Fic Catchall

requests are never open :) | adult | I'm bored and anxious a lot | check out my sci-fi blog: www.tumblr.com/taska-rokanh | and my Tolkien/fantasy blog: www.tumblr.com/fili-urzudel

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Hey! I have two other themed blogs, but I decided I was sick of making whole blogs dedicated to fixations I would eventually grow out of, so, here's my fic catchall. Everything that doesn't fit the theme of my other blogs ends up here. Enjoy.

[filmforher]

—almost lover, hopeless dream

summary: a love letter to almost. to the line they kept and the day they didn't. to letting go as an act of love.

or

it's the fourth of july and samira mohan is leaving and jack abbot has four years of things he never said and one day left to say them.

word count: 6.6k

tags: angsty, fluff, mentions of blood, grief and loss.

note: hey so i'm devastated and i actually wrote this with tears in my eyes. i can't believe i lost my girl samira mohan. i will forever miss her and as long as i'm alive mohabbot will live.

you can also read it on ao3!

The ambulance bay smells like exhaust and summer and the particular kind of unbearable heat that sticks in your skin. Samira stands in it anyway, arms crossed over her scrubs, chin tipped up toward a sky going pink at the edges, and breathes. Or tries to. The air comes in shallow and wrong and she has to remind herself, the way she's been reminding herself all day, that she is fine. She is fine. She is a fourth-year resident who has held people together at their seams and she is not going to fall apart in a parking lot over a man who will never think she's enough.

She made it outside before the tightening started this time, which she decides to count as a victory. The walls had been coming for her. She'd felt them all afternoon, the slow creep of pressure that starts behind her sternum and moves outward, filling her up from the inside until her ribs can't expand right. The second time today.

The first had been in chairs, of all places. In front of everyone - patients, families, the whole fluorescent audience of a busy ED afternoon - her chest seizing up so completely that Joy had grabbed her arm and Langdon had gotten her on a gurney before she could argue, running vitals, an EKG, the whole thing, and she'd lain there thinking this is it, this is how I go, a fourth-year resident dying of a heart attack at twenty-nine in her own hospital - but the EKG came back clean. Everything came back clean.

She can still hear the way the cruelty came into Robby’s voice once he understood what it actually was. The laugh beneath it. Is this a panic attack because of your mommy issues? Go home. I don't need the fucking liability. In front of all of them. Said like she was a punchline he'd grown bored of.

How could she have let that happen? How could she have been so careless, so exposed, so nakedly human in a place that punished you for it? She'd felt so stupid lying on that gurney, a perfectly healthy woman with a perfectly healthy heart that had simply decided it had too much in it. She'd felt so little. That was the word for it, always the word for it with him - little. Small. Helpless in a way she didn't know how to fight because you cannot argue someone into seeing you. Samira tips her head back further. The sky is doing something beautiful and she almost hates it for that, hates that the world keeps being beautiful today of all days. Her eyes are wet and she doesn't wipe them yet, just lets the warmth sit there, because there is no one to see her and because she has been so careful all day, so careful, and she is so tired of being careful.

Samira Mohan is polite with her sadness. She has always been this way, since before she can remember. She holds it gently, like something borrowed, like something that doesn't belong to her and so she has no right to set it down loudly. She doesn't want to be a burden. She never wants to be a burden. So she smiles when she can and when she can't, she stands in ambulance bays and looks at pinking skies and tells herself she is fine until it becomes true.

Everything has been falling apart. She is leaving. She is leaving and it should feel like freedom and some of it does, she thinks, she thinks it does, but standing here right now what she mostly feels is the particular vertigo of ending. Of closing a door on the room where she became herself.

Four years.

Four years of this building, these halls, these fluorescent lights that drain everyone's color. Four years of learning how to be a doctor inside these walls that hold all her failures and her firsts. The first time she ran a code. The first time she lost one. The first time she sat with a family in that small room and watched hope leave a person's face. PTMC made her. PTMC unmade her. She knows both things can be true.

She'd been so certain about leaving, once. Months ago, before the certainty curdled into something more complicated. The plan had made sense in the way that plans do when you build them out of feeling rather than logic - she would go, she would get closer to her mother, geography as remedy, distance collapsed, this time it will be different. She'd told herself that. She'd almost believed it. She was going to Graceland, in a way. Looking for something sacred in the going, something that would make her feel less like a person held together by obligation and routine. The fellowship was real and good and she wanted it, she did, but underneath the wanting was her mother's face, or the idea of it, the version of her mother she kept trying to find.

And then her mother called.

Not to say I've missed you or come home or any of the things Samira had been quietly rehearsing receiving. She called on a whim, breezy and bright, to say she was selling the house and going on a cruise with her boyfriend. Isn't that exciting!The house where Samira grew up. Gone. Her mother, sailing somewhere warm and far away with a man whose last name Samira still wasn't sure of.

She'd sat with the phone in her hand for a long time after.

So. Not that, then.

The thing about being a rebel without a clue is that eventually the clue arrives and it turns out you were never really rebelling against the right thing. She wasn't leaving for her mother. She was leaving for herself, had always been leaving for herself and that should feel clarifying and in some ways it does but mostly it opened up the bigger question underneath: what does she actually want? She has been turning this over for months. Which fellowship. Which city. Which version of Samira Mohan gets to exist after PTMC. Whether she has what it takes for the one she really wants or whether she is going to talk herself into the safer choice and call it wisdom. Whether staying is cowardice dressed up as loyalty. Whether leaving is ambition dressed up as escape.

She's made up her mind. The decision is done. She is going. She is going, and PTMC will go on without her, and the fluorescent lights will drain the color from someone else's face, and she will become a doctor somewhere new, in new walls, and she will carry this place with her the way you carry every room where something real happened to you.

But when she thinks about leaving, something in her chest does something complicated. She thinks about Robby and something in her chest does something else. She's spent four years trying to earn something from him. She knows this, intellectually, you can know something about yourself and still be helpless against it. Trying to earn his approval, his praise, some sign that she is doing well, that she is more than adequate, that all the hours and sacrifice and blood she has poured into this place have been seen. And some days she gets it. Some days he says something that makes her feel ten feet tall and she holds it for weeks, rotates it in her hands like a coin. But then there are days like today. Days when he looks at her and she can feel herself shrinking, can feel the shape of her becoming smaller and smaller until she barely takes up space.

I don’t need the fucking liability.

You should have known better.

Go home.

She doesn't want to miss him. She won't. She knows she won't.

What she will miss is what she wanted him to be. That's a different grief entirely.

The backhanded apologies he gave her. The praise he gives so freely to everyone else, watching him light up for the others, warm and expansive, and then turn to her with something cooler. She has spent four years understanding, on some level she couldn't name, that his damage was not about her. That the things he threw at her were not aimed at her, not really, not specifically, they were ricochets. Shrapnel. She just happened to be standing where he swung. She has known this. She has absorbed it and made it make sense and turned it into something survivable because that is what Samira does, she survives, she finds the framework that lets her keep going, and still—

Does he know? Does he know he is demolishing her in the process? Letting all of that damage damage her?

Always an angel, she thinks. Never a god.

She closes her eyes. Her chest is better out here. The tightening has loosened into something more like ache, which she can work with. She knows how to work with ache.

"Dr. Mohan."

She knows the voice without turning. She's known it for a long time. Low and unhurried, with that particular ease it has of arriving before it needs to, like he has nowhere to be but here. She wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist before she turns, a single clean motion, and faces him. Jack Abbot looks exactly as he always does in the middle of a shift, which is to say he looks like he was made for this - a bit rumpled, his gray hair doing whatever it wants, that particular aliveness in him that the night seems to sharpen rather than wear down. He is, objectively, an attractive man. She has thought this several times and filed it somewhere she doesn't open. He is also flirtatious in the idle, reflexive way of certain men who have simply always been that way  - deployed equally on nurses and attendings and Ahmad, who laughs at his terrible jokes. Samira has watched him do it for four years. She knows the register. She tells herself that when it's aimed at her, it's the same thing.

She is maybe not always entirely convinced of this.

"I heard you were looking for me," he says.

She blinks. Her head is still in twelve places - Robby's voice, Mr. Diaz, Mr. Green, the tightening in her chest that only just let go, the sky going pink, the leaving - “What?”

"Dana said you were asking for me a while ago." He studies her face with that unhurried attention of his, taking inventory. "Everything okay?"

Oh. Right. Right, that had been hours ago. "Oh," she says, "yeah. It was—" She exhales through her nose and recalibrates. "I just wanted to ask you about a letter of recommendation. For the fellowship.”

Something moves across his face, brief and controlled. "Of course," he says. "Whatever you need, Mohan."

It lands on him the moment he says it. By giving her what she wants, he is letting her go. The letter will be good - he’ll make sure of it, he'll make it so fucking good that whoever reads it will have no choice - and that goodness will carry her directly out of his life. He is going to write her out of this hospital with his own hands and he is going to do it well because that is what she deserves and because he has never once been able to give her anything less than everything.

She wonders if he knows how it lands, whatever you need. A hand steadying her shoulder. She thinks probably he doesn't. She thinks he just means it. He does. That's the thing. He just means it.

"Thank you." She looks down at the concrete. "I would've asked Robby, but—"

"I will do it." His voice moves gently across hers before she can finish, rescuing her. He has always known which sentences she shouldn't have to complete. He has always gotten there first.

"Okay."

Silence settles between them. She lets him look at her because she has nothing left for performing, no energy to arrange herself into fine and he looks because he can't help it. Her bun has given up entirely, loose strands catching the last of the evening light, and her eyes carry the full dark weight of the day. She looks worn through. She looks like someone who has been asked for too much by too many people and given it anyway. She is still, to him, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. He has thought this before and put it somewhere sensible and it keeps finding its way back, stubborn and inconvenient and entirely useless to him.

"Where?" he asks.

She looks up. "California. I think."

Jack hums. He is processing something and has decided, for now, to process it quietly. "California," he repeats.

"It's a good program."

"I'm sure it is."

She narrows her eyes slightly at his tone. "You have something to say?"

"I don't have anything to say."

"Abbot."

He looks at her for a moment, then away, his jaw working. "Why not here?" he says finally. "There are good programs here. There are great programs here."

"There are."

"So."

"So." She tilts her head. "I don't think there's anything for me here anymore."

Something violent moves across his face, it is fast but she catches it. He looks almost stung before he reassembles. "Nothing," he says flatly.

"Not the way there used to be."

He's quiet for a beat too long. Then: "What about the people who think you're the best resident they've seen in a decade?" 

She blinks. "Is that — are you talking about yourself right now?"

"I'm speaking generally."

"You're really not."

The corner of his mouth moves. Almost a smile. Almost. "You'd be leaving a very strong department, Mohan. Statistically speaking."

"Statistically," she repeats, amused despite herself.

"The numbers don't lie."

"The numbers," she says, "also apply to the program in California, which has an exceptional attendings-to-residents ratio and a—"

"Okay, I don't need the brochure."

She laughs, and it surprises both of them. The first one all day, rising up through everything the day buried her under. It lasts only a second but he's already keeping it. 

"It's a good opportunity," she says, softer now. "It's what I've been working toward."

"I know that." The words come out stripped of everything except the truth of them. "I know that, Mohan."

"Then why does it sound like you're trying to talk me out of it?"

He looks at her steadily, then exhales through his nose and looks away, and she watches him rein something in, put it back where it belongs, return to the version of himself that keeps the line."I'm not," he says finally. "I'm not trying to talk you out of it." A pause. "I just....I'll get you that letter."

She looks at him and nods. He is looking at somewhere past her shoulder, jaw tight, arms crossed, very carefully not looking at her face. Whatever she wanted. Whatever she needed. He would always find a way to offer it, even when the offering cost him. He understood this about himself. He had made a kind of peace with it. Not happily, but Jack knows his own nature. He was going to write her the best letter of recommendation she had ever seen. He was going to hate every word of it.

"I heard about your patients," he says. "I'm sorry."

Samira laughs, short and hollow, she has run out of the energy required to be gracious about it. "Great. Good to know my fuckups make the rounds.”

"It is not your fault." He says without decoration, without the careful softening most people reach for. "None of it is. Even if you feel like it is.”

She doesn't say anything. He watches her not say anything.

"Don't burden yourself with the what-ifs," he says. "It is not worth it. Trust me.”

And she does, that's the thing. She trusts him and sometimes it alarms her, the ease of it, how little work it requires. She doesn't entirely know what to do with that either.

"I really tried to make him stay," she says, and hates the crack in it, hates giving that to the open air. "I tried to get him what he needed—"

"And you did."

She looks at him and he holds her gaze, steady. "Earlier. You found a way." He doesn't elaborate because he doesn't need to. She hears it anyway - what's in the bag, I'll pay for it - his voice from hours ago, capable and immediate, no hesitation, just yes, whatever this patient needs, whatever she needed to do right by him.

She exhales."It's not fair," she says quietly. Not to him. To the air, to the pink stubborn sky, to no one in particular.

"I've come to learn most things aren't."

