Pitt Fics

almost everyone dies in my stories sooo

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Masterlist

I was asked and you all shall receive!

This is where you can find all my writing (will be updated as new posts come out !)

Bob Reynolds/Sentry/The Void:

What The Fire Witheld pt 2

Old Navy Blue

In Every Universe

Soft Enough To Break

Golden Hour

Greedy

For Now, We're Safe

Something In the Mirror

Bring Me To Life

Unbreakable

I Let Him Stay

Lewis Pullman:

Behind Closed Doors

Peachy

Held Tight, Taken Deep

Bob Floyd:

Burned Into The Sky

The Long Game

Forever Us

Boys Are Gross

I Need You

I Will End You

All That Lingers (All 6 parts are attached to each other so I'm just linking the first)

The Nerd and the Nuisance

Any Kind Of Life

Mr. Perfectly Fine, Meet the King of My Heart

Could've Had Anyone

Train Wreck

Endgame Pt2

Under Neon Lights

Satisfied

Officer Down

Movie Night Massacre

Meant To Be Yours. pt2

Clear For Takeoff

Table For 2

Backseat Driver

Swaddled In Us

Car. Now.

Measured In Weeks

Don't Let Go Yet

The Space Between. pt2

Echoes Of The Phoenix

Coming Home

You Promised

Heart Of Silence

Love, Eventually

No More Games

Split Second

I Didn't Mean To

How Brilliant Can I Be?

Concert Glow

More Than This. pt2

After Hours

Say Goodnight, Baby

Remember Me When I Forget pt2

Heartbeat

Over Again

Wreakage

Altitude Sickness

Very Soon, My Darling

Let Me Breathe

Every Version Of You

She Cut, He Lived

Jake Seresin:

All That Lingers (and beyond)

No Eject, No Goodbye

Mr. Perfectly Fine, Meet the King of My Heart

Satisfied

Bradley Bradshaw:

Wingman For Life

Joaquin Torres:

Soft Enough To Break

Edge Of Everything

Propuesta Indecente

Greedy

Eddie Brock/Venom:

I Like Her

Symbiotic Attraction

Bucky Barnes:

Unsaid Emily

Purple Lace Bra

JQ Johnny Storm:

Now You're Sorry?

Evan Buckley:

Don't Blame Me. pt2

Eddie Diaz:

Half A Goodbye

Lando Norris:

Call Me When You Fix Your Attitude

Double Booked

Fur, Fangs & Formula 1

Silverstone & Sweat

Uh Oh

Franco Colapinto:

Double Booked

A Very Colapinto Christmas

You Love It That Much?

HEADCANONS:

TGM: Horny Addition

TGM: First Time / First Time With Him

TGM: Too Rough/Hard During Sex

F1: Sex Chocolate

F1: Wedding Day First Dance

F1/Marvel/TGM: Hickeys

F1: Dick Obsession

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

BRB.

I’m so so so soooo incredibly sorry to say this but unfortunately I have to take a break from posting on tumblr.

I don’t know how many of you guys are in college but if you are, you know how much work you get assigned on a daily basis, ESPECIALLY if you’re a psych major like me.

School work on top of actual work is too much and there’s so way that I can get anything else done.

I’m sorry if you requested something and I responded or not but I value my education and the future career. My semester ends in May so maybe I’ll be back by then!

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Instability 

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Chapter One   Chapter Two 

tw: plane crash, medical trauma, blood, injuries

The ambulance is loud in that tight, claustrophobic way that makes every sound feel closer than it should be. Rain hammers on the roof in rough, rapid bursts, and somewhere near your shoulder, a monitor beeps in a steady rhythm.

Michael hasn’t once taken his eyes off you.

You’re pale under the harsh bright overhead lights, oxygen tubing already in place, hair still matted with drying blood where the gash cuts along your hairline. Your breathing is there but shallow.

A medic adjusts the mask over your face. “Stay with me, okay? You’re doing good.”

Michael swallows hard, ribs screaming at him with every sharp movement but he ignores it the same way he’s been ignoring it for the last… he doesn’t even know how long.

“Sir,” the medic says, glancing over at him, “we can have someone evaluate you when we arrive-”

“I’m fine,” Michael answers abruptly, though it comes out harsher than he intended it to.

The medic’s eyes flick briefly to his chest, the way his breathing is just a little too shallow, the way his jacket is still soaked straight through, but she doesn’t push yet.

Michael leans slightly closer to your stretcher, one hand finding yours where it rests against the thin blanket. Your skin is cool and damp.

“Hey,” he says quietly, more to ground himself than anything else. “Stay with me, okay?”

You don’t answer. Your lashes flutter once and the medic at your side immediately leans in.

“Good, that’s good,” she murmurs. “Keep breathing for me.”

Michael tries to pull in a deeper breath.

Pain spikes sharp and hot along his right ribs, stealing the air halfway in. His breath hitches and he covers it quickly with a slow exhale through his nose.

The ambulance hits a pothole hard enough to jolt the whole rig.

Michael braces instinctively, and the movement sends another sharper stab through his chest. Though this time he can’t quite stop the small, involuntary flinch.

“You sure you’re good over there, doc?” The medic says as she briefly looks towards the small heart monitor.

“Yeah,” he says again, already back on you. “I’m good.”

—

The Pitt is running hot, it’s stretched tight in that dangerous, humming way Dana knows better than she’d like to admit. Every bay is full or turning over fast and the overhead lights feel too bright at some moments and not bright enough at others. The air smells faintly like antiseptic, blood and rainwater dragged in on too many pairs of shoes.

Dr. Whitaker cuts through the center aisles with a fresh cooler balanced against his, Dr. Santos is right behind him, already calling ahead for another set of fluids. Across the room, Dr. McKay is elbow-deep in a supply cart, restocking with quick, practiced movements.

Dana stands near the central desk, tablet in hand, eyes moving constantly.

“OR update?” she calls without looking up.

“Up to twenty-one rooms turning,” Dr . Walsh answers sounding very overwhelmed with the amount of traffic in every space of the pitt. 

“Christ almighty, we need all twenty-four,” Dana says immediately.

Because something in her gut says they’re going to need it.

—

Frank is halfway through a chart when he hears it.

“…Robby-”

It’s faint. Half-lost under the noise of the department, but he stills anyway and slowly looks up. “…what?” he says.

The medic just inside the bay looks slightly winded. “Guy outside said he’s a doctor here, Dr. Robby-”

Frank is already moving.

—

The rain hits him hard the second he pushes through the bay doors. It’s cold, heavy, and soaking through in seconds.

And then he sees the stretcher coming in fast. Your stretcher.

You’re pale against the sheets, oxygen in place, hair dark and wet against your temple. Your clothes are soaked to the bone, like you’ve been standing in the storm for way too long.

Frank’s stomach drops seeing you, but it’s the man beside the stretcher that makes his chest tighten. Michael.

“…Jesus,” Frank breathes.

—

Inside, everything shifts.

“Trauma coming through!”

The team closes in around your stretcher the second you clear the threshold and Michael tries to follow.

Frank steps directly into his path, “Robby.”

Michael barely looks at him, eyes locked on you as they transfer you to the bed.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. “She’s got probable rib fractures, head lac, likely concussion-” His voice is tight. 

Frank’s eyes narrow. Up close now, he can see it, the shallow breathing, the way Michael’s favoring one side, the faint hitch every time he pulls in a breath, and the fact that he is soaked to the bone and still trying to move like nothing’s wrong.

“Robby,” Frank says again, sharper this time.

Michael tries to step around him, “My ribs hurt,” he says, breath already starting to shorten between phrases, “but it doesn’t matter.”

Frank’s attention sharpens instantly.

“Yeah, it does matter,” Frank says, stepping back into his path. “You’re breathing like hell. Sit down.”

Michael shakes his head once, already trying to look past him toward your gurney. There’s barely space to move, stretchers packed tight, monitors chirping over each other, staff shoulder-to-shoulder trying to keep the flow moving.

“I’m fine,” Michael insists, but the words come thinner this time.

Across the bay, someone calls for more O-neg. And a kid is crying somewhere near the doors, the whole place feels like it’s vibrating.

Michael doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“The love of my life is-” He stops, his chest rises sharp and uneven, like the breath doesn’t quite make it all the way in.

“Robby—”

“-is dying right in front of me,” Michael pushes through, voice even more tight, breath hitching between words, “and she needs you. She needs you to..”

Michael’s hand comes up instinctively, pressing into his right side. His shoulders dip just slightly, balance wavering in a way Frank has never seen on him before.

“Hey. Hey- sit down,” Frank says, already reaching for him.

Michael tries to push past him anyway, “help-  me.” The word thins out halfway through.

His eyes lose focus for a beat too long and then his knees give.

Frank lunges forward and catches his arm, but Michael’s already dropping fast, weight going dead heavy in a way that makes Frank’s stomach drop.

On the way down, the back of Michael’s head clips the edge of the supply counter with a dull, sickening knock.

“Shit!”

Frank’s already down with him, one hand at Michael’s shoulder, the other sliding behind his head. “Robby. Hey. Robby, look at me.”

Michael’s eyes are open but they’re glassy.  His breathing has gotten worse, quick, shallow pulls that barely move his chest.

Frank’s fingers come away from the back of his head with a smear of blood.

“I need a gurney over here now!” Frank yells, sharper than before.

Whitaker muscles one through the packed bay, Santos clearing just enough space to wedge it in beside yours. There’s no clean transfer, no time for anything pretty, they pick  Michael up and put him onto the incoming gurney.

Michael barely reacts except for the tight pull of his mouth when his ribs shift.

Frank is already moving, “Mask on,” he mutters, fitting the oxygen over Michael’s face himself. “Stay with me, Robby.”

Michael tries to turn his head toward you again.

Across the narrow gap between stretchers, McKay is already at your side, sleeves shoved up, voice steady but fast.

