this. I’m going to make sure. It’s never going to stop. The pain will be there for the rest of your life. But you will learn to live with it. I’m not letting you drown. Clean yourself and meet us downstairs.” Jack turned and pulled Samira out of the room.
Robby sat in the shower, naked and crying. Nothing felt real anymore. It felt like a nightmare, an alternate dimension meant to hurt him. He lazily scrubbed his body, just enough to suffice.
When he got downstairs, the living room had been cleaned and there was a plate of hot food on the coffee table.
“Eat.” Jack said. He stood, crossed arms as he watched Robby sit.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“I have to go to the funeral home.”
“We’re taking you.”
“I’m bringing Betty.”
“Alright. I’ll fight anyone that stops you.” Jack nodded. Robby shoved food in his mouth, it tasted like nothing. The feeling of food in his stomach was at least comforting. He pulled the binder out and handed Jack his envelope.
“She wanted me to hand those out.”
“Fuck.” Jack whispered.
“You can read it later.” Robby nodded.
“No, I can’t. Reva is already confused and upset by everything. I don’t want to make it worse.” He said as he took the letter out.
Dear Jackass,
Well, I guess you were wrong! I do love proving you wrong. Maybe not this time, but a win is a win.
I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. It never hurts to hear it out loud, though. You were the family I never had. I always wanted an older brother, wanted someone who would just be there and not fuss. That was you.
You were my brother. You looked after me when I couldn’t, you kept me on my feet. Thank you.
I do find it a nice thought that we broke each other’s walls. We both hurt and figured out how to let people in, together. Try to get over your codependency.
Find someone to banter with. Take one of the students under your wing. You’re good at being a big brother. Don’t waste that. Someone else will need it.
You’re a good man. You’re a good husband to Samira and you’re a good father to Reva. Try and help her remember me. I loved that kid. She’s going to run the world someday.
Now, I have an important task for you. You’ve been through this before. He’s going to need you. No one else will be able to get through to him. Keep Mikey on his feet for me. And look, I won’t be upset if you two throw a handjob in the mix, you know, between friends.
I love you, Jack. I’m sorry.
“Jesus Christ.” Jack’s breath stuttered in his chest as he rubbed his eyes.
“Yeah.” Robby hummed.
“Let’s go get this over with.” Jack stomped out of the room.
Robby sat with his list in front of him. He had to call the florist and the caterer and the balloon artist and the ice sculpture guy and it was all so much.
“Flor-get-about-it, how can I help you?”
“My wife, Jess made an order. I need to confirm it. Last name is Robinavitch.” Robby cleared his throat.
“Oh.” There was a long pause and a sniffle on the other end. “Sorry. I just…I was hoping you wouldn’t ever call me.” The woman cleared her voice.
“Me too.”
“Right. I’m so sorry. Yes. We have her directions here. When do you need it by?”
“Um, three days if you can.”
“Of course. We’ll start working on it right away.”
“Can I give you my card over the phone? I’m not really in the mood to leave the house.”
“Oh, Dr. Robinavitch, you don’t need to worry about it. It’s on the house.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’m sure she’s got something elaborate planned. I couldn’t accept-”
“Jess helped me get this business started. I used to work admin for her school. She helped me more than I ever let her know. It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh. Okay, then.”
As Robby called each person, the picture became clear. All these people were her people. They were the ones she looked after. From the florist to the ice sculpture who had been in Jess’s ESL class, she taught in the summer.
The day of the funeral hit like a freight train. Robby stood in his bedroom, no longer theirs, trying to fasten his buttons on his shirt. His hands were shaking and he was getting frustrated. There was knock at the door and he wanted to scream.
“Who is it?” He snapped.
“Samira. Just wanted to see if you need anything.” She said. Robby took a deep breath. Jess’s letter rattled around his brain. They’ll take care of you. He opened the door, his shirt half done up.
“I can’t get the buttons. My hands are shaking too much.” He tried to keep the tears at bay. Samira gave him a soft smile and a nod.
“I can help you.” She started doing up the buttons. “It’s a good color on you.” She nodded.
“It was her favorite. She demanded it.” Robby almost smiled.
“Yeah? She made me wear this,” Samira gestured to her red dress with gold lace on the hem. “I wore it to a concert with her once. I forgot it was even in my closet.” She huffed.
“it’s nice.” Robby nodded.
“We’re ready when you are.”
“Never will be.” Robby sighed as he pushed past her and down the stairs.
“Uncle Mikey!” Reva squealed as soon as she saw him. Robby felt like he had been hit by a truck. The little girl was wrapped around his legs.
“Sorry, she got away from me.” Jack said as he walked over. Robby waved him off as he picked her up.
“Hi, Honey.” He forced a smile.
“Papa said you’re sad today. Said we have to say bye to Jessy.” Reva looked at him with big sad eyes, confused and wanting someone to say it’s not real.
“Yeah, I’m sad. I don’t want to say bye to Jess.” Robby wiped his tears away quickly.
“I don’t want to, too.” She laid her head on his shoulder.
“We have to. I’m sorry, bug.” He held her tight and kissed her head.