He says it without bitterness and that's what gets her, that's always what gets her about him. He has earned the right to be bitter a hundred times over and he just - isn't. Or if he is, he keeps it somewhere private and doesn't let it leak onto other people. She knows the outline of what he's lost. A leg. A wife. Years of himself, maybe, the version of himself that existed before all of it. He was young once and the world was relentless about taking from him and he is standing here in an ambulance bay talking her down from the edge of her own guilt like it's the most natural thing.

What she doesn't know, can't know, is that it costs him something to say it. Most things aren't fair. He has said this enough times that it comes out smooth, worn down to a manageable shape, but underneath it is still the original thing - still the hospital room, still the phone call, still the specific moment when the world rearranged itself permanently and didn't ask him first. Jack was so young and so doomed. He had been so angry, once. Furious, total and consuming, at the randomness of it, at the fact that trying hard and meaning well, doing his duty and loving someone completely turned out to be no kind of protection at all. He had carried that fury for years. And then, somewhere along the way, he just got tired of it. Put it down. There is a version of moving on that looks like peace from the outside and is mostly just exhaustion, and Jack Abbot knows that version intimately.

That's the thing about love - it erases. Not the person, never the person, he would not trade a single day of what he had, would not hollow it out for anything in this world. But love erases the after. The verdict. The door you close on yourself and dead-bolt from the inside and call permanent. He had been so certain. That he was done wanting, done reaching, done leaving himself open to the specific devastation of caring too much about someone who could be taken from you. He had written that sentence about himself and meant it and then Samira Mohan walked into his ED and without asking permission, without even knowing she was doing it, started taking the walls apart. Slipped into the parts he thought he had closed off for good. Just by being herself, fully and without apology, just by looking at him like he was worth listening to on the days he wasn't sure he was.

She erased the certainty that he was finished.

He doesn't know whether to be grateful. Some days it feels like grace. Other days it feels like standing at the edge of something very high and understanding, with complete clarity, exactly how far the fall is.

Still. Still, underneath all of it, there is this terrible desire to be loved. It never left. He had thought it might, thought grief might have the decency to take that with it when it settled, but it didn't. It stayed, embarrassing and persistent, this wanting. This need to matter to someone specifically, to be the person someone thinks of first, to be chosen. He doesn't talk about it. He wouldn't know how to begin. But it is there, it has always been there, and standing here looking at Samira Mohan's tired face in the evening light it is louder than usual in a way he doesn't have a name for yet.

Still, there is this quiet horror in him of being left behind. Again.

“No matter how hard you try," he says. "So there's no use in beating yourself up."

He's watching her. Grateful watching. She has caught him doing it before. She has never said anything.

Jack, for his part, is not trying to hide it. He is just looking at her. He has always just looked at her, openly, the way he looks at things he finds worth looking at, and if that reveals something about him then fine. He has stopped pretending otherwise, at least to himself.

In the eyes of Jack Abbot, Samira Mohan is completely visible. She has never had to perform for him, not once in four years. Never had to demonstrate her intelligence or arrange her competence where he could see it, never had to choose her words carefully or read the room for his mood and navigate around it. He already knew. He came to his conclusions about her early and they have never wavered and the consistency of it, the absolute quietness of it, took her almost a full year to trust. She kept waiting for the condition. The fine print. The version of his regard that turned out to be contingent on something she'd eventually fail to provide.

It never came.

He knew she was brilliant. He knew she was worth listening to, worth citing in rooms she wasn’t even in, worth trusting with the cases that mattered. He gave her the hard ones and stood back and let her work and never once looked surprised when she got it right. That was the thing that undid her, if she was honest. Everyone else's confidence in her had an edge of performance to it, a generosity she could feel the shape of. His was just factual. Like stating the weather.

He looks at her and she becomes a god.

He has spent four years watching her receive it uncertainly, watching her almost-believe it and then pull back, and it has never made him want to take it away. If anything it makes him want to give her more of it. Stack it up around her until she can't avoid it. Until she has no choice but to understand what she is.

He knows, standing here, that this is probably the last time he'll see her like this. He is memorizing it without meaning to.

He searches for her eyes.

She gives them.

"What do you need, Mohan?" he asks.

She almost tells him the truth. She almost says I need five minutes without Robby's voice in my head, I need to stop feeling like I am always one mistake away from proving everyone right about me, I need someone to take care of me, I need you to tell me I belong here, to stay — but what comes out instead is what always comes out when Samira Mohan is asked what she needs and doesn't know how to answer honestly.

"I need to get back to work."

Jack looks at her for a beat longer than necessary. He should tell her to go home. An exhausting day, two difficult patients, tears in the ambulance bay - go home, Mohan, sleep, wash it off. He is a doctor. He knows what a person looks like when they've given everything they had and then kept going anyway.

But he doesn't say it.

See, Jack Abbot was a selfish man when it came to Samira Mohan. He wanted her to stay. Here, where he could see her. Where he could give her the only things he was allowed to give her, the look what she did said aloud to a room, the hard cases that let her be everything she was, the glances he stole when she was deep in a problem, that expression she got, the one that meant the rest of the world had ceased to exist for her. She had a terrible day and she is running on nothing and he is standing here wanting her to stay because he cannot bear the alternative, which is her walking out those doors and taking whatever this is with her.

She makes him sick with desire. For her presence. For her laugh. For her intelligence, the precision of it, the way she thinks. To have her close. To be hers, in whatever shape that could exist.

"Okay," he says. "Whatever you need." He uncrosses his arms. "Let's get to work, Dr. Mohan.”

-

McKay finds her at the nurses' station sometime later, bag on her shoulder, heading out.

"Hey," Cassie says, stopping. She looks at Samira a little longer than necessary. ”You're staying?"

"Yup."

"How were the fireworks?" Samira asks. "Upstairs."

Cassie's expression changes into something fond. ”Beautiful, actually." A pause. "You should've come up."

"Maybe next time."

Cassie looks at her. They both know what that means. Cassie doesn't say it. She just puts her hand on Samira's shoulder and moves it in a slow circle, and Samira lets herself lean into it just slightly, just for a second, because she is so tired and she is allowed.

"Okay," Cassie says. "Take care of yourself."

"Thanks. You too."

She watches her go. Then Dana appears at her elbow, chart tucked under one arm, and says without preamble, "Abbot needs you in South 15, kid."

Samira straightens. "Right away.”

-

She's glad she stayed.

She won't be able to articulate why, at least not in words.

Abbot includes her in everything. Not out of pity, of course. Just because that is how he works, he treats her like a colleague he trusts, like her eyes on a case add something, like she belongs in the room, and she does. She knows she does. But it helps to be reminded.

Ellis makes sure she takes breaks. Abbot makes sure she eats - appears beside her somewhere past midnight, sets a matcha latte and something from the vending machine near her elbow without comment. She stares at it for a second and feels something very stupid and very true move through her chest.

They work a procedure together, around two in the morning, the two of them and one of the nurses, and Samira falls into the rhythm of it, the clean precise work of her hands, the back and forth of his instructions and her responses, and for a while there is nothing else. Just the two of them in tandem, in the way they always have been, the way she'd noticed early and then stopped noticing because it became ordinary, because she'd stopped being able to imagine it being otherwise.

She could stay here forever, she thinks. In this room, in this small ordinary extraordinary moment. Never go to the fellowship, never pack a box, never close the door on the room where she became herself. She lets herself want it, just for these two minutes, just while her hands are busy and bloody and the room is quiet and he is standing close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she was someone who did things like that.

"Excellent work, as always, Dr. Mohan," he says, pulling off his gloves, already moving toward the door. She watches it close behind him.

Always an angel, never a god, she'd thought, about Robby, earlier. But with Jack she is always a god. She has always been a god, in here, in this building, in his eyes. She just kept forgetting to look.

-

7 AM arrives in a haze. Her locker opens on the second try. She changes slowly, on autopilot. Her scrubs go in the bag. She checks her phone for the first time in hours - three missed calls, two texts, all from her mother. She closes the locker. She stands there for a second with her hand still on the cold metal, not thinking anything specific, just existing.

The parking lot is yellow with early morning and the air is still cool, the last merciful hour before the city remembers it's July. She has her bag over one shoulder and she is almost at her car when she hears footsteps behind her.

She turns.

Jack is standing a few feet away, and he has changed out of his scrubs - dark t-shirt, hair in a much better state than last night, like he went somewhere and put himself together before coming to find her. Like he wanted to be presentable for this. Like it mattered to him how he looked when he said whatever he came out here to say. He has an envelope in his hand.

"What am I going to do without my smartest resident here?" he says.

"Technically, I'm not your resident."

"Debatable."

"And you'll have everyone else."

Something shifts in his face. "But you're not everyone else, Mohan." He says it simply, a fact he's done arguing with. "And I've come to realize that is a problem for me."

She is so tired. That must be why she just lets it land, doesn't deflect or laugh it off. She just stands in the yellow morning and receives it. He takes a few steps closer and holds out the envelope.

She stares at it. "What is—"

"The letter. I figured you'd need it soon."

She takes it slowly, turns it over in her hands. "When did you—" She looks up. "You could've done it later. When you were rested."

He waves her off. "I—uh—snuck upstairs for a bit. It was no problem."

"Jack. You've been on shift since—"

"It was the easiest letter I've ever had to write," he says simply. Like that settles it. Like there was never any question.

She looks down at the envelope again and feels something move through her chest, slow and warm and devastating. He wrote it tonight. Somewhere between the procedure at two in the morning and right now, he sat down and wrote her out of this hospital with his own hands and then came to find her to give it to her in person.

She takes a few steps closer. She thinks about the four years of him keeping his distance, the careful professional register he maintained so consistently she'd almost convinced herself she'd imagined everything underneath it. Almost. He is her superior and he has always known it, has always held that line with a kind of grim integrity that she respected and resented in equal measure. She used to think it was just how he was. Then she started to understand it was a choice he made, daily, because he thought it was the right thing.

She wonders what changed. She wonders if it was always going to be now, at the last possible moment, when she is already leaving.

"What can I do," he says, "to make you stay, Samira?"

And there it is. Years of it, finally said out loud in a parking lot at seven in the morning with the sun coming up behind him and the envelope still warm in her hands.

"Jack—"

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it." She exhales. "That's the problem."

He looks at her and she looks back, the morning sitting between them.

"You're leaving," he says, making peace with it in real time. She can see him doing it.

"I'm leaving," she confirms.

"And I'm—" he stops. Laughs once, short and humorless, looks at the ground. "I'm four years too late and I know that. I kept the line because it was the right thing and I would do it again and I hate that I would do it again."

"I know."

She thinks about pushing on a bruise. How she has been thinking about him exactly like that for so long, returning to the ache of it, the specific tenderness that proves something real is underneath.

"I don't want you to stay because I asked you to," he says. "That's not what I want for you." He shakes his head. "I want you here with me. Of course I do. But I also want you out there. Being the best. Conquering the world." A pause. "In a place where your skills are truly seen. Where you are appreciated the way you deserve to be appreciated." He says this last part like it hurts him and like he means it completely, both things at once, and she understands that this is what love looks like when it is being honest about itself.

"You should go. I know you should go. You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't try."

He steps closer. His hands come up to her face, gentle and certain, cupping her jaw, and she reaches up and covers them with hers. His hands are warm. She can feel the steadiness in them, the same steadiness that has been there every time he has stood next to her in a trauma bay, every time he has talked her down from the edge of her own doubt.

"Then why are you—"

"Because I needed you to know." His voice is low and certain and it moves through her. "Before you go. I needed you to know."

He looks at her the way he has always looked at her, and then he says the things he has never said, the things he has been keeping in the closed-off rooms all these years and he says them plainly, without decoration, the way he says everything he means.

"You are the most brilliant doctor I have trained in twenty years of doing this," he says. "And I don't say that lightly and I don't say it to make you feel good. I say it because it is the most accurate thing I know." His thumbs move slightly against her cheekbones. "You are going to change things, Samira. I have watched you work for four years and I have thought, every single time, that medicine is lucky to have you. That our patients were lucky to have you. That I was—" he stops, voice faltering. "That I was lucky to have you."

Her eyes are going wet. She is so tired of crying today and she is going to cry again anyway.

"I know that maybe you didn't want to hear this from me. That maybe there was someone else you—" he doesn't finish it. They both know who lives in that sentence. "And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that wasn't what it should have been for you."

She looks down, feeling naive and little, then back up at him.

"I thought I did," she says. "For a long time, I thought that's what I wanted. For him to—" she stops. Shakes her head. "But that doesn't matter now."

"Samira—"

"It doesn't," she says, and she means it, he can hear that she means it, maybe for the first time. "It really doesn't."

"And for what it's worth," she adds, something almost like a smile finding her face, small and tired and real, "I could've gone without you ever saying any of this out loud and I would've known anyway." She looks at him steadily. "You always made it clear, Jack. Every single day, in every way you knew how." A pause. "So. Thank you for that."

"It was the easiest thing in the world. I didn't think," he says, quieter now, "that I could feel like this again. About anyone." He says it like a confession. "I had made my peace with that. Or I thought I had. And then you walked into my ED and I realized, slowly and then all at once, that I had not made any peace at all. I had just been waiting without knowing I was waiting."