“Let’s get another pressure,” she says. “And I want large-bore access if we don’t already have it.”

A nurse nods and moves.

The space is loud  monitors stepping over each other, staff calling across the bay, the constant churn of an ED running past comfortable capacity.

Frank keeps one hand at Michael’s wrist, watching the numbers climb a little too fast under his fingers.

“Breath sounds,” he says.

Someone leans in with the stethoscope, “…decreased on the right.”

Frank’s jaw tightens. “Shit. Thought so.”

Next to him, Michael drags in another shallow breath that doesn’t quite land. His fingers twitch once, like he’s still trying to move toward you on instinct alone.

“Easy,” Frank says quietly. “Don’t fight me right now.”

Across the stretcher gap, Cassie’s voice cuts in, sharper now.

“Dana, her pressure’s still soft.”

Dana steps in closer, eyes moving quickly between the two gurneys.

“Talk to me,” she says.

“Eighty-four systolic,” McKay answers. “She’s not loving this.”

Frank doesn’t look up from Michael when he speaks.

“I’m going to need blood over here.”

“I need a unit of O-neg.” Cassie says at the exact same time. 

The words overlap just enough to make the nurse at the blood cooler freeze.

There’s a half-second pause before someone speaks “…we only have one unit left down here.”

It comes from Whitaker.

Dana closes her eyes briefly “Christ almighty,” she mutters under her breath “Red Cross was fifteen minutes out when I called” she checked her watch, “Five minutes ago.”

Frank exhales slowly through his nose, eyes still on Michael’s monitor.

“He’s decompensating,” he says, voice low but firm. “I need that unit.”

Across from him, Cassie doesn’t even look up from where she’s working on you.

“She’s hypotensive and trending the wrong way,” she fires back, just as tight. “She needs it too.”

Frank finally glances over, jaw set, “Cass-”

“She’s this close to making attending, Frank,” Cassie cuts in, voice tight but controlled. “You know that. It’s all she’s talked about for months.”

Frank’s mouth presses into a thin line, “He’s already the attending,” Frank says quietly. “And right now he’s my patient and he needs the blood.”

Dana steps forward, “Enough!” she looks between the two stretchers , you’re on one side, Michael on the other and her expression is tight in a way they don’t see often.

“It’s not fair,” she says evenly. “And it’s not right.”

No one argues further because there isn’t a single person in that bay who doesn’t know she’s telling the truth.

Dana exhales slowly, eyes flicking once more between you and Michael, “…give me a second,” she says.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Impact

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Part One Part Three

tw: plane crash, injuries/blood, medical trauma, internal injuries

Sound comes back first.

Not clearly, it’s more so just noise. A high, thin ringing that sits sharp behind Michael’s eyes, like feedback caught in his skull. For a second  that’s all there is. Just pressure and the metallic taste of adrenaline creeping up the back of his throat.

Then the most excruciating pain hits.

Sharp across his ribs when he tries to breathe too deep. A deep ache along his shoulder. The world tilts when he forces his eyes open, emergency lighting flickering weak and uneven through the broken cabin.

Michael inhales carefully through his nose, already wincing through the pain. Guarded breathing, chest wall tenderness, it’s nothing immediately catastrophic.

Then he remembers.. you.

His head turns too fast and he immediately regrets it, ribs protesting hard enough to make his jaw tighten. But he finds you in the next second, slumped sideways in your seat, hair loose and matted, a dark streak of blood running from your hairline.

You’re not moving.

Michael’s pulse spikes hard, “Hey-hey.”

His voice is rougher than he means it to be as he fumbles with his seatbelt, fingers slipping once before the latch finally gives. The sudden movement sends another sharp protest through his ribs, but he ignores it, already leaning toward you.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Up close, the cut on your forehead looks worse, there’s blood smeared into your hair, your skin looks too pale under the flickering lights.

For one tight second, fear punches straight through his chest. Michael’s hand comes up fast but steady, fingers finding your jaw.

“Y/N,” he says, sharper now. “Hey. Wake up.”

Your brow twitches.

Air leaves Michael’s lungs in a controlled exhale he doesn’t realize he was holding.

Your eyes crack open slowly, unfocused, “…Michael?” Your voice is hoarse, confused.

“I’m here.” He says immediately, his face coming to rest on your face, “Stay with me.”

You blink hard, wincing as awareness pushes through the fog. Your hand lifts weakly toward your head and you hiss when your fingers brush the gash.

“Easy,” Michael says quickly, already shifting into clinical doctor mode. His thumb presses gently along your scalp. “You have a pretty nasty gash on your head. Talk to me, are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

You swallow. “Little dizzy. Not spinning.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

Only then does he pull back slightly, giving you a faster once-over now that he knows you’re conscious. Your breathing is shallow but even. You’re moving carefully but on your own.

Across the fractured cabin, someone screams. It’s sharp, panicked and it causes both of you to freeze.

Another voice follows, strained and desperate, “Help- please-”

You both move carefully, guarded. Every step hurts, your ribs are screaming, muscles tight, and the adrenaline is doing most of the heavy lifting but neither of you can even considers sitting back down.

The cabin is devastation, overhead bins torn open, debris scattered across the aisle, rain blowing in through a ripped section of fuselage farther back. Emergency lighting flickers weak and uneven.

And everywhere there are people. 

People crying, groaning, and there’s too many not moving at all.

Michael drops beside the nearest passenger struggling to breathe, quickly repositioning their airway with steady hands.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stay with me.”

You move to the next row, spotting a woman clutching her arm, blood soaking through her sleeve. You grab part of a discarded blanket and press it firmly into her hands.

“Hold pressure right here,” you tell her, voice calm despite the tight pull in your ribs. “Don’t let up.”

She nods shakily.

Minutes blur.

You lose track of how many people you steady, how many you reassure, how many times you have to swallow past the growing ache in your side that doesn’t quite feel like just bruising anymore.

Michael notices you go a little slower once.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

It’s a lie but you keep moving because you have to. Because you need to. Because you know if you don’t physically help as many people as you can, it will weigh on your conscious for the rest of your life. 

⸻

Sirens build in the distance.

Flashlights cut through the torn fuselage as first responders begin pushing in through the wreckage.

“Fire department! Call out if you can hear me!”

Michael lifts a hand briefly without looking up. “Two conscious here!”

A responder climbs into the broken section moments later  and immediately clocks both of you still working despite the blood and visible injuries.

“You two need to start moving out,” he calls. “If you’re ambulatory, we need you clear for extraction.”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“We’re doctors,” he says, already turning back to the passenger beside him. “We’re staying until you’ve got hands on these criticals.”

You nod once in agreement, pressing firmer on the bleeding arm beneath your hands.

“We’re good to help,” you add.

The responder hesitates, then nods sharply and moves past you to the next victim.

—

More responders flood the wreckage, there’s more lights, more voices. The chaos of real scene command starts to take shape.

Patients begin moving out in waves and the adrenaline that’s been holding you upright starts to slip.

At first it’s subtle, just a little more effort to straighten, a little more pressure under your ribs, a little harder to pull in a full breath.

Michael notices before you say anything. His eyes flick to you, “Hey.”

You shake your head slightly. “I’m fine.”

It’s another lie, but to you, your injuries are the least of your problems when there are severely injured children, mothers, fathers, a cracked rib doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest. 

You take one more step and the world tilts hard sideways, your hand misses the seat in front of you.

Michael’s head snaps up just in time to see your knees buckle, “Y/N!”

He catches you before you hit the floor, one arm wrapping tight around your back despite the sharp protest in his own ribs.

Your breathing has gone shallow, too shallow.

Michael’s entire posture changes, “Hey. Hey, stay with me.” His voice drops, tight but controlled now. “Look at me.”

Your eyes flutter, unfocused.

That’s when the responder nearest them swears under his breath.

“We need a medic over here! Now!”

Hands move in fast, the stretcher arrives and Michael doesn’t move from your side.

“Sir, we need to get you both out-”

“I’m not leaving her,” Michael says immediately. It’s firm and final but the EMTs try again.

“Doctor, you need evaluation too-”

“I said I’m not leaving her!” His hand stays locked around yours as they finally start moving you toward the extraction line.

And for the first time since the crash… Michael Robinavitch looks genuinely afraid.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

omg when is the next part of you’re plane crash story coming out it was so good

Very VERY soon.. like in a few hours.. (I find it better to post fics on or after 12am EST, they tend to do better) I'm glad you enjoyed it! I will say one thing though:

Hold on to your butts when you read the next chapter.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

hi i absolutely love all your fics and try my best to read them all!! i especially love how you make the emotion so detailed and real and honestly i tear up reading many of your fics which isn’t something that normally happens. anyway i love your fics for the pitt and i was just wondering if you had anything else planned for langdon?? if not no worries just curious and i can’t wait to read what you write next!!

🫶🏼🫶🏼

One is coming out soon! I'm aiming to finish the last few chapters of the plane crash AU and then I'll finish off the Langdon one I'm working on! (its a sibling one)

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Inbound

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Part Two Part Three

TW: plane crash, MCI (mass casualty incident), medical trauma, injuries/ blood. 

The cabin lights are dimmed low enough to feel like nighttime even though your body has no idea what time it actually is.

Somewhere over the Atlantic or somewhere over many time zones people have already started the slow process of pretending they’re home. Seatbacks are tilted, shoes are half-kicked off,the flight attendants have come by with another round of beverages and another food pack.

Your head is tipped slightly toward Michael’s shoulder, fingers loosely threaded with his where your hands rest between your seats. The gold/silver band on your finger catches the soft cabin light every time the plane shifts.

Married. The word still feels new in your chest.

Across the aisle, someone snores softly. A flight attendant moves quietly up the cabin, collecting the last of the empty cups with the careful balance of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

The captain’s voice had come on maybe twenty minutes ago, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve started our initial descent into Pittsburgh. Weather in the area is a bit rough tonight, so you can expect some turbulence on the way in. Nothing out of the ordinary. Please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened.”