“Let’s go.” Samira guided them out to the car.
The funeral home was decorated per Jess’s instructions. Rainbow streamers covered the place, balloons everywhere. There was a balloon arch over her coffin. There were flowers covering the place. Next to her coffin, there were two flower arrangements in the shapes of Roger and Betty. There was a photobooth in the corner. The caterer had set up a table full of Jess’s favorite foods. There was a huge ice sculpture of a middle finger by the food, and a small, light-up dance floor.
The place was filled with people. All the people who had loved Jess. Robby stood at the door, shaking the hands of the guests. He wanted to be anywhere else. He kept his composure as best he could. Betty lay across his feet.
“Dr. Robby, I’m s-sorry.” Harrison stood in front of him, Cassie had a arm wrapped around his shoulders.
“Thank you, Harrison.”
“She was my favorite teacher. I still think about her lessons when I’m in AP Lit. I haven’t had a better teacher than her.”
“She loved teaching you kids. She would have been very proud of you.” Robby was failing at keeping it together. Cassie gave his arm a squeeze as she ushered Harrison into the room.
Robby watched all the people mingle with each other. It was such an array of people, no one else could have brought them together like Jess. You’ll feel joy at some point, it’s okay. I want you to. Don’t get upset when that happens. A smile tugged at his lips.
“Dr. Robinavitch. Everyone is ready when you are.” The funeral director said. Robby made his way to the podium next to Jess. Everyone was looking at him, red eyes and furrowed brows.
“Um, Hi. I am under strict instructions to stick to the script that she wrote.” Robby cleared his throat as he pulled the envelope from his jacket pocket. “She wrote her euology, because of course she did. I’m just going to read it as she wrote it.” He took the paper from the envelope and read the first lines. He couldn’t help the laughter that escaped.
“You all look like shit.” He chuckled, the room lit up with laughter. “I know that I look better than you. I made sure they gave me a facelift before the viewing. I died, and the world is definitely worse for it. Let’s face it, I was the best of us.
I’ll be sappy for a moment. Give the people what they want. I loved you all. I really did. I feel so privileged to have such a wonderful group of people to cry over me. Look after each other. Make sure you keep an eye on the kids from my class and my dog and my sexy husband.
I lived as much as I could. I need to thank you all for helping me do that. You all made sure to make my life wonderful. I know that I didn’t make it easy all the time, but you all followed along with my crazy ideas.
I have one last crazy idea that I need you all to help me with. Celebrate. Stop crying and snotting on yourselves and get up and have a good time. Drink, eat and dance. It’s what I would do. Hell, I might be hanging around there. Who knows? Pretend like I am.
Get wrecked.
Jess.”
The room laughed and sniffled. Robby tucked the paper back into his pocket and sat back down.
“Jess wanted to offer the opportunity to say goodbye to her. If you’d like to come up and see her, now is the time. She requested that her playlist be played now. So, just be prepared.” The funeral director smiled. Tubthumping by Chumbawamba started playing as people lined up.
“Mike.” Jack’s hand on his shoulder startled him back to reality. “You have to see her, brother. It’s the last time.”
“I Can’t get up.” Robby tried to catch his breath.
“I know. Come on.” Jack pulled him up. The room had emptied out, everyone in the reception hall. Robby’s legs wobbled as he walked up to the coffin, Betty at his side.
Jess lay waiting for him. Her eyes shut, her lips closed. She didn’t look like she was sleeping. Jess always had drool in the corner of her mouth. Her brows were always knitted together like she was mad at the world before she had even woken up. Her jaw was usually slack and hung open. Robby reached out to run his thumb across her cheek. It felt wrong, rubbery in a way her skin never felt. He smoothed the hair from her face. Her hair was course and cold.
“I’ll miss you every fucking day.” He choked out. “Goodbye, my love.” He wanted to kiss her one last time, he didn’t want this version of her to be the kiss he remembered. He hung his head as he left her there, in the coffin, on the raised platform.
“It was a good service. These things usually get overly sappy. People make it about the performance of grief. This feels real.” Jack nodded.
“How do I just go back to life, like everything is normal?” Robby rubbed his eyes.
“You don’t. You find your new normal. Whatever that looks like, as long as it isn’t at the bottom of a bottle.” Jack put a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s so quiet. The house. I don’t know how to live there.”
“Then don’t. Come stay with us for a while. Reva would love it. As long as you need.” Jack offered.
“She deserves to be normal. Not have me sulking around.” Robby said. “How did you do it? Move on after your first wife?”
“Well, I was younger so that was part of it. To be honest, I never thought I would. But Samira…you just can’t fight it sometimes. But that’s not what happens to everyone. Don’t worry about that right now. Just love Jess. That’s all you can do with yourself right now.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do anything else.” Robby watched as the room danced and laughed. He watched as the people who loved Jess, who Jess loved, celebrated her. He knew he was lucky. She picked him. He got her like no one else. What a privilege.
So…this was heartbreakingly beautiful. Definitely give the other parts a read before this one (or don’t who am I to tell you what to do) and when you’re ready definitely give this part a read. Now I’m going to go cry myself to sleep😅