"Jack...I'm still leaving," she says, not necessarily a warning nor a wall - just the truth, offered to him honestly, because he deserves that. “I want you to know that. Whatever this is, whatever today is — I'm still going. And I don't know what that means for—" she stops. "I don't want you to say any of this and then resent me for it later."

Her breath catches. Jack laughs softly - at himself, at the situation - shakes his head.

"I will love you either way, Samira. I will love you if I see you every week and I will love you if I never see you again."

She breaks, a little - politely as always, trying not to make a mess of it.

And then he kisses her, and it is so sweet.

It is not desperate. It is the kiss of a man who has thought about this for years and is taking his sweet time now that he finally can, slow and so tender it makes her eyes go wet all over again. She kisses him back with everything she has, which is considerable, and he feels it move through him like a current. She makes a small sound against his mouth and her hands find his chest first, then move up and then her fingers are in his hair and she is pulling him closer and he goes willingly, gratefully, his hands still cradling her face like something he cannot believe he gets to hold.

He has never been so glad of anything in his life.

When they finally pull back he rests his forehead against hers, both of them breathing. The morning is fully here now, the sky gone from pink to gold, and somewhere across the country California exists, waiting for her, indifferent and bright and full of everything she is going toward. She closes her eyes for a moment. He pulls back just enough to look at her. His thumbs still at her cheekbones. His eyes asking something his mouth is leaving up to her.

He asks again. ”What can I do, Samira?”

He wasn't hers. She wasn't his. But he was so good at making her feel like they belonged to each other. Like the wanting went both ways, somewhere between forever and nothing there was a room with both their names on it and they had both always known where the door was. She has given this place everything she had. She is leaving in pieces and she is leaving whole, both true at once.

Maybe in some other version of this - some kinder dimension where neither of them had anything to lose and the line didn't exist and she wasn't leaving - they would have found each other sooner. They would have been taller there, she thinks. She would have let herself be loved without first checking whether she deserved it and he would have reached for her without needing the permission of her leaving to finally do it.

Maybe in that place they get the whole thing. The ordinary life of them, coffee and arguments and waking up together on a Sunday, all the mundane sacred dailiness of two people who chose each other without the clock running out. But she knows what she wants now. 

"Take me home, Jack," she says softly. "Will you?"

Something in his face opens, a window in a room that has been closed a very long time. He has spent years wanting things he wouldn't allow himself. He is done with that now.

“Of course. Whatever you want, Samira." he says.

She smiles at him. He takes her hand and tips his head down, pressing his lips to her hair. A kiss that says I see you and I have always seen you and there are three thousand miles between here and there and I will love you across every single one of them. I will follow you anywhere. I will find you again.

[dspectar]

Sweater swap

[fitzbeloveds]

"there's no romance in the pitt" explain this scene then

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

"Robby hates women" yeah and that's why he insists that Santos goes to the trauma counselor. That's why he trusts Kiara implicitly to help with difficult issues. That's why he encourages Mel to share how she feels about her deposition multiple times. That's why he jokes with Al-hashimi when they're getting the urine sample from Baby Jane Doe and why he uses her first name in a comforting, soft voice when she asks for his help. That's why Dana may be one of the only people that really knows him. That's why he overstepped into Whitaker's personal life when Santos expressed concern for him. That's why he strives to push Javadi and Mohan to be their best, to do their best, because he knows they're capable of more than they believe. That's why he apologizes to both of them when he blows up at them without thinking, because he knows it's just a side effect of whatever is going on in his head and shouldn't affect them. That's why he listens to McKay when she gives him advice and redirection. That's why he advocates for female patients so passionately. 

Does he have his biases? He's a 50-ish year old white man, of course he does. He has blind spots the same as everyone. But to say that he's just a misogynist that throws all his problems at women indiscriminately, especially when we saw plenty of projection and vitriol with the men close to him--Langdon, Abbot, Duke--is minimizing a vivid, complex representation of someone struggling with their mental health.

[love-quinn]

— THE PARITY OF ZERO

pairing — michael robinavitch x fem! doctor! reader

summary — you’ve always had a problem integrating yourself into situations, not quite understanding how other people do it so easily. you spend a lot of time in your own head, and can confirm it’s not always a lovely place to be. it’s one of robby’s favourite places to be, if you’d just let him make space.

word count — 8.6k words

warnings — reader is very lonely, brief brief mentions of panic attacks, ermployee/boss relationship, age gap (robby’s early 50s reader’s late 20s), mentions of child loss (not reader or robby, she has a 7 year old patient who doesn’t make it), probably cringe and melodramatic but who cares

note — sorry for falling off the face of the earth whoops!! started working on this + an abbot fic + a carter fic (yay) and got tunnel vision i hope it’s long enough that it makes up for my absence <3333

The human body is mostly even.

It comes with a lot of pairs; eyes, lungs, hands, they’re all paired all the way down to the chromosomes. Bilateral symmetry develops in the womb, most human beings are reflections of each side, separated vertically. A line right down the spine - not perfect mirrors, but close enough to the naked eye. 

It shows in the way you examine newcomers. Two pupils needing checking, breath sounds are equal, two hands able to grip the same. But you don’t treat pairs. One patient at a time - well, two every hour as Robby loves to remind you. One heart, tachy but normal. One consciousness, words slurring under the morphine. One person who arrives whole and will leave uneven.

The body wants to be divisible by two. You’ve wondered why that is. Why one heart failing feels louder than two lungs breathing.

Or, in the case of the fourteen year old girl you have sitting in North-5, one lung breathing and one lung hypoventilating. You’re looking at her x-rays now, knowing you’re going to have to get her into surgery and bracing yourself to tell her parents. 

“They’re lungs.”

Robby is standing behind you, squinting down at you under the flickering hospital lights. He’s not wearing his glasses, so you almost want to hit him back with a quip about how does he know they’re lungs, old man. Your mouth is dry and you sit there for too long that it wouldn’t be witty if you did say it. 

“You okay, kid?” He presses when you don’t respond. 

You know you’re being strange, can’t help it when you feel like this (though exactly what this is, is up for debate. Amongst yourself), and you have to scramble to say something. “Yeah, hi. Sorry. Lungs.” Your voice sounds strange. Too soft. Inauthentic. 

“One’s got a pneumo?” He asks.

You nod, practically shoving the pictures into his hand. “Yeah, I’m getting her up to the OR now.” He examines the lungs for a moment, long enough that you think something must be wrong. Confidence in your diagnoses is something you struggle with - you assume (there’s still that voice in the back of your head that tells you confidence isn’t the problem, instead it’s the diagnoses that need working on). Every time Robby or Abbot or even Shen, who doesn’t really feel like your boss, checks over your work your pulse starts rushing like they’re going to decide you’re actually such a bad doctor that there’s no point in you even completing your residency so you might as well go home now. 

“Good, yeah, she needs it.” Robby nods affirmingly, passing you back the images. His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should. You’re the one who has to break eye contact, not liking the way that his eyes seem to bare straight into you. 

You don’t like it when Robby looks at you, not like that anyway. Not in like, a HR violation way, just like he’s examining you in a way you aren’t ready to be seen in.

“We’re going to round for handoffs soon.” He speaks up again, softly. “You’re off the rest of the week aren’t you?” Robby’s voice goes high at the end of his sentence and he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

You really do like Robby, there’s a reason you turned down the night shift residency offer you got from Gloria. It had been a tempting offer too.

It’s a rare moment of quiet in the ER, and you’re hoping silently to yourself it stays that way. Not daring to actually utter the hope, not wanting to jinx it. You’re not necessarily superstitious, but you’re not going to utter the Q-word so close to the end of your shift.

“Yeah, three whole days off.” You try and say it casually, but the words don’t sound right coming out of your voice. You have a lot of different voices, a lot of pitches and tones. You genuinely have no clue which one is your natural state. 

Robby sounds even when he talks, a sound you could pick out with your eyes closed. “That’s good. You deserve it, you’ve been running on fumes.” There’s a tenderness that catches you off guard. Robby’s not a mean boss, he’s exceptionally kind. But he’s also not comforting if he doesn’t think you need it, not the type to throw out pleasantries for pleasantries sake. “Any good plans?”

It’s not something you’ve thought about, it feels kind of pathetic to admit. Like, having plans is actually something you haven’t considered. You work long hours, about sixty most weeks, so it makes sense that on your few precious days off you like to spend it resting and recuperating. Catching up on your laundry or your sleep, or even a TV show that everyone is talking about. Those things are just as important as going out and seeing friends. 

If they’re easier and more accessible, then that’s just an added bonus. 

“Uh,” you have never felt more unnatural than in this moment. You’re certain Robby can tell you’re not being entirely truthful, as if he has some sort of innate sense for when people are doing things for the first time. It’s the teacher in him. “Yeah, maybe. I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m doing yet.”

You feel so transparent it’s as if he’s looking directly through you. Perhaps he is - already looking for ways out of the conversation, ways to speak to someone more interesting. Someone who isn’t pretending to maybe have plans. 

Someone who regularly had plans wouldn’t be embarrassed to admit they don’t have plans. It could be cool, casual: “No, not this weekend. I have a date with my couch and some take out.” Instead, you’d given what feels like the only wrong answer to a question about yourself. 

“I hope you have a good time,” Robby nods at you. 

The ER is cold, especially at night, especially in December. You’d discarded your jacket when you had entered, worried about being sweaty so early in your shift. Going to get it feels silly now, like you’d made the wrong choices. 

Most of your coworkers make something of their scrubs. Javadi has a collection of pastel hoodies she rotates between, jewellery more often than not sitting under the neckline of her top. Santos has tattoos and wears graphic tees under her scrubs rather than just the standard block colours. Mel doesn’t even usually wear scrubs, instead opting for one of her own shirts without the added layer. 

Your scrubs are standard, your undershirt is black, your winter coat is thrifted and warm but a neutral navy. You’d liked it when you bought it, but you feel silly whenever you wear it. 

You slip it on at the end of your shift, grabbing your backpack. You can hear Santos and Mateo chatting amicably about how a music artist they both listen to is coming to the city the week after next and how they both have tickets and are thinking of coordinating. 

You shut your locker, keenly aware of the other people in the room and even more astute to the fact that none of them are looking at you. 

You slip out the doors, not bothering to untangle your earbuds until you’re down the street. 

I’m not cold, I’m not cold. The woman singing has a lovely voice. It hits you like thorns down your ears, scratchy and uneven in a way that is only beautiful. The burn masks the sting of your eyes. Take my hand, take ahold. 

—

You take the train to and from work. The station is close enough to your house that the dishes in your kitchen cabinet rattle when a particularly zealous one goes past. You were told when you moved in that eventually you wouldn’t even notice the noise - it would become apart of you and you would absorb it and be able to go about your day.

You wake in the late hours of the night from the tremors, convinced you’re going to die. 

You’re not entirely sure what time the train stops running. You never check the time in the moment. 

The apartment you’ve lived in your entire residency has been good to you. You had applied for a lot of places, starting out in Allegheny west and eventually settling for Bethel Park. It’s nice and small, not too much to clean after a long week. You’re on the third floor so laundry is a bit of challenge lugging your basket to the basement but you also get a fire escape which is nice enough that you like being so high up. 

Days off have become a sort of anomaly in your life. You never quite know what to do with them. Your coworkers always have plans, both together and separately, you’ve noticed. Santos and Whitaker live together, the nurses all seem close, even Robby and Abbot talk about going to the Pirates games together.

You walked a lot when you first moved in. Pittsburgh has been your home for the last eight years - from student housing in Oakland during med school, then into your current place - but it hadn’t always been. 

There are lots of pretty places close to your apartment. Even more the further you walk, corner stores and community gardens. Sometimes you leave your phone at home and just wander, taking note of each and every street. Every facade, every storefront, every alley. It all stayed in your head. You could recreate the city in your sleep. Well, the city within an hour’s walk of your apartment.

The deli on Library road is open when you finish work. Sometimes you get off the Blue early and go sit in the stark white of the fluoros. The floor is linoleum, speckled with colours too small to identify but you know they’re there. 

You sit cross legged by the window at one of the two tables in the shop. It shakes under your elbow every time you shift, and the guy behind the counter, nametagged as Jeffrey, eyeballs you strangely every time it makes a noise. 

Your sandwich is misshapen in your hands. Red and white paper wrap up the second half, ready for you to stash it in the work fridge behind one of Langdon’s Redbulls. It’s printed real small on the bottom of the laminated menu they’ve taped to the table - $4.99 for a sandwich with a random assortment of ingredients on it. You’ve always been indecisive, this had felt like a nice way to make a choice without making a choice. 

They pick something different every time, condiments, vegetables, protein, even fruit sometimes. Once they’d given you one that included both mangoes and ranch. That hadn’t been your favourite. 

The one you have now is nice, though. Mozzarella, turkey, chips for some crunch, some other stuff you haven’t really cared to identify, all on pumpernickel. You’re not working tomorrow; you might eat both halves now. 