So when there’s a small bump first, it barely registers.

Just a small ripple under the wheels of the air, the kind you’ve both flown through more times than you can count. Michael doesn’t even lift his head from where it rests lightly back against the seat.

Your thumb brushes once over his knuckles, “Home stretch,” you murmur quietly.

He hums softly beside you, eyes still half-lidded but not fully asleep. Michael never really sleeps on planes, not that anyone really does.

“Mm,” he says. “You ready for Pittsburgh weather again?”

You make a quiet, tired face. “Emotionally? No.”

That earns the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

The plane dips again, a longer dip this time and a few seats back, someone exhales sharply.

Overhead bins give a soft rattle as the turbulence picks up just a notch. Nothing dramatic yet, just enough to make people shift in their seats and to tug seatbelts a little tighter across their laps.

The flight attendants take their jump seats and Michael is the first to  notice that.

You feel the subtle change in him before you fully understand why. His posture straightening just slightly, his eyes opening fully now, attention sharpening in that quiet way you’ve learned to recognize.

You glance at him. “What?”

“Nothing yet,” he says evenly.

The plane jolts harder.

A few scattered gasps ripple through the cabin this time, low and surprised. The overhead lights flicker once and outside the window, the sky flashes white. Lightning.

The turbulence rolls again, longer now, the kind that makes your stomach lift unpleasantly before settling back down. Somewhere across the cabin, nervous laughter breaks out thin and a little forced.

The intercom clicks.

A flight attendant’s voice this time, still professional but tighter around the edges, “Ladies and gentlemen, please ensure your seatbelts are fastened securely and remain seated.”

The plane drops again, this time the overhead bins clatter loudly enough that several people fully sit up straight. A baby starts crying somewhere toward the back of the aircraft, the sound thin but piercing over the engine noise.

Your fingers tighten instinctively in Michael’s. He turns his head toward the window, eyes narrowing slightly as another flash of lightning lights the wing in stark white for half a second.

The bumps come closer together now, the aircraft shuddering in uneven bursts that are just a little too aggressive to be comfortable.

Michael shifts slightly closer to you.“You doing okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, even as your stomach does another unpleasant swoop. “Yeah.”

Another drop.

You feel Michael go still beside you.

He’s still in that very specific way he gets when something doesn’t line up right in his head.

The lightning hits before you can ask what he’s hearing. A blinding white flash fills the windows and then-

BANG.

It’s loud. Too loud.

The plane lurches violently to one side, the entire cabin pitching with a sickening drop that sends several loose items flying forward. Oxygen masks don’t deploy yet but the sudden tilt is enough to rip startled cries from multiple rows at once.

Your heart slams hard against your ribs.

“What—”

The cabin crew is very, very still in their jump seats.

The aircraft shudders again, it’s harder this time, the kind of vibration you feel deep in your bones.

Michael’s hand tightens around yours.

Outside, rain lashes hard against the windows, illuminated in sharp bursts every time lightning forks through the clouds around you.

The intercom clicks, it’s silent for a second then the captain’s voice comes back on still controlled, but missing just a fraction of the smooth ease from earlier, “Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin.”

Every muscle in your body goes cold. Across the rows, people start to realize.

“Hey,” he says, turning fully toward you now, voice low and steady in a way that cuts clean through the noise. “Look at me.”

His hand slides up briefly to the side of your face, checking you automatically, eyes scanning like he’s already triaging even this.

“You with me?” he asks.

You nod, breath a little too fast. “Yeah.”

Another violent drop. This time, people scream. The aircraft shudders hard enough that the overhead bins rattle like they might give.

Outside there’s another flash, another horrible, uneven engine sound.

Michael pulls you in closer, one arm braced protectively around you as the plane begins to shake in deep, aggressive vibrations that are no longer even pretending to be normal turbulence.

Your fingers clutch tight into the front of his shirt.

“Michael-”

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

The cabin lights flicker again.

Once. Twice. Then the aircraft drops, hard and the world slams to black. 

—

By the time the first stretchers start rolling through the ambulance bay, Pitt is already moving.

Rain lashes sideways through the open bay doors every time another unit backs in, cold air cutting through the bright hospital lights. Radios overlap. Someone calls for more backboards. 

Dana stands just off the main flow of traffic, tablet in one hand, phone in the other.

Her screen is still open to the flight alert. Rome inbound and her jaw tightens once because she knows.

You always send her the details. Flight number, takeoff time, landing time. The little check-in texts so Dana knows when they’re in the air and when they’re back on the ground.

Dana had seen the notification the second the crash alert hit the wire. She does not say anything because the bay is already filling, because people are already bleeding, because panic helps exactly no one.

So she locks it down, slides the phone face-down against the tablet, and steps forward into the noise.

“Blood bank is moving coolers,” she says sharply. “We are not wasting units tonight.”

Around her, the team moves, McKay is already halfway inside a supply cabinet, pulling fluids two at a time. Abbott checks the seal on a crash cart and immediately reaches for another. King is on the phone pushing upstairs for more monitored beds.

Across the bay, Whitaker and Santos move in quick passes, hauling equipment where it’s needed most, pink wristbands flashing as they cut through the traffic.

Another ambulance backs in. Another stretcher rolls through.

—

Frank comes in from the side entrance shrugging off his jacket, eyes already scanning the room as he takes in the controlled chaos.

“Status?” he asks, falling into step near Dana.

“Severe weather crash on approach,” Dana says “International plane.”

Frank nods once, already processing,

“Rome?” Frank says slowly.

Dana doesn’t answer right away but her eyes flick to his for half a second.

Frank’s brow pulls tight. “Wait.”

He looks toward the nearest monitor like the answer might be written there, “Y/N and Michael were supposed to be coming back from Rome tonight.”

And the people close enough to hear them go very still for half a second too long. McKay’s head lifts from the cabinet, Javadi looks up sharply from the triage table.

Dana finally speaks, voice level but firm, “We don’t have confirmation of passenger manifest yet.”

Which is true and not all that comforting.

—

Another stretcher comes through the doors and work resumes immediately because it has to.

But now now everyone’s eyes are just a little sharper. As each patient rolls past, there’s a split-second glance.

Just quick checks. Face. Hair. Build.

“BP dropping,” someone calls.

“Hang another liter.”

Whitaker moves past at a near jog with a fresh cooler, Santos tight on his heels. Neither of them says anything, but both of them are scanning the incoming line too.

Across the bay, Langdon already has his phone out.

He dials, raises it to his ear, lets It ring and ring before… voicemail. 

Langdon hangs up immediately and redials.

Around them, the chaos keeps building. Another unit backs in outside, sirens cutting through the rain. Dana is already moving again, voice sharp as she redirects a stretcher toward an open space.

But the call keeps ringing, then voicemail.

Langdon lowers the phone slowly, “Straight to voicemail.”

Nobody says what they’re thinking.

Because there are still patients coming through the doors. Because the night is just getting started. And because somewhere between the rain and the wreckage

Michael and Y/N are still missing.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Coffee & Naps

Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

This is short because I’m incredibly tired but I wanted to post something. I promise tomorrow’s post is gonna be a lot better.

Despite working morning shifts, Frank Langdon is not a morning person.

So when you walk into the break room at 6:12 a.m. and find him already there…

…curled up in the corner chair…

…half asleep…

…it stops you dead in your tracks.

His long legs are stretched out under the table, one arm folded behind his head, the other loosely wrapped around a paper coffee cup that has definitely gone cold. His sunglasses are slightly crooked on his nose, lashes resting heavy against his cheeks.

For once the almighty Frank Langdon looks soft.

You ease the door shut behind you, gentle, careful. The last thing you want is to wake him. He looks like he fought a war yesterday. Which, knowing this place… he probably did.

You move quietly around the counter, grabbing your own coffee, but the old machine makes that obnoxious grinding noise and-

Frank shifts and one eye cracks open, “You’re loud,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You blink at him. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

His mouth twitches, it’s not quite a smile, but close.

You lean against the counter, studying how beat he looks. “You sleep here?”

“Power nap,” he corrects automatically.

“You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Oh but you absolutely do.”

Now he opens both eyes, fixing you with that tired, unimpressed look he saves just for you, it’s one that should feel intimidating but never quite does.

“Do you have a clinical reason for being this annoying this early in the morning,” he asks, “or am I special?”

You grin into your coffee, “Missed you too, Langdon.”

That does something to his face. It’s small. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren’t already watching him like it was your favorite hobby.

But his shoulders drop a fraction and his voice, when he speaks again, is quieter, “You just saw me twelve hours ago.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, pushing off the counter. “Long time.”

“You look exhausted,” you murmur.

His eyes flick up to yours, “Long shift,” he says finally.

You hum, soft. Understanding. Always too understanding with him.

“C’mon,” you say gently, nodding toward the coffee machine. “I’ll make you a fresh one. The one you’re holding looks like it fought in the Civil War.”

“…You’re not funny.”

You’re already turning away, grabbing a clean cup.

“I’m hilarious. You’re just sleep-deprived.”

Behind you, there’s a quiet rustle of movement before Frank sitting up properly now, rubbing a hand down his face, “Thanks.”

You pause.

Because Frank Langdon doesn’t say thanks very often.

But you don’t make it a big deal out of it, you just glance back over your shoulder and give him a small, easy smile, “Yeah,” you say lightly. “You’re Welcome.”

And for the first time all morning.. Frank actually smiles.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

How do you take care of yourself, especially when writing fics like "I Would Have Helped Kid" because holy fuck that shit was rough. Like, I usually don't get affected by this stuff because I'm used to it, but fuck did that one hit way too deep. I'm good, but I just wonder how you take care of yourself when writing someone that dark.

Also followed up with: “Also, are you allergic to happiness or something, cause why is everything you write depressing? It's great, no complaints, but man, my soul hurts.”

Thank you for asking, to answer “Why is everything you write depressing?” I would say that it’s an emotion that I knew all too well for about a year- year and a half so I know better how to make others feel (through the story) how I felt. I promise I’m 100% better and I haven’t had a negative thought in about 5 years but that was what I knew how to convey and making sure it felt real? Believe it or not, I actually do have really happy go-lucky fics but those are the ones where I’m spitballing because I’ve never been in a relationship before so I don’t know what it’s like. I do take inspiration from movies/shows to see what a healthy relationship is.

Taking care of myself though, usually when I’m doing sad fics, I always have something happy on or one of my favorite movies/shows so when it gets a little heavy, I’ll take a break and watch whatever I have on for a while before heading back into writing.

Thank you for thinking of me, it truly means a lot to me. For any of you guys if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here. My DMs are always open.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Hi! I'm not sure if you take requests, but I have one for Jack Abbot. Sorry if this comes across as a bit dark.

Night shift is approaching, and Abbot is one of the last to arrive. He notices Dana and looks confused, but Dana explains that the Reader and Robby are on the roof. Robby is trying to talk her down, and suddenly, Robby runs down the stairs explaining the Reader jumped..

I Would’ve Helped Kid

Jack Abbott x Fem!Reader

TW: suicide, grief, hospitals, emotional distress, death of a daughter figure. Please take care of yourself before reading and know there are resources to help you if you ever feel like this. My DMs are always open if you need to talk.

Night shift is already settling into its usual heavy pace by the time Jack pushes through the ED doors.

It’s loud in that way all hospitals always are, there’s monitors chiming, phones ringing, the low hums of conversations layered over everything like background static.

Jack shrugs out of his jacket as he walks, already halfway in work mode, eyes flicking automatically toward the board. He’s later than he likes to be, just enough that the shift has already started moving without him.

“Evening,” he mutters to no one in particular as he passes the desk.

Something feels off, it takes him before he even knows why.

Dana isn’t behind the desk.

She’s standing a few feet away from it instead, arms folded tight across her chest, posture stiff in a way that immediately trips every instinct Jack has.

His brows pull together as he angles toward her. “What’s going on?”

Dana looks at him and for just one second, she hesitates.

That’s all it takes for something cold to slide down Jack’s spine.

“It’s Y/N,” Dana says quietly, “She’s on the roof.”

Jack blinks. “…the roof?”

“Robby’s with her.”

The words don’t fully register in his brain at first.

Jack frowns slightly, like he’s trying to sort through static, “…the roof?” he repeats, slower this time.

His expression changes instantly, something cold and alarmed flashes across his face, “The roof? She hates the roof. She hates heights. Why would she be on the ro—”

He cuts himself off because the answer is already forming in the back of his mind, ugly and impossible and hopefully wrong.

Jack is already moving before the thought can finish.

“Jack—” Dana starts but there’s no use, he’s already gone.

—

The stairwell door slams open hard enough to shake the walls of the surrounding rooms.

Jack takes the steps two at a time, breath already coming faster than it should be. His hand skims the railing but doesn’t grab it, momentum carrying him upward with sharp and urgent bursts.

This has to be nothing right? Robby’s with her, Robby’s got her. She wouldn’t- there’s no way she could- Jack’s jaw tightens.

Your voice flickers through his head uninvited, sharp and familiar.

“I hate the roof, Jack. I’m serious. If you ever send me up there again, I’m quitting.” You’d been half joking.

His chest feels too tight.

The stairwell is too loud, footsteps echoing off concrete, his breath harsh in his ears, the building suddenly feeling too big for once.

The door above him bursts open.

Jack halts to a stop.

Robby is coming down the stairs fast, somethings wrong. 

Jack notices it immediately.

Robby looks…off. He looks too pale, his breathing is too hard and his hands are shaking and Jack sees it. He sees it in the way Robby’s chest is rising too fast, the way his eyes look blown wide and unfocused.

A sense of cold dread floods Jack’s system in one violent wave, “Where’s Y/N?” he demands.

Robby stops two steps above him, his throat works hard like he’s trying to force the words out past something lodged there.

Jack’s pulse starts to pound in his throat, “Robby.”

Robby drags a hand down his face, breath shuddering, “She…” His voice catches hard. He swallows, like the word physically hurts. “Fuck…”

Robby’s eyes flick up to his, glassy and horrified, “…she jumped.”

—

The words don’t register for a second, “She…” Jack blinks slowly,“…what?”

Robby’s breathing is uneven now, “I was- I was right there,” he says hoarsely. “I was talking to her and she just-” He cuts himself off hard.

Jack is staring at him, his eyes scanning Robby’s face for any sign of lies, “No,” Jack says automatically.

Robby’s face tightens, “Jack—”

“When?” Jack cuts in, voice suddenly sharp, “How long ago?”

“Less than a minute before I came down,” Robby says quickly,“Trauma’s already been called. They’re getting her now.”

Jack’s hands curl slightly at his sides. “How did it happen?” he presses. “She was talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

Robby’s mouth opens again but nothing comes out, almost as if he’s trying to protect Jack’s peace. 

Robby drags in a shaky breath. “She said she was tired,” he manages. “I was trying to get closer and she just”

His voice breaks clean off this time.

“She hates heights,” Jack mumbles, almost to himself “Was she scared?”

“Was she alone before you got there?” Jack pushes.

“I don’t know,” Robby admits. “I got the call and went straight up.”

Jack exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to keep himself together.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Robby watches him for a second, something like concern flickering through the shock on his face.

“Jack…” he says quietly. “Let’s not finish this conversation here.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah.”

—

Jack never really noticed how small the family room truly is, at least not until this moment.

The door clicks shut behind them with a soft, click that makes something in Jack’s chest tighten.

Robby doesn’t sit, he can’t sit. He just stands near the wall, like he always does when he gets bad news.

Jack stays on his feet too and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

“How long was she up there before you got there?”

Robby rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Dana said maybe a few minutes. Security flagged it.”

Jack nods, “Was she crying?”

Robby swallows. “No.”

That makes all the muscles in Jack’s face tighten sharply.

“She just… sounded tired,” Robby adds quietly. “Really tired.”

Jack looks down at the floor for a second, “When she moved,” he says slowly, carefully, “did she hesitate?”

“…no.” Robby goes very still, “I’m sorry.”

Jack’s head lifts immediately. “This is not on you.”

“But I was right there-”

“And you did exactly what you were supposed to do,” Jack cuts in, more firm now. Steady in that doctor way he slips into when things are threatening to spiral. “You went up, you engaged, you called it the second it happened.”

Jack’s voice softens just a fraction, “That’s not on you,” he repeats quietly.

Robby nods once, but the guilt doesn’t leave his face, it probably won’t and Jack knows that look because he’s worn it before.

—

There’s a knock at the door and one of the nurses stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral in that way hospital staff perfect over years.

“Dr. Abbott,” she says gently. “We’ve… finished.”

Jack goes very still and for the first time since this started, something real cracks through the tight control he’s been holding onto, “…finished,” he repeats quietly.

The nurse nods, “They’ve moved her to another family room.”

Jack swallows, “Okay,” he says, his voice barely steady.

—

The walk down the hall feels longer than it should.

Jack keeps his hands shoved in his pockets and holds a stone cold expression on his face as they make their way down the hall. 

The nurse stops just outside the room, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Jack nods once before he reaches for the door.

—

There you are lying on the bed, clean, covered, still and for just a second. Jack stands there, like his body forgot how to move, how to breathe.

Slowly he steps forward, the chair beside the bed scrapes softly against the floor as he pulls it closer to himself and sits down.

He stares at you for a long time without speaking and when he finally does, his voice is quiet, “…hey, kid.”

His voice is low, it’s the same tone he’s used on you a hundred times before  when you were overwhelmed, when you were frustrated, when you were pushing too hard and he had to gently reel you back in. Like some part of him still expects you to roll your eyes and tell him you’re fine.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitates in the air for half a second, then settles gently over yours where it rests on the blanket. It’s instinct, he doesn’t even think about it.

“You were just here,” he says quietly. “You were just on shift.”

His thumb moves once against the fabric, it’s a small, absent motion.

A long breath leaves him, shaky at the edges, “…you should’ve come to me, kid.”

“You didn’t have to do that by yourself,” he continues softly. “You didn’t have to stand up there and think there wasn’t another option. Not when I was right downstairs. Not when Robby was right there.”

His voice catches slightly, and this time he doesn’t quite manage to smooth it out, “I would’ve listened,” he says, quieter now. “You know I would’ve.”

His grip tightens just a fraction around your hand through the blanket, like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already gone.

“I would’ve done anything you needed. Sat with you all night, dragged you into an office, got you help, hell- I would’ve cleared the whole damn board if that’s what it took.” A weak breath huffs out of him, though it’s not quite a laugh. “You know I would’ve moved mountains for you.”

“…I would’ve traded you,” he admits quietly, “If it meant you didn’t have to feel like that up there… if it meant you didn’t have to be that tired, that scared-” His throat tightens, “Kid, I would’ve taken your place in a heartbeat.”

His head dips slightly, shoulders finally starting to fold in on themselves, the control he’s been clinging to all night slipping piece by piece.

“You weren’t supposed to carry it alone,” he whispers. “Not here. Not with me right downstairs.”

Another long silence.

His thumb moves once more against your hand, “…I’m so sorry I didn’t see it,” Jack says finally, voice barely above a breath. “I should’ve seen it.”

And this time, when his head bows forward and his shoulders shake once, he doesn’t try to stop it.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Rio

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Fic Recommended by @glitterspark

TW: Hyperemesis Gravidarum, pregnancy, childbirth complications, postpartum hemorrhaging, death, grief 

For those who don’t know what Hyperemesis Gravidarum is, to save you a trip to google I will paste the definition of it. 

“Hyperemesis gravidarum (HG) is a severe, often debilitating form of nausea and vomiting during pregnancy that goes beyond typical morning sickness.”