There’s an empty chair on the other side of your table that you’ve dumped your bag on. It’s meant for two people, and sometimes when it’s a bit busier than just you and Jeff you feel bad for taking it. You’ve got nowhere else to be though, and you’d like to sit and eat after twelve hours of not getting to do either. 

You don’t usually come on your off days, but you’d felt like you were going crazy holed up in your apartment all day. You’d done your laundry, washed all your matching scrubs and the few other clothes you wore. Tidied, caught up on your Instagram feed, and when you’d gotten to the bottom of the Hulu menu without anything jumping out at you you’d shoved on your shoes without another thought. 

It’s late, Friday night, and people are coming home from the clubs. You’re not particularly close to any, but the people who go there don’t seem to mind. Small gaggles stumble in every once in a while, giggle over the menu, and order an egg and cheese that they’ll probably barf up before they get home. 

God, you sound bitter. 

You gather your things when you finish the first half, can sense a group of drunk guys weighing up the effort of coming inside from where they hang out across the street. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and the other three seem to be caught up in a heated discussion.

It’s not snowing. You toss up taking the bus the rest of the way back. You’d walked here. 

You hear your last name, ‘doctor’ preceding it, and whirl around. On a very rare occasion you’ll get recognised on the street - people don’t tend to forget the person who saved their life, or their daughter’s or brother’s or cousin’s life. 

You’ve never seen Robby outside of work, not wearing the standard Pitt black scrubs. He looks nice in a collared plaid button down with a thick fleece over it and the top few buttons undone. You’ve never seen him wear jeans before. In your head Dr Robinavitch doesn’t exist in the same world where jeans also exist. 

You don’t know what to say to him. You end up saying nothing. Robby doesn’t even bat an eye at your silence - used to your oddness, the way it seeps into every interaction. 

“Thought that was you.” He’s smiling, wide and crooked like he does on the rare occasion he has a reason to. “What’re you doing out here so late by yourself? It’s almost midnight.”

“Dinner,” you say lamely, holding up your wrapped up sandwich. 

He looks at the checkered lump in your hand then back at your face. He looks different in the dark, the planes of his face look more severe in the light of the hospital. Maybe that’s why you like the harshness of the deli, so bright it brings you right back to work.

“You always eat so late?” He asks. You feel silly with your coat hitting your chin, your work shoes, and your sandwich in your hand. You look like a doctor - a med student. Robby looks like a man. 

The sensory feeling of the paper in your hand is suddenly too underwhelming and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails in - needing a desperate anchor of your hand. You’ll regret that later when you go to eat it and it’s smushed, but later doesn’t matter more than the underwhelm in your palm. 

“I work in the ER,” you point out. His hands are in his jacket pockets but one of them is clutching an opaque white plastic bag with something heavy weighing it down. Robby laughs, crinkling the handle of the bag in his hand in his pocket. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you work today?”

He nods like he’d already forgotten about it. Like it did not matter to him in a moment he was not actively experiencing it. 

“Abbot’s sick- not bad, just all stuffed up.” He gestures vaguely with the hand not holding the bag at his nose/mouth area. “Only thing that ever makes him feel better is soup from PJ’s.” He nods down the street from the direction he’d just come where a neon sign is just being turned off.

“What a diva.”

Robby laughs again. “Yeah, he’d never admit it. Rather suffer in silence.”

It feels like the wrong thing to have said. You don’t know Dr Abbot well enough to make jabs at him, especially not to Robby. 

You want to be out of this situation, it all crushes you at once. You’re in the dark, fifty minutes from your apartment, talking to somebody whom you intrinsically do not understand. You are a hollow body, your skin is translucent and you can see every organelle and every shift of the movement of your organs. You can see all the hallways and gears and caves in your anatomy. Every link in every chain that tugs on each and every thought that spins through your head. How your life started from birth to now and a timeline for why every facet of your personality and your soul has ended up the way that it is.

Robby is solid, and in front of you, and you will never understand him.

You’ve broken your nose trying to walk through him - he will remember this about you for as long as the two of you know each other. That you put your words where they do not belong, and that you think Jack Abbot is a diva. 

Robby opens his mouth to say something.

“I should head home,” you jab your thumb somewhere behind you. You live in the direction Robby is standing. You’ll loop around the block to avoid passing him. “I’ll see you at work, Robby. Hope Abbot feels better.”

When you circle the street, Robby’s gone. The walk home is long, the walk up the stairs to the third floor is longer. You arrive home a little before one in the morning. You don’t bother with the lights, coming to sit on the floor in the kitchen. The clock blinks on the oven with each passing minute. 

It lights your skin up red, and if you look close, you can see the flow of your blood.

You unwrap your sandwich.

—

Shen’s on the next time you work. He greets you casually, a “good morning” around a drink from his water bottle and barely gives you a second glance. Your shift passes without incident - the other doctors treat you normally, when you speak they listen. Javadi initiates small talk with you and you do your best to return the sentiment. 

At one point Santos reads a 9 as a 6 aloud to you and gives you a look. “Whoops,” she snickers, looking at you like the two of you share some sort of secret.

You like Santos. The two of you are about the same age, you’re only a few years older than her, the same number of years further into your residency. The two of you talk sometimes between patients, but that’s bound to happen when the two of you spend so much time in an enclosed space.

She has a way of making everything feel like an inside joke. You know she struggled a little when she first started, hitting the wall with the other doctors when she first started her residency. You wouldn’t know that now, seeing the way she interacts with the rest of the people here. Her and Whitaker are so close they’re practically in a sitcom, Shen’s taken a special liking to her, and you’ve even seen her and Mel giggling by the lockers after shifts.

The two of you barely speak about anything that isn’t work. Which is fine, she’s your coworker, you guys don’t have to be speaking about your personal lives. But she has this soft little spark about her like she’s created a world to be in and it’s the most important place to be. 

“That thing you did with the guy in Central 13?” She sidles up to you towards the end of your shift, hanging behind the monitor you’re using to finish up the chart for that very patient. She lets out a heavy breath. “Wow.”

You’d inserted a double lumen tube during an intubation. Nothing super fancy, but you know that Santos probably hasn’t done a whole lot of intubations in general. Shen had raised his eyebrows at your suggestion but hadn’t stopped you, and when you’d finished he’d grabbed your shoulder and squeezed, muttering a “sick, good job,” and then heading out. 

You look up, genuinely startled. “Thanks.”

“I’d never even heard of the thing you did,” she doesn’t let up. “I wouldn’t have thought to do it. That was really cool.” Her voice drops and she looks down at your hands. You’ve gotten compliments before, but all from people above you in the food chain, Langdon, Abbot, people who are kind of obligated as your educators to give you praise. Santos is a PGY-1, so unless she’s sucking up you’re not sure why she’s being so nice. You’re not high enough up that sucking up would be worth anything.

You have fifteen minutes of your shift, no incoming ambulances, nothing urgent in chairs, all your patients are stable. 

You feel sick - not the type of sick that would get you sent home, or even to the staff lounge. It’s normal at this point. You genuinely don’t remember a time you haven’t felt like this. 

“You’re only an intern,” you say, trying to be empathetic without sounding condescending. “You’ll get there.”

She nods, low and slow. She’s already got her jacket on, thick and leather and dark brown. Santos watches you finish up your chart and you try to shake the feeling of being observed. 

“I’m, uh, I think I might head down to the Hills,” she leans her elbow on your table. “There’s this bar on Liberty street. They do live music sometimes, they have a killer plate of nachos, some cool cocktails.”

You log out of the system and stand from your chair. You’re about to round and want to head to your locker first. “That sounds great.”

Santos smiles at you, shoving her hands in her pockets. She bounces when she walks and she follows you on your way to your locker. “Yeah, I found it right when I started here. I’ve been trying to get Samira to go with me but I don’t think she likes me much.”

You open your locker. Coat on, backpack on, shut locker, look back at her. You really like Dr Mohan; she’s kinder than most of the other doctors, and the two of you started on the exact same day so you’ve always felt like a special kinship with her.

“She does,” you tell her honestly. You think she does. You don’t know Samira very well - if she disliked Trinity she probably wouldn’t be telling you about it. “She just prefers to keep to herself I think.”

Santos nods, rocking on her heels and biting her top lip. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know, I think there’s only so many times you can ask someone to hang out and have them say no before you gotta accept they’re just not into it.”

She’s not wrong. It’s very much something you have to play by ear, you’ve learned. Some people are busy, some people don’t know how to say no without worrying about sounding impolite. 

People are gathering for rounds, you can see at the end of the hallway. It’s the only thing standing in front of you and a huge nap. Santos is digging in her locker for something.

“I hope you have a good time,” you tell her earnestly. “Nachos sound great, I might have to get some on my way home.” You feel nauseous. The idea of eating anything, let alone a bunch of cheese and meat, makes your stomach turn. You just want to be home. You miss your couch. 

Santos doesn’t say anything as you walk out towards rounds. When she reenters the room, she doesn’t join you, she comes to stand shoulder to shoulder with Mel. 

—

The little girl in Trauma-2 is going to die. 

Today was meant to be a day off. Robby’d called you a little after five, apologising for waking you and asking if you could come in to cover. You’d said yes, sitting out on your fire escape and painting your nails. They’re clear - it stops you from biting them. 

It had been a fairly quiet morning. Most people won’t spend their Saturday in the ER waiting room unless they really have to so you have slightly less of the patient type that maybe didn’t have to come into the ER at all. 

Then the ambulance had dropped her off a little over a half hour ago, and you’ve been fairly convinced that she’s not going to make it since you’d seen her. 

You were the primary doctor on the case only because you were the only one around at the time. Now, Robby and Collins are there, and they’ve taken over. Robby practically shoved you out of the room and told you to take a break.

You’re sweaty. You’ve ducked into the bathroom to swap your long sleeves for a t-shirt under your scrub top and taken a well earned cry into the mirror. 

Robby’s standing outside Trauma-2 like he’s on guard. The girl’s parents are out in chairs, and you really don’t want to have to be the person to tell them. You know Robby will do it if you ask, but you don’t want to have to ask. Don’t want to have not yet asked, don’t want to ask, don’t want to have asked. 

The time will pass anyway. You just wish you didn’t have to get pushed along with it.

“Ah-ah,” Robby snaps as sharp as he can without any real bite. You’re hovering in the doorway to the room, watching as Collins works on her. “You’re not going back in there.”

You failed to save her. You are the reason that two parents have lost their only daughter. He’s not mad - can’t be mad that you did your best to save someone who couldn’t be saved. But sending you in there when you’d already done no good would be a waste of time. A change in tactic, a change in doctor, is probably necessary.

“Well where can I go?” you snap back, much harsher than he’d been. You want him to tell you, don’t want the mistake to be yours. Working in the ER and being mostly self guided you feel a lot of aimlessness. The pulling behind your navel that dulls to a low throb most of the time, signalling when you’re making a bad choice. Making Robby tell you what to do means that feeling goes away, just for a little.

Robby gets this look about him sometimes, when he’s tired and trying to brush someone off without them asking him what’s wrong. “You can get some air.” He raises his eyebrows, tone light and sarcastic. He lifts an arm to point out through the dark tunnel of night streaming through the open ambulance bay.

Your feet move on autopilot, taking you out into the cold. Your arms hurt from the change of temperature, but you made the choice to take your long-sleeves off, so you don’t complain about it even internally.

Robby follows behind you just close enough for you to hear him. “Are you okay?” He puts the emphasis in strange places in his sentences sometimes. In the middle instead of one of the edges.

You nod. “Yeah, Robby, I’m fine.”

It’s quiet in the way outside only is right when you step out into it. The noise from the ER bleeds into your veins and when the ambulance bay doors shut behind you it takes getting used to the difference. It almost feels like submerging yourself, for a brief second the world shifts, and then it goes back on kilter.

Robby looks at you for a long time. You still do not understand him, he’s impossible to get a read on. He could be waiting for you to say something.

“I’m parking you,” he says finally. 

Your mouth drops open. “P-parking me?”

“Doctor’s orders.” Robby nods with finality. “Stay here. I’ll come and get you.”

You want to shout something back at Robby as he goes inside - angry with him and grateful for him both at once. How dare he not think you’re up to doing your job? You’re not, but you don’t want him thinking that. 

You watch an ambulance pull up, both the paramedics ignoring you as they haul a gurney in through the doors. They know enough about the job that it’s clear you’re not waiting for them.

It was her birthday in three days. You’d seen it on her chart right when she first came in, the little girl who would be taking her final breaths inside the room you’d have to continue working in. Her life would end in that room. How many had? How many had died where you were standing?

Surely, with how long humans had been inhabiting the earth, someone had died on this spot. People had stood here and spoken. Perhaps a bed had been placed here, centuries before the hospital was even conceived of. A couple had laid in the grass, hand in hand, watching as the untouched space stretched on.

In a hundred years, would someone stand on this exact spot again and cry as you were trying not to?

She was seven years, eleven months and twenty-seven days old. You don’t even remember what you were doing that long ago. The thought dredges you up, lifts you like the moment right before the fall, when you’re anticipating. Awaiting another birthday.