The smell of toast is what finally pulls Michael the rest of the way awake.

He lies there for a second, blinking at the ceiling, then he’s already pushing himself up, feet hitting the floor.

He makes his way down the hall, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and stops in the kitchen doorway.

You’re standing at the counter. Very pregnant. Very focused.

And by the miracle of miracles, holding half a piece of toast.

Michael just watches for a second,“You’re eating,” he says.

You glance over your shoulder immediately. “Yes, Dr. Robby. I am, in fact, eating.”

There’s a little attitude there, but you’re smiling, so he knows you’re feeling okay.

There’s a small Zofran pump that’s clipped neatly to the waistband of your sleep shorts, tubing disappearing under your shirt where the infusion site sits taped along the left side of your abdomen, just off your bump.

Michael’s eyes flick there quick, before he steps fully into the kitchen.

You notice it instantly, “…you just did the scan thing again.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s already the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth, “I’m allowed to be concerned about my pregnant wife.”

“Honey, you’re one deep breath away from putting hospital monitors in our living room.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

That gets a soft laugh out of you, and something in his chest loosens.

He moves closer, resting his hand automatically over the curve of your stomach. The baby shifts faintly under his palm.

His whole face softens, “hey there,” he murmurs.

You snort lightly. “You are such a sap before coffee.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.” He presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, then reaches for the coffee pot.

“So.”

Michael pauses mid-pour. He knows that tone.

Slowly, he looks over. “…so?”

You lean back against the counter, one hand sliding over your stomach, “We said once I hit eight months we’d lock in name options,” you remind him. “We’re… almost there.”

Early on when everything still felt far away they’d made the deal:

One girl name each.

One boy name each.

Discuss before birth.

Easy, right?

Michael sets the coffee down and turns toward you fully, “…okay,” he says carefully. “You go first.”

You brighten immediately, “So,” you say, already grinning, “for a girl… I picked Zara Jewel.”

Michael goes very still.

You watch his face way too closely.

“Well?” you demand.

He lifts his eyes slowly.“…Jewel?” he repeats.

You immediately point at him. “Don’t start.”

His mouth twitches, fighting a smile, “Zara is pretty,” he admits, “However, Jewel is… a bold life choice.”

You gasp. “It is cute!”

“It is definitely a choice.”

You shove his shoulder, but you’re already laughing.

“Okay, fine, whatever,” you mutter. “Your turn. Girl name.”

Michael takes a slow sip of coffee like he’s bracing himself.

“…Eleanor Grace.”

You pause.

Then your face softens.

“I hate that I’m gonna say this,” you say quietly. “I actually really like that.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “It’s very… you.”

Something warm flickers across his face at that.

You clear your throat quickly. “Okay. Boy names.”

He gestures. “Go ahead.”

“For a boy,” you announce proudly, “I picked Evan Blu.”

Michael closes his eyes.

You immediately groan. “Oh my God, here we go”

“Blu?” he says, looking back at you.

You press your lips together. “Don’t.”

“Are we,” he starts carefully, “naming our child after cartoon birds?”

“It is not just cartoon birds,” you fire back. “It is Rio, which might I add is a cinematic masterpiece, thank you very much.”

A quiet laugh escapes him despite himself, “Absolutely not,” he says mildly. “I refuse to put ‘Blu’ on a birth certificate.”

“You are such a hater.”

“And you,” he bumps his hip gently into yours, “are emotionally attached to animated parrots.”

“Fine,” you mumble. “What’s your boy name then, Mr. Critic?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, “Daniel James.”

You tilt your head, considering.

“That one’s very respectable,” you admit.

“Thank you.”

“But also,” you add sweetly, “a little boring.”

His jaw drops slightly. “Boring?”

You just grin at him.

The kitchen settles back into something warm and easy after that quiet teasing, soft smiles, the kind of morning that feels normal in the best way.

Michael glances at the microwave clock a few minutes later and grimaces.

“I’ve gotta head in soon.”

Your smile softens, but you nod. “I know.”

He steps in close again, hand finding your stomach automatically, “Text me if anything feels off.”

“I will.”

“And if the pump—”

“Michael.”

“I’m serious.”

You reach up and squeeze his wrist gently, “I’m okay,” you promise.

He studies your face for a long second.

Then leans in and presses a careful kiss to your forehead.

“I know,” he murmurs.

But his hand lingers just a second longer before he finally pulls away.

——

By the time Michael gets home, the apartment is quiet.

The clock on the stove reads 1:43 AM when he nudges the door shut behind him with his shoulder, toeing off his shoes in the entryway. He stayed in place of a night shift doctor until they found coverage and the exhaustion is sitting heavy in his bones.

You’re usually asleep by now.

The hallway light is dim when he makes his way toward the bedroom, rolling his shoulders once like he’s trying to shake the hospital off before he reaches the door.

He pushes it open gently.

You’re out cold, curled on your side, blankets tucked around you, one hand resting low on the curve of your stomach like you fell asleep there and never moved again.

Michael stops in the doorway and just looks at you for a second. Something in his face softens immediately.

“Hey, mama,” he murmurs under his breath.

He moves quietly through the room, changing out of his scrubs, washing up in the bathroom with the light kept low, doing everything on autopilot so he doesn’t wake you.

When he finally settles on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips just slightly.

You shift a little in your sleep but don’t wake.

Michael lets out a slow breath.

Then his hand lifts and comes to rest over the curve of your stomach.

“…alright,” he murmurs softly. “Night shift check-in.”

His thumb moves in slow, absent circles through the fabric of your shirt.

“You gave your mom a break today,” he continues quietly. “Appreciate that.” His mouth tilts just a little at the corner.

“And just so we’re clear,” he adds under his breath, “I’m still overruling  the bird middle names.”

The room settles back into that deep, late-night quiet.

Michael glances toward your nightstand and i’m sees your iPad sitting there. He hesitates for a second then he reaches over and picks it up.

The screen lights up his face as he unlocks it, thumb moving with quiet familiarity until he finds what he’s looking for.

“You’re starting early,” he murmurs.

He props the iPad carefully on the mattress near your stomach, volume turned low just enough to hear in the quiet room.

The opening music of Rio begins to play softly.

Michael watches the screen for a second, then looks back down at your stomach, his hand still resting there.

“That damn bird.” he chuckles quietly as he reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp.

Within minutes, his breathing evens out beside you.

——

You’re in the living room, half-paying attention to whatever’s on the TV while you scroll on your phone, one hand resting low on your stomach out of habit more than anything.

You shift a little on the couch frowning slightly, “…okay.”

It’s not pain.. maybe more so pressure, low and weird and different enough to make you sit up a little straighter.

Your hand slides slowly over your stomach, thumb brushing absentminded circles.

You push yourself carefully to your feet slow and start toward the kitchen for more water.

You make it maybe four steps, then warmth. All at once, almost like you peed yourself. 

You freeze  and looked down, “…oh.”

There’s a very brief second where your brain tries to convince you it’s something else.

“Oh my God.” You grab your phone off the counter immediately and hit Michael’s contact.

He answers fast. Too fast.

“Hey, sweetheart—”

“Michael.”

He goes alert right away. You can hear it in the way his voice sharpens just a little, “yeah?”

You look down again, like the situation might have changed in the last two seconds.

“I think my water just broke.”

There’s movement on his end immediately, “Okay,” he says, calm but very focused now. “Okay. Are you having contractions yet?”

You press your hand low on your stomach, thinking. “…not really? It just feels kinda tight. And there was pressure before.”

“Alright.” He’s already moving, you can hear it. “I’m on my way. Sit down if you can, okay? Don’t start trying to do anything.”

You huff softly, easing yourself back onto the couch, “Michael, I’m not in any type of condition to run a marathon right now.”

There’s a small pause.

Your fingers curl slightly into the couch cushion, “Michael?”

“Yeah?”

You swallow, “I think it’s actually happening.”

His voice softens just a little. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I think it is too.”

—

Michael gets to the apartment in twelve minutes.

You hear his keys in the lock just as another wave tightens low in your stomach sharper this time, enough to make you brace your hand on the arm of the couch and breathe through your nose.

The door opens fast, and Michael is already moving the second he sees you.

“…okay,” he says immediately, already moving toward you. “Yeah, we’re not waiting.”

You shoot him a look mid-breath, “No shit.”

Another wave rolls through before he can answer, stronger this time, and your fingers curl hard against the arm rest.

Michael’s right there, one hand steady at your back.

“Breathe, baby—”

“Michael,” you grit out, eyes squeezed shut, “shut the fuck up.”

He presses his lips together so fast it’s almost impressive, “…copy that,” he mutters.

The contraction peaks, it’s tight, mean, pulling a strained breath from your chest.

It finally eases.

You straighten slowly, already breathing heavier than before, “…okay,” you say. “…we need to go. Like— now.”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Yeah, I’m way ahead of you.”

—

Michael is driving like a man who’s trying to evade the police, one hand tight on the wheel, the other hovering like he doesn’t know whether to hold your hand or keep both hands on the wheel.

You’re gripping the door handle. Another contraction builds fast and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Oh my God—”

Michael’s head snaps toward you for half a second, “What? What’s wrong?”

“I—” you breathe, then freeze as pressure drops low and heavy in your pelvis. 

“…Michael.”

His stomach drops.

“What?”

You look at him, mildly horrified. “I think I have to push.”

The car goes dead silent for half a second.

“…you what?”

“I have to push,” you repeat, sharper this time as another contraction slams into you.

Michael presses harder on the gas.

“Okay. Okay, no, we’re almost there.”

“Michael,” you snap, breath hitching, “I am so serious right now.”

“I know, I know—”

—

Everything starts moving faster the second you get through the doors.

A nurse barely gets your name before another contraction hits and you double forward slightly on the bed, gripping the rails.

“I think I have to push,” you say again, breath tight.