The human body comes in a lot of pairs, a lot of symmetry, a lot of even numbers. And then suddenly it can be zero. Reduced to nothing but the meaning someone else gives it. A period, a full stop.

You take a shuddering breath in. It’s a morbid way to think of your own life, but you wonder sometimes what will continue to happen when you finally take your last breath. The last breath is usually out. An even way to close. Nothing remaining, no leftovers.

Robby’s hand finds your shoulder. “Hey, kid.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been out here. 

“I’m ready to go back in,” you say, because you feel like you’re meant to be. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been ready to go in.

Robby just shakes his head gravely. “It’s 7:03, you are officially relieved from duty.”

Relieved. It’s such a strange word. You feel like you’re bordering on pretentious. You wonder who the first person to ever say the phrase was, and how it got picked up enough that it’s commonplace now. If they had to explain themselves, or if the other person knew what they meant by it. 

Relieved implies a weight lifted from you. A lightness. Perhaps you left it in Trauma-2.

Robby follows you as you grab your stuff from your locker. You’re acting on autopilot. Tonight you will not get food on the way home. You will take the train, you will walk home, you will shower and change and climb into bed and you will wake up the next morning with your alarm. You do not have the capacity to make any more choices for yourself.

When you step back out through the ER doors, you can see Princess, Jesse, Whitaker and Santos sitting on the benches. You’ve never been to their after work wind-downs, but you’ve heard enough people usually go that it’s fair to assume there will be one after whatever shift you’re finishing. 

Robby is still behind you. “Hey,” he says. His backpack is slung over one shoulder. He’s wearing a thicker jacket than you’ve ever seen on him. It suits him. “Come on.”

You follow him. “Where are we going?”

“Dinner,” he says simply. “You haven’t eaten this afternoon, and I know how tempting it is to just want to go to sleep. You need food.” He walks like he expects you to follow behind him; you do without complaint. The sureness required to make an assumption about a coworkers needs and to be correct, you don’t think you could ever muster it. 

You walk for almost fifteen minutes, which is less than you usually walk, but by the end your cheeks are red and you’re trying to quiet your breathing. Robby walks faster than you, with a difference bounce, smoother and softer. You’re slower but it’s stilted. Unbalanced - sometimes your left knee behaves funny. He walks like where he’s going is the most important place to be, and you’d believe it. 

He stops in front of a place you’ve never seen before. A diner, real and busy, not an out of the way spot only he knows about from his wanderings. A staple; there are families here. 

“Hey,” you say as you reach the door. Interrupting the flow, trying to pause. A period, a moment, or whatever you’d been thinking less than half an hour earlier. Your feelings never make sense when you’re not actively experiencing them. It’s why you could never get into journaling. “You know you don’t have to-”

Robby doesn’t even let you get the words out. “I want to.”

Want is harder to argue with than obligation. It shuts you up in a way you’re not fond of. 

The lights are golden, warm in a way your eyes have to adjust to after the bright whites of the hospital, and there’s a handwritten sign taped to the inside of the window advertising that you can get four pierogies for a dollar. 

Robby leads you inside without another word. It smells like coffee and oil, and it’s louder than you’d expected. You’re not a huge fan of noise, but working in a hospital you’ve gotten used to it. You realise with a start that it has been so long since you’ve heard volume that stemmed from love. Parents chastising their kids for giggling too loud. a group of high schoolers that look like they’ve just come off stage from a school play - taking up two booths and beaming like they’ve just headlined the Tony’s, couples on dates.

“You come here a lot?” You ask as Robby sits down at a booth in the corner. 

He nods. “The food’s good, and they don’t look at you weird if you order something and can’t eat it.”

The vinyl squeaks with every shift of your legs, but it’s loud enough in here that it doesn’t make you feel self-conscious. Noise born from love, it wraps you in it. 

“Get whatever you want,” Robby says like it’s a no-brainer. You know instinctively that he’s not offering to pay for your dinner - though he probably would if he thought you’d want that. You don’t. Him paying obligates you to order, eat and enjoy something. He’s telling you to ignore the conscious thought, all the brain stems, all the lines shooting off in a mind map - focus on the core idea. The want. It gets clouded by the mind sometimes. 

“Soup is not a food,” he says helpfully. “Not right now at least.”

“I know that,” you say, defensively. You don’t want soup, and you know he’s suggesting you eat something solid, but it slips out before you can question why. The soup they have on the menu seems semi-clear, more like broth. Incorporeal, translucent. The essence of a food. Robby’s steering you away from it like he knows how you feel about things that are concrete. Your ego hasn’t quite recovered from trying to barrel through him with your assumptions the last time the two of you were alone together. 

“I’m sorry,” you say it because you are, not because you think you should be. The two feel indistinguishable sometimes. You should be sorry, so you are. You’re not sure where the line comes but it’s somewhere between you and Robby. “I’m not good at this.”

“Eating?” Robby asks. 

“Being a person after work.” Or before work, or during work. But admitting that means drawing attention to it, and you’d rather him think you’re oblivious. “I’m… sensitive.”

Robby doesn’t say any of the usual things; you’re not sensitive, it’s fine, don’t worry about it. You really like him for it. 

He leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s not looking at you like he’s your attending. He looks completely different in warm lighting; different in the way the noise is coated with affection. It suits him. “I like that about you. It’s not a character flaw, you know that right?”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Yeah, okay, put it on my performance review.”

“I will,” he says dryly. When Robby laughs the sound feels like it’s had holes poked in it, gravelly and messy, the punctures letting something soulful out with the sound. “Second guesses her authority figures.”

You huff. “Wow.”

“I’m dedicated to accuracy,” he says seriously. 

The waitress understands you both immediately; the scrubs, how you’re kind of leaning on the table. Robby slaps down a ten and orders twenty pierogies and a cup of coffee. You flounder under her gaze, having not even looked at the menu, and Robby smiles at you in a way that feels conspiratorial and not polite.

“Can I get like, half of what he got?” You ask. “Is that a thing?”

She nods kindly and takes the menus from your table, ducking back into the kitchen.

With everything between you out of the way, Robby leans forward more. “One time, after a rough shift, I took apart my kitchen cabinets just so I could feel myself putting them back together. To prove I could.”

You mirror his posture. “This feels infinitely healthier.”

“Low bar, but I’ll take it.” You clasp your hands together to keep from picking at your nails. 

Robby gets you talking without you realising. First about work, then about not work. You’d read something, probably way back in college, about how some sculptors, instead of taking a block and adding their intricacies to it to make their art, they’d instead sculpt away from the finished product until all they had was art left. That’s how talking to Robby feels as you get your dinner. You talk about everything until all that is left is the little girl in Trauma-2.

“You did everything right,” he says, right when you need it. “No one could have saved her.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you shake your head. “I still didn’t.”

Robby looks at you very seriously. When he speaks, it is firm. Solid. “It mattered. It mattered that when she closed her eyes she wasn’t alone in that room. It mattered that her parents knew someone was fighting for her, that someone cared about someone that was theirs. The outcome isn’t the only metric that counts.”

You feel heat behind your eyes. “You really believe that?”

Robby nods, serious and stern, leaning forward to take your hand. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

The food arrives, sitting between you two like something to share instead of something to separate you both. 

Loneliness eats at you on your worst days. You thought you knew how it felt to be real and truly lonely, and then you moved to Pittsburgh. You’re not homesick, per se, more sick for a life you feel belongs to you. You miss being tied to places, no one here holds memories with you in them.

At home, you can walk down Main street and practically provide director’s commentary: There’s the cafe I lost my scarf in when I was a kid, there’s the movie theatre I saw that in, there’s the restaurant that didn’t hire me in high school. You miss being somewhere where you are as much a part of the place as the culture is a part of you. 

In Pittsburgh, you cease to exist the moment you leave a place. 

“I’m really glad that I got to steal you from Abbot,” Robby says through a mouthful of decaf. “I know you got offered a night shift spot, and I have to admit I was a little worried for a bit. I thought you would take it up.”

That had been a long time ago, back when you were just starting your second year of residency. It was a really tempting offer. You’d declined it because, at the end of the day, you really love the people you work with, even if they exist in the bubble of the ER. 

“I thought about it,” you admit, ripping apart a pierogi in your hand. “But, to be honest, I’ve been feeling kind of… isolated?” You muse over your word choice. “Sometimes I feel so small in this city, and I figured being asleep when most of the people who live here are awake would just take me out of it that much more.”

Robby chews slowly, using it to formulate a thought. “You leave a very strong first impression.”

You blink. If you were eating you probably would have choked. “Excuse me?”

“Abbot’s always talking about you whenever you work a night,” he says, like it’s something worth holding on to, not to keep but rather to let you follow him as he keeps going. He looks so tired, always older after a shift than before one. It looks good on him, he wears age handsomely, and you wonder - not for the first time - how he fares. It feels inappropriate to think of your boss that way, especially just because he’s being so nice to you. “You were the first one that really got through to Santos, you two are clearly close” Are you? That makes you sad, that you’ve missed a closeness that you haven’t understood. It feels like something you will never get back. You have missed it. You will miss it. 

She hit a bit of a wall when she started, you’d been able to see that. You wonder, for the first time, how many times she had broken her nose trying to walk through you. 

“And I…” he flushes, scratching the hair at the back of his neck. “I worry about you.” It lands, heavy and warm. 

He worries about you. That should make you feel worried - what have you been doing to worry him? Instead, it strikes you right in the heart. Worry, as gnawing of an emotion as it is, requires space to hold it in.

Space you take up in his chest when you are not in the room. 

“You don’t have to,” you say. “I’m a hard person to be around a lot of the time.”

Robby, to his credit, does not correct you. This whole conversation he has spent not saying the things you are ‘meant’ to say to someone confiding in you, and each time he has said exactly what has sparked something in your chest cavity. 

“You’re worth the effort, though.”

You laugh, startled and a little breathless. “You make it sound like I’m like, a piece of IKEA furniture or something.”

“A kitchen cabinet,” Robby jokes. 

Robby relaxes against the vinyl, and pushes one of the containers of pierogies towards you. It sits heavy inside you as you eat, and you feel like maybe it’s filling something inside you that you didn’t realise you didn’t have. Closer to whole than you have felt in a while - almost like you’ve forgotten. Further away from zero. 

He talks more than you do, and you believe it’s a kindness. He tells you a story of a med student he had years ago who insisted on calling him Dr Robinavitch - you never realised you didn’t know Robby’s first name until that very moment, and you can tell he also realised that. “One time he had a patient throw up on him and he threw up in response.”

You’re deadpan. “Probably picked the wrong career path, I won’t lie.”

He laughs over his coffee. There’s a pile of napkins between the two of you, helping with the oil of your hands as you eat with them, not even noticing it through the conversation. 

“I mean, I’ve been there,” you say, wiping your hands for the fifteenth time. 

You’ve been there for almost an hour, unworried. The sign above the counter says they’re open past midnight, so you don’t have to worry about them closing while you’re sitting here. Robby’s been looking at you with soft eyes and pink cheeks for the better part of thirty minutes. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “Worst thing about you is your terrible self-esteem, you’re great, shut up.”

You laugh. “Bedside manner is dead,” you say, pushing your plate away from yourself, full and happy. “And we killed him.”

“Why is bedside manner a man?” Robby asks. “That feels unlikely.”

You leave a little after nine. Robby walks to the train with you and then gets on without saying anything. You have no idea where Robby lives, but you know he walks to work. The two of you share a bench, thigh to thigh. Neither one of you mention where you are at any point, how close your respective places are, where you both need to go. 

You probably do the less walking than any night in recent memory. The city has shaped itself around your solitude, your routines, almost crushing in the way it attempts to fold itself around you. 

When you stand on the T, he stands with you. He’s so close, he smells like something warm and heavy, and he seems to be drinking you in. He laughs at almost everything you say, even when you don’t mean for it to be funny. 

The conversation stays steady, it doesn’t lull like you’re always terrified of. They’re not your strong suit, speaking with people. It comes with a feeling of sparity, it’s easy to feel like you are the remaining essence. The human body is naturally paired, but your human experience is roughly singular. 

Robby walks with you like he wants to share the same space. 

You think a lot about numbers. Odd being defined almost lazily, as though no one could bother to think of a better descriptor, not being divisible by two. You wonder, in your quietest nights, if you were to be split open, would you be divisible by two? You feel often like a remainder, not to be dramatic. But everyone else seems to gravitate naturally to other people, snapping together like magnets. 

It’s something you’d always struggled with. You’re not sure what people clock about you that solidifies it. You don’t just feel uneven, you feel odd. It’s something that festered behind your ribs when you were a child and as you grew, so too did it. The version of the word lodged in your bones. Like there is a correct way to be a person, everyone else learned it - learned it enough to know which rules to follow and which to break. It takes a deep and intimate knowledge of how something works in order to go against the norms and have it still work, and it feels like everyone you’ve ever met is able to do that. 

And people notice. They’re not cruel, that’s almost worse. They’re not trying to judge, but pattern recognition dictates that it is human nature to notice when something is off. 

Robby’s arm brushes yours and he makes no effort to move away. Two feet on the pavement, two people walking together. Your footsteps are half a beat after his. 