The OB at the foot of the bed glances up quickly, “It’s probably just pressure—”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head hard. “No, I have to push.”

“Okay mama, I know it hurts but don’t push yet.” the doctor starts quickly.

You shoot her a look that could kill “Thanks for your opinion,” you breathe, voice strained, “but I feel like I’m gonna shit myself.”

—

Another contraction builds hard and heavy, and this time when it hits, your whole body bears down before you can even think about it.

“Okay, that’s it,” the OB says calmly. “Go ahead and push with the next one.”

When the next contraction comes, you don’t hesitate, you can’t hesitate. You push, hard.

The room narrows down to pressure, heat, Michael’s hand in yours and the L&D doctor’s calm voice at the foot of the bed.

“Good, good just like that.”

You fall back against the pillows, breathing hard.

“Again with the next one,” she says gently.

Michael brushes damp hair back from your forehead without even thinking about it, “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here.” he murmurs.

The next contraction hits.

You push again.

“Almost there,” the OB says.

Michael’s grip tightens slightly around your hand, “You’ve got this.”

One more push.

And then a sharp, sudden release, followed immediately by a strong, loud cry filling the room.

The sound cuts straight through the tension.

Michael’s head drops forward, relief hitting him so fast it almost makes his knees weak.

You’re breathing hard, exhausted, chest rising and falling quickly as the weight of the last few minutes finally catches up to you.

“…you did it,” he murmurs, voice rough.

At the foot of the bed, the team moves smoothly, efficiently.

“Alright, we’re just going to give you a little medication here”

Michael’s head lifts, Doctor brain clicking on instantly. His eyes flick down noticing there’s more blood than there should be.

His stomach drops, “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’s going on?”

Your eyes flutter toward him, tired and a little unfocused.

“…baby okay?” you mumble.

His attention snaps back to you immediately, “Yeah,” he says softly, leaning closer. “Yeah, baby’s good. You did perfect.”

You breathe out slowly, eyes drifting shut again for a second.

At the foot of the bed, movement picks up. More gauze, more pressure,

the doctor’s voice is still controlled, but quicker now.

“Let’s start another line. I want pit running wide open.”

Michael knows that tone, he doesn’t like it, “how’s her uterus?” he asks, quieter now.

The OB presses firmly at your abdomen.

There’s a beat.

“…boggy,” she says.

Michael goes very still.

“Okay,” the OB says, still calm but sharper now. “We’re calling it. Postpartum hemorrhage.”

You stir slightly at the sudden activity, brow pulling faintly, “Michael?”

He’s at your side instantly, “I’m right here,” he says, voice steady even though his pulse is pounding.

“Pressure’s dropping,” a nurse says from the monitor.

Michael’s chest tightens.

“Let’s get blood in the room,” the OB orders.

A hand touches his shoulder gently.

“Dr. Robby…”

He doesn’t look away from you, “I’m staying.”

The OB meets his eyes for one brief second.

“Michael,” she says quietly, “we need to work.”

Your eyes are half-lidded now, unfocused in a way that makes something cold crawl down his spine.

“…hey,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “Stay with me, okay?”

Every instinct in him is screaming not to move.

But another part of him, the doctor part that knows exactly how bad this is getting, understands.

———

In the hallway Michael paces back and forth, everything seeming to be a blur as he tries to look through the blinds into the room.

After what feels like an eternity one of the doctors hesitates before making her way into the hallway. 

He knows before they say anything.

“I’m so sorry.”

The world goes very, very quiet.

“…no,” Michael says automatically.

“I’m so sorry, Michael. We did everything we could.”

His ears ring and for a second, he genuinely thinks he might pass out.

“…no,” he repeats, softer this time.

—

Michael doesn’t remember sitting down. In fact, he doesn’t even remember  walking back into the room.

But suddenly he’s there and the room is too quiet now.

Staff moving gently instead of urgently.

You’re still.

Michael stops at the side of the bed like if he gets any closer, something permanent will happen.

His hand finds yours, cold is too strong a word but you’re not warm anymore either.

A nurse steps in, voice gentle, “Dr. Robby?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Michael,” she tries again, softer.

He turns slowly and that’s when he sees her. The baby, swaddled tight, tiny and alive. 

“Congratulations, Daddy,” the nurse says gently. “It’s a girl.”

His arms lift automatically when she steps closer and the baby is placed carefully against his chest.

It’s only then when Michael finally breaks.

His chin drops to the top of her tiny head, shoulders shaking as the first sob tears out of his chest before he can stop it.

“My Zara Jewel…” he chokes softly. “Oh, your mommy would’ve loved you.”

His arms tighten around her just a little.

And for the first time since the doors closed Michael Robinavitch cries.

—

It’s been 6 months since Michael lost not only the love of his life but the mother of his daughter, everything’s been going as well as it can be but now it’s 2:07 in the morning and Zara Jewel is not having a good night.

Michael has already:

Fed her, burped her, changed her, walked the apartment twice and nothing. She is still fussy.

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs tiredly, lifting her carefully from the crib.

She settles against his chest, still squirmy, little face scrunched tight.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’ve got big feelings tonight.”

He sinks onto the couch, exhausted in that deep, bone-tired way that never really ever leaves anymore, gently rocking her back and forth.

Michael reaches for the remote.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Desperate times.”

Bluey goes on first but nothing, Zara continues to complain.

“…tough crowd,” he sighs.

Next attempt.

Ms. Rachel, still nothing.

Michael leans his head back against the couch for a second, eyes closing briefly.

Then, something nudges at the back of his mind. His eyes open slowly, looks at the TV, then down at his beautiful babygirl, Zara.

“…hang on,” he murmurs.

He switches it.

The bright opening music of Rio fills the living room.

And slowly… Zara goes still.

The fussing fades as her tiny body relaxes against his chest.

Michael freezes.

His throat tightens almost instantly, “Yeah,” he whispers, voice rough.

His thumb brushes gently over her back as he rocks her slowly in the dim light, “Your mom had good taste, huh?”

Zara makes a small, sleepy sound and finally she settles.

Michael presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, eyes burning just a little.

Still rocking.

Still holding on.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Is It Bad?

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Part one    Part two    Part three

Tw: Stroke recovery, hospitals, emotional distress, caregiver burnout

It’s been a week.

The hospital hasn’t changed.

Same lights. Same low hum from machines. Same too-cold air that never really warms up no matter how many blankets they give you.

But Michael has.

He’s in the chair beside your bed, the same chair he’s basically lived in since the surgery. There’s stubble along his jaw now, darker than usual, and his hair is slightly out of place like he’s been running his hands through it too much and forgetting to fix it after. 

His hand is wrapped around yours. Not tight, just… there. Like he doesn’t trust the world not to take you again if he lets go.

Your eyes open slowly. The ceiling comes into focus first. Then the blur of the room. Then him.

Michael.

The second your gaze actually lands on his face, something in his expression breaks open.

“Hey,” he says immediately, voice rough but soft at the same time. “Hey, hi.”

Your throat feels thick when you try to answer. You know what you want to say. It’s just your mouth… doesn’t cooperate the way it used to.

A small sound slips out anyway.

Michael leans closer right away, like he’s trying to meet you halfway instead of pushing you to keep up.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to rush.”

You swallow.

Your fingers move slow, heavy and they curl around his hand.

It’s weak, but it’s yours.

Michael exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Good. That’s good.”

You try to smile.

It’s uneven. Smaller than you mean it to be, but Michael? He doesn’t care.

His eyes go a little glassy anyway.

“Hi,” he says again, quieter now. “Hi, baby.”

You want to say his name.

It’s right there on your tongue. Familiar. Easy in your head. Your lips part, “Mi…” you manage.

Michael goes completely still.

You push through the thickness in your tongue, slower this time, “…chael.”It comes out slurred. Not clean. But it’s him.

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his face crumples in the smallest, most controlled way like he’s trying really hard not to completely lose it in front of you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pressing his forehead lightly against your hand. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Your chest tightens fast after that.

Emotion hits you harder than it used to sudden and overwhelming, like your body doesn’t know how to regulate it yet. Your eyes fill before you can stop them.

Michael notices immediately.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You shake your head a little, frustrated at yourself more than anything.

The nurse comes in not long after, and then Dana, and then neuro.

The questions are simple:

“Can you follow my finger?”

“Can you squeeze my hands?”

“Do you know where you are?”

You understand it, you understand all of it but despite your best efforts, your mouth just lags behind your brain now.

Longer sentences trip you up the most. You start them fine, then somewhere in the middle everything gets tangled and your chest tightens with frustration.

Michael adjusts without being told. He stops asking you complicated things, he gives you time… he waits.

Even when it’s clearly killing him.

Later, in the hallway, the neurologist is careful but honest.

Michael stands there taking it like a man who already knows the answer and is just waiting to hear it out loud from a professional. 

“We have evidence of hypoxic injury,” the neurologist says gently. “Six minutes is… significant.”

Michael’s jaw tightens, “She recognized me,” he says quietly. “She said my name. That has to mean something, t-that she’s on the right track, right Doc?”

“That’s very encouraging,” the neurologist replies. “But not necessarily, you should prepare for some lasting changes.”

The hallway goes very still.

Michael swallows, “…Is she going to be the same?”

The neurologist doesn’t lie, “She is.. unlikely to return fully to her previous self.”

Michael doesn’t move for a second.

Then, softly like this is the part that really matters, “Will she know me?”

“She does now,” the neurologist says. “And that’s a very good sign. But recovery from this kind of injury takes time. Months. Sometimes longer.”

Michael nods once.

By the time Jack finds him later, Michael looks like he’s running on fumes and stubbornness.

They end up alone in one of the quiet consult rooms.

Jack keeps his voice low, “Dana said she’s awake.”

Michael lets out a breath that sounds more tired than relieved, “Yeah,” he says. “She is.”

Silence stretches for a second.

Then Michael’s voice cracks, “She tries to talk and it’s just” he stops, frustrated. “It’s delayed. Everything’s delayed.”

Michael scrubs a hand down his face, “She looks at me like she’s there,” he says hoarsely. “Like she knows exactly what she wants to say it’s just her mouth just won’t cooperate.”

Jack leans forward slightly, “That doesn’t mean she’s gone.”

Michael lets out a rough laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob.

And then it slips out.

Quiet. Broken.

“Is it bad that I wish she just died?”

That makes the room go very still.

Michael’s breathing gets shaky immediately after, like he hates himself for even saying it.

“I know it’s fucked up,” he rushes out, voice cracking. “But she’s not the same woman. It’s not fair, it’s not fair to me and not fair to her.”

Jack doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t judge.

He just says, gently but firmly:

“No. Not entirely fucked up.”

Michael looks up, eyes red.

“You love her,” he says. “You know what she’s like and this…” he exhales slowly, “…this isn’t her. You’re just wishing she didn’t have to suffer.”

Michael’s shoulders drop a fraction.

He looks wrecked, “I don’t want to think like that,” he whispers.

“You’re scared,” Jack says simply. “And you’re exhausted.”

Michael nods once, barely.

“…I just want her back.”

Jack’s voice softens, “I know.”

Michael doesn’t go back right away.

He stands outside your room for a second longer than he meant to, hand still on the door handle. His reflection stares back at him faintly in the glass. He takes one slow breath before he pushes the door open.

The room is dimmer than the hallway. Quieter, too. Just the steady rhythm of your monitor and the soft hum of the oxygen.

You’re awake, not fully alert but awake enough that your eyes move when he steps inside.

There’s a tiny delay, barely noticeable if someone wasn’t looking for it.

Michael notices it. Michael notices everything with you.

“Hey,” he says gently, like nothing in the world is wrong. Like he didn’t just fall apart in a consult room ten minutes ago. “You’re up.”

Your eyes stay on him.

He moves closer, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to overwhelm you just by existing too loudly in your space.

“I was just down the hall,” he tells you quietly, settling into the chair beside your bed. His hand finds yours automatically. “Didn’t go far.”

Your fingers shift in his grip.

Michael’s thumb presses lightly over your knuckles in response.

“You with me?” he asks softly.

You nod.

It takes a second longer than it should have.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a minute, neither of you says anything.

The quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. Full of things that don’t really fit into words right now.

You swallow, gathering yourself. Your lips part, “…Mi—” It sticks halfway out.

Frustration flashes across your face before you can stop it.

Michael sees it immediately.

“Hey,” he says quickly, voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to push right now.”

You shake your head, small but stubborn.

You try again, “Mi…chael.” It’s much clearer than earlier.

Something in his expression cracks again, just for a second, “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I’m right here.”

You shift on the bed, like you’re trying to get comfortable. It takes more effort than it should. Your brow furrows, irritation flickering fast and sharp.

Michael notices.

“Want help?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then nod.

He adjusts your pillow carefully, one hand still loosely around yours like he’s learned not to break contact unless he has to.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod again.

You open your mouth, clearly trying to form something longer this time. Your brows pinch in concentration.

“I… I—” you start, the sentence stalls out halfway.

You frown.

Try again.

“I w—was—”

Your tongue doesn’t cooperate. The words come out tangled, slower the longer the sentence gets.

Your breathing picks up a little.

“Hey,” Michael says gently. “Slow down. You’re okay.”

You shake your head harder this time, frustration rising fast and hot. Your chest feels tight, emotions spiking quicker than you expect,  like your body forgot how to ease into them gradually.

Tears sting your eyes out of nowhere and you make a small, broken sound.

Michael is already leaning forward, “Hey, hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

You drag in a shaky breath.

Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, like you’re trying to reset your brain manually.

When you open them again, you try something simpler, “…wa…ter,” you manage.

It comes out thick but understandable.

Michael’s face softens immediately.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. I got you.”

He reaches for the cup on the table, guiding the straw carefully toward your mouth.

You take a slow sip.

When he sets the cup back down, his hand returns to yours without thinking.

“I know it’s frustrating,” he says quietly.

Your fingers tighten weakly around his.

That delayed squeeze again.

Michael notices the difference immediately.

His eyes flick down, “…that’s stronger,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You blink at him.

Confused for a second.

Then you squeeze again, on purpose this time.

It’s still not full strength.

But it’s better.

Michael lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like relief.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Okay. I see you.”

Your mouth twitches into a half decent smile. 

—

Rehab starts the next day.

A speech therapist comes in first, bright-eyed but gentle, clipboard tucked against her chest. She introduces herself slowly, like she already knows processing takes you a second longer now.

Michael stays in the chair beside you.

The therapist starts simple.

Single words.

Short sounds.

You know every answer in your head.

Your mouth just keeps lagging behind.

Some words come out clean enough whereas some don’t, longer ones trip you up halfway through.

Your frustration builds faster than it used to. You can feel it happening, that sharp spike in your chest that doesn’t give you much warning.

Your eyes burn.

Michael notices immediately.

He just shifts a little closer, his thumb brushing slow circles over your hand under the edge of the blanket.

You push through the next word. It comes out slurred but understandable.

The therapist smiles, genuine.

“Good,” she says. “That was really good.”

Michael’s shoulders loosen just a fraction after hearing her say those words.

Later, after she leaves, you look at him, like you really look at him.

There are new lines around his eyes that weren’t there before.

You open your mouth carefully, “…tired,” you say.

It’s slow.

Michael huffs out the smallest breath of surprised laughter.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Little bit.”

Your lips twitch again.

And for the first time since the restaurant… since the ambulance… since the white lights and the flatline…

Something in the room feels like it might actually be moving forward.

—

The progress isn’t easy. Some days your speech flows easier, some days it trips over itself again and leaves you blinking back angry tears.

Sometimes you can finish a full sentence if you take your time, sometimes your brain stalls halfway through and you have to start over.

Michael learns the rhythm right along with you. He stops jumping in too fast, he stops finishing your words unless you actually look at him for help. He starts giving you space to fight through it yourself.

One night, about two weeks later, you manage:

“…I… want… go… home.”

It takes effort and it’s not perfect but it’s a full thought.

Michael goes very still beside you, “Yeah,” he says softly. “We’re working on that.”

Your fingers curl around his again, stronger than before and this time, when he squeezes back, it feels a little less like everything is slipping through his hands.

-

One Year Later,

The doors slide open and warm air hits you almost immediately.

Honolulu.

You pause for half a second on the sidewalk outside the airport, just taking it in. The noise, the heat, the way everything already feels different from home.

Michael slows beside you without thinking.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. It takes a second, but it comes, “Yeah,” you say, a little softer than you used to sound. “Just… warm.”

He huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah. This place will do that.”

You start walking again, suitcase rolling behind you. Your pace is steady, yours and Michael falls into step beside you automatically.

You notice.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, giving him a look.

His hands lift in easy surrender. “I know.”

The sidewalk opens up ahead, palm trees visible past the parking lanes. You take a slow breath, shoulders finally starting to loosen.

“You tired?” Michael asks after a minute.

You think about it, “…Little,” you admit.

He nods once. “Rental shuttle’s up ahead. No rush.”

You walk in comfortable quiet for a few steps.

Then without thinking, you start humming.

Soft. Absentminded.

Michael stops.

You take another step before realizing he’s not next to you anymore. You glance back.

“What?” His expression has gone soft in that quiet way of his.

“You were humming,” he says.

You blink, “Oh.” you hadn’t even noticed.

Something shifts in his face small, but real, before he steps forward again, shoulder brushing yours as you keep walking.

Neither of you makes a big deal out of it.

The sun is warm. The air is easy. And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel tight when you breathe.

You adjust your grip on your suitcase and glance up at him.

Then, slow but clear, you say:

“I don’t know if you knew this Michael, but tickets… were in fact cheaper in October.”

Michael stops mid-step.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then he smiles soft, a little wrecked and leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours.

“I know,” he murmurs.

And this time… moving forward doesn’t feel so scary.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

PSA

I’ve had some people coming to me with complaints and I wanted to address them just so everyone is on the same page.

No, I do not use ChatGPT or any other AI apps/software to write my stories. I will admit though that I do use ChatGPT to help come up with titles and TW lists for those stories ( I’ve had issues with missing TWs that caused emotional distress to some people and I don’t want a repeat) as well as making sure everything is 100% accurate. Example: with The Pitt

I am not a doctor/Nurse/EMT or anything, I do not have medical knowledge so I use google to look stuff up as well as use GPT and other forms of the internet

With Top Gun: Maverick, I know nothing about the Navy or the fighter jets, the lingo they use so I use it for that to do right by people who actually have these jobs.

Now when I find a title for the fics and the TW list and ChatGPT adds them to the story, I just re-copy and paste it into Tumblr and I post it. I don’t double check to see if it changed anything because I never felt the need to. However, people are upset with the use of AI in general so I will stop using it, I’m sorry and I won’t use anything of the sorts again.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Six Minutes

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Part One    Part Two Part four

A/N: I’m publishing this on my last day in Hawaii and I’m very sad. Keep that in mind when reading! 

Tw: medical emergency, stroke complications, emergency surgery, hospital scenes, cardiac arrest, CPR, intense medical procedures, ventilator/life support, emotional distress

“One, two, three, four—”

Hands. Gloves. The squeak of rubber against skin. Someone’s breath through a mask. A clipped command.

“Switch.”

The weight changes. The rhythm doesn’t.

Your chest caves and rises and caves again, each compression a deliberate theft of air and a stubborn insistence on life.

There’s a flat, continuous tone that slices through everything. It isn’t a beep. It isn’t a rhythm.

It’s nothing.

“Epinephrine in,” someone says. Calm. Too calm. Like they can’t afford anything else.

A nurse leans close, voice steady in your ear as if you’re just refusing to cooperate. As if you might listen if she says it right.