You wonder how long until he sees the error. A small part of you hopes he has already - that this is him noticing. 

Robby says something—you don’t catch all of it—and you answer a second too late, your words stepping on the edge of his sentence. He doesn’t seem to mind. He never seems to mind. That almost makes it worse, how easily he accommodates you, like you are something fragile or precious instead of incorrect.

“This is me,” you say as you reach your apartment building. You have no idea how Robby is getting home. 

He sighs morosely. “Are you sure?”

You look up at your window, pretending to think. “Pretty sure.” He squeezes the top of your arm and in moving his hand down, almost touches your fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone walk me home before. It’s not something I usually do.”

“It doesn’t have to be a thing, if you don’t want?” His tone lightens at the end, and you’re high enough on the night air that you are determined to interpret it in good faith. Him prioritising your comfort. You become acutely aware of the space between you — not empty, exactly, but loaded. Charged. Like something left on overnight.

You shake your head. “No, I liked it. I just…” you’re going to end the night being vulnerable. Robby has done nothing to indicate he does not like you. You will not be the kind of pathetic person who argues with someone when they show they like them. “Is it selfish to say I want to matter to someone?”

Robby steps impossibly closer to you. “Not selfish at all. In fact, bare minimum.” His gaze drops to where his breath is fogging the air between the two of you. It’s freezing. You don’t feel so silly in your thrifted winter coat. “I would go as far to say you already do.”

Robby looks different under the glow of your street light - different than at work, different than at the diner. You think you might start to understand him. He is still direct in front of you, solid and unmoving. But he shifts in the light: kitchen cabinets with their doors taken off. 

There are so many things you could say to him. Thank you. I’m sorry. Please don’t forget me when the sun comes up and it’s loud again and I am still quiet. 

You think of all the times you have spent standing in this very spot, feeling temporary in your own life. 

Robby falters. You realise with a start it’s not the first time you’ve seen him do that. If anyone had asked three hours ago you probably would have answered as honestly as possible that you’d never seen it. How many times had it happened and you hadn’t seen it?

“Can I-” he stumbles over his words. Reconsiders. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

You feel rooted to place. The honesty of his voice hurts. “Are you asking permission or if I have the audacity?”

He laughs and you feel it against your face. “The first one.”

Robby smiles, warm and unmistakably fond. When he kisses you it’s soft and coursing with something you can’t name. He tastes like decaf coffee that you didn’t realise was shitty now you’re still tasting it almost two hours later. You can feel his beard against your face and the scratch is electrifying. You’re just two people. His hands settle into your waist, palms against your scrub top under your coat. It’s just the two of you and the quiet hum of the city you live in. 

“You should get some sleep,” he mumbles against your mouth. He lets you kiss him for another few minutes, seeming like he’s indulging himself more than letting you have what you want. It’s dizzying, the idea of being wanted, and by someone like Robby. 

The kind of guy you think might’ve liked you even if you didn’t like him back. 

You’re working tomorrow. You’re pretty sure he is too. You hope, as well, that Santos is and that she’s in a good mood. The seed of an idea plants itself within you hopefully, and you decide tomorrow will be the shift you ask if she maybe wants to get drinks after work. The thought of her saying no terrifies you, but the thought of her saying yes terrifies you a little less than you’d first thought. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he pulls back, flushed and seemingly just as enthralled as you. Soon. Continuously. “Text me when you get up there, need to make sure you’re awake enough to lock your door.” He doesn’t walk away until you’re up and locked away in your apartment. 

The oven clock blinks at you as you turn the overhead lamp on. You shoot him a door’s locked text that he heart-reacts to. 

The train rushes past. It rattles the handles of your drawers and the doors of your cabinets.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

One More Minute - Caldarus x Farmer

After forty years, Caldarus must face some difficult truths about the natural world. [Caldarus x Female!Farmer (farm is named but farmer is not), Merri x Olric]

Dividers by @uzmacchiato!

Warnings: Grief. Actually this is pretty much just a way to process different perspectives on grief through my favorite dragon. Death of significant other(s), tears, references to depression

Mistria had fallen into disrepair again.

But this time, Adeline was afraid there was no bringing it back.

The townspeople had known about the dragon in the Deep Woods for a few decades now; he had made himself known at his wife's insistence, and they had mostly accepted him with grace and excitement. With that encouragement, he continued to supply Mistria with continuous bounty and protection, increasing every year as he gained more strength and his wife broke the barrier between their world and his.

Even in a form closer to something human, he was a sight to behold. His horns, claws, and scaled tail seemed to be made of pure stone, often lightly decorated with different natural paints. His physique had grown larger, stronger, as he became more directly engaged with the wellbeing of Mistria. And at his wife's request, his hair only grew longer and longer, arranged into thick braids of teal, frequently interspersed with flowers. His clothing seemed to grow in complexity every few years, which Ryis and his family found particularly fascinating.

For 40 years, the community that grew up around Mistria knew and loved the dragon, and he was always there for them.

And then, the farmer of Oak Creek Farms died.

No one had dared breach the temple grounds since then, even to retrieve the dragon for her funeral. She was beloved in Mistria as well; the whole town mourned together. Except the dragon. The dragon who, at the moment she died, chased her neighbor and the doctor out of the temple with a broken roar and locked the doors with a powerful spell.

However, the situation was becoming desperate.

Merri, the furniture maker, approached the temple with the help of a walking stick she had carved herself, hair now grey. She climbed over the stumps and brambles between the deep woods and the temple with some difficulty, but she managed. Her children had begged her not to go, but she insisted. Someone needed to talk to him, and if it was to end badly, she was the only person she could imagine that wouldn't cost Mistria much to lose.

The dragon was sitting in the courtyard. "Have caution, mortal," his deep voice warned, but his mouth barely moved, eyes staring blankly at the temple flower in front of him.

"I have plenty," she replied, working her way up the stairs.

His tail swished listlessly.

"I've come to see you," she stated the obvious.

"Curious."

"Why is it curious?"

"I thought all the people of Mistria were afraid of me now," his gaze stayed on the flower. "Though I suppose they have every right to be."

Merri took a chance and sat on the bench next to him. His ear twitched, but still he did not look at her.

"I'm not so sure people are afraid of you, per se," she said honestly. "I think... I think most people are... afraid of grief."

"How can one fear an emotion?"

Merri frowned. "Well... grief is a very difficult emotion, and often one that lasts a long time. It's hard to handle one's own grief, and it's even more difficult to help someone else handle theirs. Most of us don't know how, so we just... avoid it."

Caldarus blinked slowly. "And you do not?"

She shrugged and waffled a bit. "I know it better, now. It doesn't make it easier, but..."

A long silence followed, and Merri took the opportunity to observe her surroundings, the slowly dying garden and the leaves of the cedar trees. 

"When I took this mortal form," Caldarus' voice startled her back to the conversation. "I expected physical pain, though I did not know what it felt like. Once I did, I did not enjoy it, but I learned to live with it. She... she helped me to live with it." He cleared his throat.

"My most recent memories, after I was awaken from my long slumber, the only ones that truly matter to me now... they have involved her from the very beginning," he admitted. "As such, I have only known... good emotions. In my mind, I have never existed without her." He swallowed thickly. "And now she cannot teach me to live with this pain," he said, voice deep and cracking.

When Merri chanced a glance at the dragon, she saw tears painting his face. 

Merri nodded, feeling her chest tighten as she saw just how alone he felt. She took a long few moments to collect herself.

"When--" she swallowed some tears. "When Olric, my husband, died... I wanted to die, too," she confessed. "I needed to. It felt as if my heart was going to kill me slowly and painfully. I... I laid in bed, and I wept, for weeks. And then I didn't lay in bed, because it lost his smell, and that made it so much worse."

"Her smell..." the dragon said, almost wistfully. "I've sealed all she last touched in an air-proof chest. I haven't had the heart to go to her farm."

"Hayden's been looking after the animals and the trees," Merri informed him, and Caldarus nodded solemnly.

"That is agreeable. They were always good friends."

"And the cottage is exactly as she left it," she added. Again, he nodded.

After another pause, he turned his head almost far enough to look at her. "Go on."

Merri took another deep breath. "I had my children, and I had my friends, my brother-in-law, but... I had never felt more alone," she told him, knowing he would understand. "He wasn't just a person, he was a part of me that had been pruned away against my will," she sniffed. "I was hurt, I was angry. I was angry at time, at the people who tried to help, at him, for leaving me alone. The... the only thing that... that stopped me from wasting away, from shutting everyone out, was... knowing how much it would hurt him to see me that way."

Caldarus' brow furrowed as he considered her words. "May I confess something to you?"

"Of course."

The dragon worked his jaw. "There have been... times, since she..." he cut himself off. "That I almost wish that... that we had never met, that she had not woken me. Then, I would not have to face this."

"I understand," Merri reassured him, hearing the shame in his voice. "But if she had not woken you, how much would you have missed?"

He sighed. "I know."

"But I do understand," she confirmed. "I can only imagine how much harder it is when you know you won't die."

Caldarus arched a brow. "I thought mortals scorned the idea of death."

Merri hesitated. "Well, we do, but we also know it happens. For some of us, it's a comfort to know that we can be reunited with our loved ones, or at the very least, escape the pain they leave us with."

Caldarus nodded slowly. "There is logic there," he conceded. "There are... there is an ancient and powerful magic, the tongue to speak only a very few now have," he suddenly changed the subject. "This magic has the power to do many things. It can even make mortals immortal. The only caveat," he heaved a sigh. "Is that it stretches, twists, the fabric of reality. She wouldn't allow even the thought of such a spell being cast on her. She couldn't bear the thought of endangering Mistria for something so insignificant as her own life," Caldarus frowned. "She would not trade Mistria for more time with me."

"And would you? Trade Mistria for more time with her?"

Caldarus hesitated, worried that his answer would make his way to the other mortals. But he felt that he could trust Merri. "Just one more minute would make it worth it," he admitted, and Merri could tell the answer was sincere. "But it is not within my power any longer. And I would not go against her wishes."

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 500 likes!

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

stupidest thing in the world is that when I'm chilling, I'm quiet, reserved, not worried about participating in class or whatever. Completely self-satisfied. Anxiety attack around people? Suddenly desperate to prove I am operating normally. More talkative, more smiley. Actually answering in class. What is this phenomenon I feel stupid

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

The three words fall from my tongue without a second thought, fluttering up from my throat like a canary and leaving my mouth as though desperate for sunlight. Desperate to be sung. As if it would die and I would be left with this rotting thing in my chest otherwise. I try to catch her, I do, but she is strong and fast, for such a small, fragile thing. She forces her way out, spreading her wings and soaring on the first updraft she can find. She lands on you. Her feathers are the brightest gold I've seen. I wish she had died. She will never come back to me. What is left behind, but this empty nest in between my lungs? You hold out a hand for her, and she obligingly hops onto it. "Thank you," you tell me, your voice full and confident, so unlike my little golden bird. She is so full of doubt and hope and fear. Or perhaps that is simply what is left when she leaves. It's all I can see. I hear those three words again. Spoken, not chirped. Not hoarsely coughed out. I remember why it was impossible to hold her back.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

you ever love so quickly and so deeply that you're deeply insecure about scaring people off, even/especially when it comes to platonic relationships because your gauge of how others' feelings develop is completely broken?

how do you turn that off

relatedly, how would one go about separating the thrill of positive human interaction and genuine friendship. asking for a friend

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Living Mirage - Gregory House x Amputee!Reader

Warnings: Amputee reader, possible medical inaccuracy, angst, arguing, House being House, I'm not an amputee so unfortunately I can't accurately convey the experience, symptoms of heart attack described briefly

Word count: 1.5 k

"Why do you choose not to feel anything?" The question is abrupt, out of place, as you open the door to his darkened office. You should be at home right now. Instead of driving, you've spent the last half hour chewing on a hangnail in the break room and thinking. That was always dangerous.

House looks at you quizzically, feet balanced on the desk and magic 8 ball in his hands.

You expect some sort of pithy remark that deflects the question and brings it all back down on your head. You don't care. You didn't ask the question just to be cute.

Instead, he just shakes the ball, eyes locked on the result as he answers. "I'm in pain," he says, which is obvious. "Given the option, most people would choose not to feel that."

You shake your head. You're a rheumatologist, you're no stranger to people in pain. "You're not most people," you argue, starting with a point you knew he couldn't disagree with. "And that's not what I meant."

He gives you a look that says, 'get on with it or get out.'

You take a deep breath. "I meant you run away," you say, and for some stupid reason the words sound small. You can already see him sneering and calling you pathetic.

You had some big speech and some well thought out argument all fleshed out in your head. But just like every discussion you've had with a boyfriend, every fight you've had with your mom, it flies out of your head the moment you open your mouth.

"Every time you get close to feeling something that isn't euphoria or misery, you shut down. You pop another pill. You get high."

He rolls his eyes at you. "Did Wilson recruit you?"

"Believe it or not, there are people beyond Wilson who are capable of caring about you," you say before you can think it through. You fidget with your fake hand—it's starting to feel heavy, and if you had thought of it, you would have taken it off before you came in here.

He levels you with another look. "Well, quit it," he demands; there isn't much fire to be had in the statement. "I already have Cameron's pity, and that's plenty."

"This isn't pity," you correct him. "It's concern. House, like it or not, we've worked together a while. People tend to… Develop attachments in that sort of situation. I've come to see you as a friend. Friends worry about each other."

"I don't worry about you," he shoots back, raised eyebrows challenging your perceptions—trying to hurt your feelings, trying to push you away.

"You're doing it again," you say, your voice becoming less confrontational.

He rolls his head to the side dramatically, rising from his chair. He doesn't reach for his cane. He just stands there. "What? What am I doing?"

He's irritated.

"You're trying to piss me off so I leave and you can wallow," you explain calmly, and you can tell by the flicker in his blue eyes that he knows you're right. "So you can feel guilty instead of reflecting."

"And you're, what? Altruistically trying to help someone who so desperately needs it but won't ask because they're embarrassed? What's in it for you? Am I gonna run into your arms for comfort and understanding?" He spits.

You fold your eyebrows at him. You want to tell him that yes, you will be there for him. You will help him. You will stand by him. But you know he'll twist it. "I'm not Cameron," you remind him.

At that, he does head for you. But he must not plan on leaving—his cane is still left balanced on the edge of his desk. He stops an foot away from you, right leg just barely trembling. If you weren't looking, you wouldn't notice.

"I don't pop pills because it's fun," he grates out, and you notice the way his hand discreetly kneads his thigh. "If I didn't, my patients would die. You know that. You saw it."

"You refuse to let yourself be anything but miserable," you insist, stepping closer. "And this self-pity is fake and a poor excuse. You and I both know it's because you're afraid," you say, emboldened and a little angry.

"Sure, you are genuinely addicted. That week was hell for you and everyone around you," you admit. "You almost killed your patient because you couldn't stop sweating and being an irritable piece of crap."

Maybe you were more angry than you thought.

"But you refuse to wean yourself off with the proper assistance because then what? Your withdrawal symptoms are lessened, and one day you might actually do it," you say surely. "You might actually, physically, be able to live without those stupid little tablets that control your whole life.

"But mentally?" You ask, taking another step towards him. "You wouldn't be able to take it. You'd be forced to be happy, God forbid. You'd be forced to confront the miserable emptiness of your life and realize it's a sham. Because we care about you. Me, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman, Chase, Cameron, we care about you. Probably as much as you care about us," you remind him. "Don't think we all just forgot how you were ready to burn this hospital to the ground if it meant saving Foreman's life. Don't think we all just forgot that you just about let your heart get crushed just so you could have Cameron back at work. Don't think that I forgot that you spent weeks reading literature on phantom pains after I complained," you say more softly, flexing your elbow where your prosthetic attached. You massage it for a moment—it seems to be aching in sympathy with his leg.

"And for some reason that I can't wrap my head around, you don't want to know that all those gaping voids in your life aren't there at all," you huff. "Because then you're just boring. You're just experiencing life like a person who has friends that care what happens to him. You're miserable and in pain because you're numb," you conclude. "Not the other way around."

He's had his eyes on the floor while you talk at him. The anger in you has faded, but your heartbeat stays quick. You breathe quietly, waiting for him to say anything.

"Being happy makes me a bad doctor," he says conclusively when he finally looks up at you. His hands are clenched, but he doesn't sound angry. "And love," he says derisively. "Ain't gonna fix my leg."

You sigh in defeat. He shuffles away from you, back to his chair, back to his ball, back to his wallowing. You can't… damn it, you can't make him believe you just because you want him to so badly.

The thought makes a tear fall from your eye. You try to swipe it away before he notices.

"And that," he points at your face. "Is why feelings make you a bad doctor," he says, and you know he's trying to hurt you. He's trying to push you away, again. You wonder if it'll work this time. "What if you have a patient next week that you can't crack? Are you gonna bring him to me and save his life? Or are you gonna stubbornly refuse because you're trying to teach me a lesson, because you just care so much," he pouts at you. "And let him die?"

You don't have the energy to argue with him. Suddenly, you can't remember why you tried. Why you stayed. Why you aren't at home in bed right now with a bowl of mac n cheese.

"You are… The worst," you say, your voice reedy and thin. You can feel your chin trembling and figure there's no point in stopping it.

"I'm the worst? Or I'm misunderstood and in a deep cycle of self-destruction that I need help for?" He questions sarcastically. "Can't have it both ways, sweetheart."

"You won't help yourself or let anyone else do it," you make your logical, rational argument for your conclusion. "It's both."

"That's sweet," he says drily. "Thanks for taking the time to let me know all that."

You don't want to turn around and head for the door. But you have nothing left to say, and he's wanted you gone since you showed up.

The thought makes a dull pain overcome you, like the emotional hurt has become physical. "If I have a patient I can't help, you'll be the first to know," you promise, finally moving to leave. "I won't bother you again."

You hope he'll feel a little guilty at that, but you hardly expect him to do anything about it. He'd die before admitting he did something wrong.

You have one foot past the glass wall when it happens.

It's as if your legs are taken out from under you, your lungs are wrung out, the lights above go from dim to strobing.

House calls your last name. When you don't respond, you think you might hear his cane and your first name.

Well, then, it must be bad.

You want to say something, but your mouth clamps shut and your arm grasps at your chest instead. It isn't long before House's blue eyes fade into nothingness.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Haze - Milo Thatch x Reader

Warnings: None

Word count: 0.6 k

Established relationship fluff after Milo's had a rough day at the museum.

"I've just about had it with all of them," Milo muttered to himself, sighing in defeat when he saw that it was raining. Again. "How could anyone be so thick-skulled that they can't see—they can't see—" he continued talking to the air as he walked, other pedestrians looking at him, perhaps wondering if he was completely well.

He scoffed, giving up his not-so-silent tirade in favor of keeping his jacket collar raised against the wind. 

He reached the alcove of his apartment, the shallow stone cutout providing little protection from the wind. He fumbled with his keys, numbly grabbing the fourth on the ring and jamming it into the lock.

It didn't fit. 

He counted through the keys again—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7—wait, he always had eight! 

"You have got to be kidding me," he growled, having half a mind to toss all his keys in the street. He decided against it. Guess I'll just have to hope she's home.

He knocked against the thin wooden door, noticing a few lights on inside. I hope that means she's home, otherwise she forgot to turn them off when she left that morning and our electric bill'll be through the roof—

He knocked again, a bit harder this time. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Your voice rang out, the sweet sound immediately making him feel guilty for his impatience.

"Oh, it's you," you said as you opened the door, a bright smile coming to your face. "Lose your key again?"

"Yeah," he grumbled quietly, shuffling inside and shrugging off his drenched coat, already making a mental note to come back with the mop to clean up the mess he was making before you had to.

"Hey," you said, your voice softer. "D'you have a long day?"

"Yeah," he said again, hand and forehead resting against the shelf that sat above the coat hooks. 

"Why don't you go sit down? I'll make us some tea, the water is almost ready," you offered. As if to punctuate your statement, the kettle screamed from the next room, and you squeezed past him in the narrow hall to get to the kitchen. 

He gave a lighter sigh this time, moving to sit on your ill-padded sofa. He knew that you weren't just offering tea. You were offering a listening ear, a sympathetic conversation, and, more than likely, cuddles that made both of you fall soundly asleep. 

He took off his glasses, setting them on the coffee table and rubbing over the lines they had created on his face. 

"Alright, well, these'll be ready to drink in a few minutes," you said, holding two steaming mugs carefully by the handles. The slight blur of his astigmatism made you look like a heavenly mosaic. "You wanna talk about it?"

He took your hand as soon as you had set the tea down. "Maybe in a little while," he placated, pulling you down to sit with him and kissing your forehead as he did so. "I'm really lucky to have you, you know that?"

"I'm glad you think so," you said, with a little bounce of your head that Milo didn't think he could ever get enough of.

When he woke in the morning, you were still snoring on his chest, his fingers tangled in your hair. He glanced at the wall clock across the room; it was only 4 AM.

"Y'know, I don't even remember what I was so worked up about," he whispered, closing his eyes to go back to sleep.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

A Break In Routine - Shane x Reader (Stardew Valley)

Another Shane SDV fic from my drafts with a couple strange gaps in it.

Warnings: mentions of recovering from alcoholism, being imperfect, guilt and self-loathing to a certain extent. Alcohol.

Word Count: 1.4k

Shane wasn't stupid. He knew you knew that. He noticed that, the closer you got, especially after that night on the cliff, you changed. Not so much in the way you dealt with him—you were kind and persevering as ever.

You stopped brewing. He had been out to the farm before, you had like ten kegs and an evergreen crop of hops and wheat to fuel them. And Shane wasn't stupid—he'd almost gone broke from buying the stuff before, so he knew it was lucrative. You'd have to be crazy to give that up. Farmers had it rough, especially ones that worked as hard as you. Having such an easy source of passive income should've been a no-brainer.

Oh, and you stopped bringing him alcohol. You were a social drinker—he'd seen you share Kahlua-and-coffee martinis with the good doctor or bond with Leah over a sweet red. But when it came to Pam and him, you were only ever seen with soda and some filling food in hand. He wondered if you thought he wouldn't notice. If he was too out of it or too naïve.

You visited JojaMart sometimes—normally just to check on him, never to buy anything—and you always had a tense look on your face whenever he was stocking the drinks section. That, that one actually hurt. Yeah, he had bad habits. He was working, only half successfully, on breaking them. But that made him think you really thought he had no self-control. That he was going to wander forward like a zombie and mindlessly rip into the Jack Daniels and Bud Lite. He shouldn't be trusted super far, but he thought he at least deserved the sliver of faith that would be required to believe that wouldn't happen.

That was what he was thinking about as he sat next to the fireplace, cola in a stein in his hand. See, he was doing better. He wasn't used to being fully lucid at this hour of the night, but he was getting there. It was significantly more uncomfortable, sitting there in silence when he wasn't half-catatonic. Everyone else was having a great time. Even Marnie was having a... whoa, beyond friendly conversation with the mayor. Hell, where were you, anyway? You were always trying so hard to make sure he wasn't alone, and now you leave him alone? Maybe he deserved it for all those times he blew you off.

"Hey!" You suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Suddenly, even completely sober, he couldn't sort out his feelings. He was grateful to you for watching out for him; he obviously couldn't do that himself. He was annoyed that you infantilized him. He was confused that you put up with him. Why didn't you just cut loose and stop holding yourself back for someone who has done nothing but screwed over their own life?

"What are you doing here?" Shane said. Crap. That wasn't what he meant to say, not at all. He meant to say 'Why do you stay? Why do you care? I'm not worthy of you.'

Your face fell and Shane needed a drink or six. "Trying to hang out with you," you responded, your voice edged with anger and sadness. "I was—y'know what, I'll leave you be, I just wanted to give this to you."

You held your closed hand out expectantly, and he obliged with an extended palm. 

You dropped a pearl into it.

"Wha—" his mouth dropped open in disbelief. "Oh, wow, Farmer, how did you know this is my favorite?"

You were already gone. He checked the clock on the opposite wall. Well, it was already 12. Maybe you just wanted to get a good night's sleep. He hoped that was all.

But Shane wasn't stupid.

When you exited your house at 6:10 AM sharp the next morning, you almost tripped over him before noticing that Shane was sitting on your steps. This was a huge break in his routine, and it worried you. "Shane? What're you—" You stopped yourself, realizing that you were parroting his words from the previous night. 

"I didn't mean what I said," Shane said abruptly. His murky brown eyes looked into yours with absolute earnesty, and you noticed something rather special about them. They weren't teary or red-striped. He wasn't hungover, at all. 

Your brow furrowed. "About what?"

"About—about... just, how I treat you, y'know. Always blowing you off and acting like you're not worth my time. I know it should be the other way around," his gaze dropped to the ground and he scuffed his foot against the wood of the front steps.

You lowered yourself to sit next to him, knees nearly touching. Time always seemed to stand still when you spoke to him—the sun was stuck in the sky, and you weren't worried about what you were going to get done that day.

"What do you mean, Shane?"

"You know what I mean, Farmer," he said, before exhaling and rubbing his hands on his pants. "I just... I'm not... good enough, for you. I'm a, uh, flash in the pan, I guess. What I'm trying to say... is I'm sorry," he sighed, risking looking up at you again.

Your eyes seemed to look through him. "Shane," you said gently. "You're good enough, for me, for anyone," you emphasized. "And I... do understand why you say the things you do, and they are unfortunate, but I appreciate you recognizing that and apologizing."

Shane looked from your piercing eyes, to your hand that was resting on your knee, centimeters from his, back to your eyes. "I'm trying. Really trying."

You took his hand, and his heart rate spiked. "I know you are, and I know that Marnie and Jas and I really appreciate it."

"Yeah," Shane whispered. Part of him felt guilty—that somehow, Jas wasn't enough to straighten him out. But he was grateful that somehow, you were.

Your thumb rubbed the back of his hand,  comforting him further. He wondered how you could stand touching him. Even after that touching speech, he had a hard time believing you. Even if his personality, his character, was something you seemed to admire, which was beyond him on its own, look at him. He had gained... a number of pounds in the past eight months, he shaved maybe every three days, despite getting a five o'clock shadow by the end of that day. His hair was a genuine disaster, even though Marnie refused to admit it. He was physically clean (most of the time), and that was basically where the pros stopped.

"Thank you so much for coming over here this morning, Shane," you said. Shane had to suppress a shiver at the way you said his name. It didn't sound the way anyone else ever said it. Maybe it was just his imagination. 

But he was more than happy to keep imagining it. "I can't tell you... how much it means to me, that you're reaching out and, and trying. In the most non-patronizing way, I'm proud of you."

He could almost feel tears welling in his eyes. "You're—you're proud of me?"

He hadn't heard that since high school.

"Yeah, of course," you nodded genuinely.

He laughed, almost in disbelief. "Thanks."

You let go of his hand, and Shane had the chance to experience a split-second of disappointment before you used your now free arms to wrap him in a hug. "You can tell me if this is okay or not," you said, your words muffled by his Joja jacket.

"It's okay," he responded quickly, trying not to squeeze you too tightly.

You pulled back, wondering for a moment if it would be going too far, before you decided to press a quick kiss to his cheek. You stood, walking off to water your crops. "I should probably let you go, you don't wanna be late for work."

Shane's face was all pink, and he nodded after a moment's delay. "Right, yeah, um...thanks for listening to me," he stood as well. "See you later."

You watched him take the path from your house into town, zipping up his jacket against the wind. He had patched the holes in it.

[deuteragonists-mismatched-socks]

Numb and Alright - Shane (Stardew Valley)

This is a mostly complete fic idea that I had after a little while of playing Stardew Valley that has been sitting in my drafts for a while. I suppose the best way to describe it would be a prequel.

Warnings: references to violence, references to death, funeral, references to sensory overload, references to alcoholism, alcohol

Word Count: 2.4k

Yoba, he had told them. He knew this place was no good for a kid, for a family. Sure, it was where they had grown up, but it didn't mean they should've stayed there. Not with her.

Jas hadn't stopped crying. He couldn't blame her—neither had he. Of all the people... of all the people walking down that street. They didn't have money, they didn't even have their own car... they didn't deserve... they didn't deserve living there in the first place, but for—

He slapped the steering wheel, swearing under his breath, and he saw Jas jump out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, pumpkin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He rested a shaking hand on her shoulder. "You okay?" She shook her head silently. "Yeah, me neither.

"Should we, uh, head home?"

Jas didn't say anything. "Yeah, okay."

They entered the darkened apartment, and Shane sighed. "I just realized, I don't... I don't have another room, or, or a bed."

"I could sleep on the couch?" Jas squeaked out her first words in the last six hours. 

"No, you're not sleeping on the couch," Shane said, offended. "You can—you alright if we share my bed? It's a queen, it's-it-it's probably best if you're not alone, right?"

Jas thought for a moment before nodding.

"Okay."

It was already 5 AM, and Shane didn't sleep, at all. He stayed put until the light streaming in through the window he had forgotten to draw the curtains over was undeniable. At some point through the night, Jas had rolled herself under his left arm, and he did his best to let her stay there. He waited until she rubbed an arm across her eyes to say anything.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice gravelly. "How are you doing?"

She didn't answer for a moment, her eyes travelling back and forth across the ceiling. "Mom and Dad aren't... aren't coming to get me, are they?"

Shane breathed out through his nose, rubbing his forehead. "No, pumpkin, they're not. I'm so sorry." His left hand brushed her arm soothingly.

"Where did they go?" Jas asked. 

Shane sighed again. He knew that Jas was a smart kid—she wasn't asking where they were physically. She knew.

"I don't know, honey," he told her honestly. Yoba never really told anyone about an afterlife. Shane didn't really believe in him anymore, anyway. Not when they were so loyal.

"I hope they're safe," Jas said quietly, and Shane's heart broke. 

"They are, nothing can ever hurt them. They're just sleeping, huh?" He pulled her closer into his side, and she buried her face in his chest.

With every step, his stomach sunk further. He had to retch, he had to run, something. 

This apartment is why they're dead, his mind whispered. What would you have done if Jas was with them?

Joined them, probably.

He could hardly bear to look at the exterior of the building as he approached, willing the keys not to slip from his clammy hands.

Why couldn't you go pro? Why couldn't you stay? That money would've bought them a nice place on the other side of town, a car, a good school, a life.

Shane clamped his eyes shut for a moment before unlocking the door.

The stairs had never seemed so short—he was at their door before he even had a chance to prepare for it.

Why can't you do anything right?

"I've gotta get out of here," he muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair frantically. This was no place for a kid and a lost godfather. Especially when he could never walk down that street again. Especially when he couldn't even clean out their apartment. Yoba, what was he supposed to do with their things?

The funeral went as well as a funeral could. Shane forced himself to stay because Jas was sitting next to him, gripping his hand for dear life. Maybe he should have asked if she wanted to leave.

He wondered if everyone thought he was an ass for refusing to speak. It didn't matter.

The hardest part wasn't even seeing their ashes buried in her little family plot, next to her grandparents. It wasn't seeing his mom collapse to her knees in the wet grass. 

It was the get-together afterwards.

Shane's hair felt like it was taped to his head and he swore he could feel the stubble struggling out of his skin even though he had taken every pain to shave that morning. The band-aid next to his ear wasn't too noticeable. He didn't think it turned red, not after he just let it bleed into the sink for so long. His tie coiled around his neck like a python, crushing his windpipe.

And he had to shake hands and smile grimly while everyone offered their sympathies. He couldn't have an episode like earlier when one of her friends had tried reminiscing with him and he had all but run away from her.

The fluorescent lights of the community center burned his eyes and rang in his ears as a short, older woman appeared in front of him.

"I am so sorry for your loss," The woman said, brown eyes dark and sincere in her round face.

Shane spent an uncomfortable few seconds scrutinizing her features before speaking. "I am so sorry, but... who are you?"

She tilted her head forward, smiling faintly. Her auburn braid dropped over her shoulder. "I'm your Aunt Marnie!"

"Right, of course," Shane answered, holding out his arms for a hug despite his extreme need to not be touched. "It's just been so long since I've seen you."

"Your eighth-grade gridball finals, actually," Marnie agreed.

Someone had been so thoughtful as to bring a case of Yuengling as their contribution to the potluck-style affair. Shane gazed at it for a long moment, wondering what would happen if he took one. Just forget about Dad. You're not him.

He grabbed one from the cooler, wiping the condensation off with the lining of his suit jacket.

You can't, some inner voice pleaded. You have to get out, you have to get away, you can't slip away like this.

He returned to his seat at the only table that wasn't full. At least some people knew when to leave well enough alone.

His fingernail caught the underside of the pull tab. He didn't pull it. He couldn't.

"You alright, kiddo?" A woman asked, pulling out the chair in front of him. The word kiddo made Shane's ear twitch. Marnie.

"That's the first time someone's asked me that," he said honestly, eyes fixed on the plastic tablecloth.

"I think they're maybe afraid of the answer," his aunt supplied helpfully, and Shane huffed through his nose. 

"Probably. You're not?"

"No," she shrugged, and Shane glanced up to see her eyes were still as warm as earlier—and completely honest. "What's on your mind?"

I miss them. I want to be with them, or them to be with me, I just don't want to be alone. If I could, I would've gone in their place. They'd be more okay than I am. But I think that makes me selfish, that I wouldn't only be doing it for them. I have no clue on earth or in hell how to care for this little kid but I want to do right by her and I don't know who to ask for help. I haven't been into work for the past three weeks and I'm probably going to get fired as soon as I step foot in the store again. And then where will I be? How am I going to pay for her clothes? Her school? Her toys and friends and outings?

"I just don't know where to go," Shane said instead. "I'm not exactly rich, especially now that I'm paying for two people, and I don't want to uproot Jas, but... I don't think either of us can stay here anymore. With the war, there's just nowhere to go." He fidgeted with the unopened can in his hand.

Marnie observed him, kneading her hands. "Well, you could come live with me. I live in Pelican Town, Stardew Valley. It's a nice little place, lots of little rivers and forests, right by the ocean. And Jas would probably love the ranch, maybe even helping out with the animals."

Shane's head shot up in disbelief. There were a million questions, but only one mattered at the moment. "Are you sure? Don't you... I mean, aren't there, um, other people in the house? Would they be okay with that?" Shane asked nervously.

"I always got along better with animals than people," Marnie chuckled shyly. "Cows and pigs don't mind so much if you're quiet."

Shane forced his best polite smile. God, even if her comment did amuse him, it was so hard to make his face comply.

"We're suffering from the recession, same as anyone, but we're still alive," she added, a bit more somberly. "It's a good place to get away to."

He nodded. "Thank you, Marnie. You have... you have no idea how much this means to me. To both of us. I'm going to see what Jas thinks on the way home. I'll call—oh. Can I have your phone number?"

Shane had many more professions of thanks in the short time before he and Jas slipped away to their—that word still felt strange, his house belonging to two people—apartment, before the sun could set.

The can of Yuengling stayed abandoned on the table.

Shane had suggested getting a cot or an air mattress, so that Jas could use his bed until they figured out if they were going to stay or move somewhere else. Jas had informed him quite certainly that that was unnecessary. So, the left side was Jas'. There was a painted seashell her mom had bought her from one of those artsy corner stores on the bedside table, full of beaded elastic bracelets her dad helped her make. She never wore them, but she often played with them absently before going to sleep. The shh-shh-click-click-click had become familiar, and almost helped Shane to fall asleep every night. Almost.

"What would you think of moving out of the city?" He asked her as he tucked her in, before moving to his side of the bed. "Out to the country, on a farm?"

Jas pretended for a little to not hear him, the bracelets click-clicking in the silence. "Would I have to go to a different school?"

"Yeah," Shane told her honestly. "And we'd have to pack up a lot of stuff," he sighed regretfully, reflecting on how difficult it was just to move her clothes from their apartment into his. "But I think it'd be nice, what about you?"

Jas took her time to respond. "What kind of animals would there be?"

"Well, it's my aunt Marnie's ranch, and she told me that she has chickens, and goats, and cows, even shaggy cows," Shane explained, and he almost smiled to himself. His speech patterns had started adjusting to speaking to a little kid, he guessed. "Does that sound like fun?"

"I like animals," she said quietly. "Do you?"

Shane smiled softly. "I don't know, I've never really been around them. Chickens sound pretty cool, though. Did you know they're descendants of dinosaurs?"

They talked about T-Rex and triceratops until Jas fell asleep.

There were no jobs in Pelican Town. Not that suited him, anyway. It was stupid, selfish, that in this terrible array, he still wanted to find something that wasn't a supermarket. With so much of his soul already crushed, he didn't want to just give the rest of it away to that faceless entity anymore.

But the farm was still under possession, or so he was told, working at Marnie's wasn't enough to pay the rent and buy food, not when business was so slow, Pierre couldn't afford help, Maru was already working the desk at Harvey's, Gus had Emily, Gunther never left the library, Robin and Demetrius were too smart to need help, George was too stubborn to accept any, and he didn't know a single damn thing about blacksmithing or fishing. So... JojaMart it was.

"Are we still gonna share?" Jas asked.

"I dunno, kiddo," Shane told her. "I think it would be nice if you had your own bed, don't you?"

Jas thought for a moment. "But what if... what if I have nightmares?"

"I'll be in the same house, kid," he comforted her, petting the top of her head. "You can just come get me, any hour of the night."

"How was your first day?" Marnie asked, her voice everbright. 

"Great," Shane said flatly, regretting the word as it left his mouth. The least this woman deserved for her kindness was respect, not sarcasm. He took his time hanging his jacket and hat on the hook by the door. "Not great," he said, more sincerely. "But it'll be better once I start getting paid, I guess."

"Why don't we go to the saloon? Get something fatty and filling and warm?" Marnie suggested, wringing her hands nervously. Shane understood why. Poor Marnie; he hadn't seen her in twenty years and this was how they reunited. "Penny will keep an eye on Jas until about nine."

"Sure."

"How about two of the daily specials? Shane, do you like spicy food?"

Shane cracked his first small grin of the day. "Yeah, love it, actually."

"Well then, two daily specials," Marnie said with a matching smile. And a lager, please."

Shane hesitated. He had seen what beer and whiskey did to people back home. Took them away from their families, wasted their money, killed them and killed others. 

But that was back home. Everything had been turned on its head already. Maybe in sleepy little Pelican Town, everything would be alright. He couldn't hit anyone if he didn't have a car. He couldn't... he wouldn't get out of line because he had Jas to look after, and Marnie to look after him.

And, oh, did he need to be numb, did he need to feel warm and alright.

"Make that two," he said, willing himself not to stumble all over the words.

"I'll get right on it," Gus said genially.

The cool liquid coated his veins in warmth, and for the first time in six weeks, Shane felt almost okay.

Almost.