“Stay with us, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Not patient. Not twenty-seven-year-old female.

Sweetheart.

The surgeon’s face is somewhere above you, partially obscured by lights and shields and urgency. You can’t fully see him, but you can feel the room bending around his authority. His voice cuts through the counting, through the suction hum, through the scrape of metal instruments being rearranged and set aside.

“Continue compressions. Don’t stop.”

The suction runs low, constant. Someone murmurs numbers—blood pressure, oxygen, end-tidal CO₂—terms you understand in a distant, fogged way, like you’re hearing them through water.

“End-tidal’s low.”

“Keep going.”

Your body is there.

You’re there.

You can hear them. You can feel them.

But you can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t tell anyone that you’re still here under all of this.

“One, two, three—”

“Time of arrest?” a voice asks.

A nurse answers immediately. “Nineteen forty-two.”

That time stamps itself into the air like a verdict.

Nineteen forty-two.

Michael is somewhere in the hospital believing you’re stable.

You know that in the strangest way, like your mind clings to it because it’s the only thing that feels safe—Michael’s hand in yours, Michael’s voice in your ear, Michael promising he’s right there.

Someone checks your pupils. Fingers pry your eyelids open, quick and practiced.

“Sluggish.”

“Expected,” the surgeon says, and the word expected is its own kind of terror.

“Pulse check in ten.”

Counting resumes, relentless.

“—eight, nine, ten—”

“Stop compressions.”

The pressure lifts.

A moment of weightless silence.

Hands at your neck. Your groin. Searching.

“Nothing,” someone says, too quickly.

“Asystole,” another confirms, and it sounds clinical and final.

The tone continues—flat, unyielding.

“Resume compressions.”

The weight slams down again.

“One, two, three—”

“Epi time?” a nurse asks.

“Give it,” the surgeon replies.

The medication is pushed. You feel nothing. Your body is a map of wires and lines and foreign air.

“Two minutes,” someone calls.

Two minutes becomes a cliff.

Then four.

Then the surgeon says, without raising his voice, “Again.”

Again is a command and a refusal.

At four minutes someone shifts, hesitating just long enough to be human.

“Should we consider—”

“No,” the surgeon cuts in, sharp now. “Not yet. Keep going.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to tell them you can hear them saying not yet like your life is a decision they’re negotiating.

“Five minutes down,” a nurse announces.

The room tightens.

The surgeon’s shoulders square as if he can hold the ceiling up through sheer will.

“Pulse check.”

Compressions stop.

Hands search.

A pause long enough to break your soul.

“Wait,” someone says suddenly.

The surgeon leans in. “What do you have?”

“There—” a nurse says, voice pitched higher now, surprised. “There’s something. It’s— it’s faint.”

The monitor flickers.

Not a steady rhythm. Not clean. Not reassuring.

But not nothing.

“Check pulse,” the surgeon orders, and the whole room seems to hold its breath.

“Thread-like,” someone replies. “Weak but present.”

A sound leaves the room that isn’t relief, not quite. More like a release of pressure so sudden it makes everyone sway.

“ROSC,” the surgeon says, immediate and clipped. “Don’t celebrate. Stabilize. Now.”

They move faster, voices stacking.

“Pressure’s low—start pressors.”

“Vent settings—”

“Get blood gases.”

“Give me another line.”

Your chest isn’t being crushed anymore, but your body feels wrecked, wrong, like you’ve been dragged back from the edge by the collar of your gown.

Six minutes.

You don’t know it yet, but you feel the echo of that time in your bones.

The surgeon’s voice is quieter when he says it, but it lands heavier than anything else.

“We don’t know what six minutes did.”

⸻

Michael sits in a room that feels too small to hold his lungs.

It’s a consultation room—windowless, sterile, with a table no one touches and chairs that are all wrong for grief. The air is stale, recycled, the kind of air that never goes outside.

Langdon is seated across from him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying to a god he doesn’t believe in.

McKay stands by the wall, arms folded tight, eyes fixed on the floor like he can keep the universe from shifting if he refuses to look up.

Javadi hovers near the door, close enough to block it without making it feel like a cage.

Whitaker sits quietly, expression unreadable but present—so present it’s almost painful.

King is perched at the edge of a chair, knuckles white around a paper cup she hasn’t sipped.

Abbott leans against the wall, the kind of solid presence that doesn’t ask anything of you.

Their shifts ended.

They didn’t leave anyway.

Michael’s hands are shaking. He’s tried to hide it twice and given up. There’s no point pretending he’s fine when the only thing keeping him upright is oxygen and stubbornness.

“They’d tell us if something went wrong,” he says again, voice rough. He’s said it before—more statement than question. More prayer than logic.

Langdon nods once. “They would.”

Michael swallows hard. His throat burns like he’s swallowed sand.

The door opens.

Everyone in the room stands at the same time, instinctive, as if their bodies know before their minds do.

The surgeon steps inside.

His face is controlled, composed in that way doctors learn when they’ve had to deliver too many unspeakable truths. But there’s something in his eyes—fatigue and gravity—that makes Michael’s stomach drop.

Michael takes one step forward without thinking. “Is she—”

The surgeon doesn’t make him wait.

“She coded.”

The room goes still.

Not quiet—still. Like someone hit pause on every living thing.

Michael’s mouth opens. No sound comes out.

“But we got her back,” the surgeon continues, carefully. “We achieved return of spontaneous circulation.”

For a single heartbeat, hope tries to surge.

Then the surgeon adds, “She was down for approximately six minutes.”

Six.

Michael’s knees soften like the number hit him in the back of the legs.

“We won’t know the extent of neurological injury until she wakes up,” the surgeon says. His tone is gentle without being false. “And I need you to understand—”

Michael shakes his head, barely there. “No—”

“She may not be the same.”

The sentence lands like a gunshot.

Michael makes a sound that is not a sob, not a scream—something smaller and worse, like his body is trying to fold in on itself to protect whatever is left inside him.

He sits down hard, as if his legs simply stop working. His hands fly to his face, palms pressing into his eyes like he can push the world away with enough force.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no—”

Langdon moves first, crouching in front of him, steadying his elbows so he doesn’t collapse entirely.

McKay steps closer, hand hovering before landing on Michael’s shoulder with awkward certainty.

Javadi kneels beside Langdon, voice low. “Michael—”

Whitaker says nothing. He just sits nearer, a quiet anchor in the room’s spin.

King’s eyes shine, jaw clenched like she’s holding back a reaction she can’t afford.

Abbott stays at the wall, watching like he’s ready to catch Michael if he falls apart completely.

Michael drags in air like it’s not enough. Like oxygen isn’t designed for this kind of pain.

“She’s the love of my life,” he says suddenly, voice cracked and raw. Like it’s evidence. Like he can hand it to the surgeon and make it matter. “She— she’s—”

His words fracture, break apart the way hers did.

The surgeon’s expression softens further. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Michael shakes his head, hands still covering his face. “I should’ve— I should’ve seen it sooner. I—”

Javadi touches his forearm gently. “Don’t do that.”

But Michael is already there, spiraling down familiar blame.

“I’m a doctor,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to— I’m supposed to—”

Langdon’s voice is steady. “You did everything right.”

The surgeon clears his throat softly, drawing their attention back.

“She’s being transferred to recovery now,” he says. “She’s intubated. Sedated. We’re supporting her breathing. We need to keep her stable.”

Michael lifts his head slightly, eyes red, unfocused. “Can I— can I see her?”

“In a few minutes,” the surgeon answers. “We’ll bring you.”

Michael nods once, the motion small and broken.

No one in that room says it’ll be okay.

Because they don’t know.

⸻

Recovery smells like plastic and antiseptic and something that shouldn’t belong to a human body.

When they finally open the door for Michael, he steps inside like he’s entering a different world.

You are there.

But you look… not like you.

The first thing he sees is the ventilator. The tubing. The rise and fall of your chest that isn’t entirely yours. A machine breathes in and out in your place, steady, mechanical, indifferent.

Your face is pale, slightly swollen. There are bandages at your head. Tape. Lines. A tangle of monitors that blink and hum as if they’re keeping time for the rest of your life.

Michael stops short, as if his body can’t process the sight in one piece.

For a second he just stands there, hands at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Then he moves.

Slowly. Carefully. Like you might shatter.

He takes the chair by your bed, dragging it as close as it will go until his knees almost touch the frame. He reaches for your hand with both of his, enclosing it gently like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you.

Your skin is warm.

That fact nearly breaks him all over again.

He bows his head, pressing his forehead to your knuckles.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s me.”

Your monitor continues its steady rhythm.

Your chest rises and falls to the machine.

Michael’s thumb rubs a slow circle over your knuckles, the exact way he did in the ICU when you couldn’t speak, when you squeezed his hand instead.

“I’m here,” he says softly, and the words are a reflex now, a prayer he can’t stop repeating. “I’m right here.”

No one else comes in.

Outside the door, the others wait. They keep their distance like they understand this belongs to him alone.

Michael stays.

And then, because silence would swallow him whole, he starts to talk.

⸻

“I keep thinking about our first date,” he murmurs, voice barely above the ventilator’s hiss. “I didn’t even want to go.”

He gives a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“I told myself I was too tired. That I’d had a long shift. That it was stupid. That… it wasn’t worth it.”

His gaze drifts to your face. The tape at your mouth. The tube that makes you look like you’re asleep in the wrong kind of way.

“I was wrong,” he says quietly. “About everything.”

He squeezes your hand carefully, like he’s testing whether warmth is real.

“You were late,” he continues, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “And I was pissed. I was sitting there like an idiot, pretending I wasn’t checking the door every two seconds.”

He swallows.

“And then you walked in. Like you owned the place. Like you weren’t sorry at all.”

His voice softens, thick with memory.

“You looked at me and said—” he pauses, eyes closing as if he can hear it, “—‘You look like you’re thinking too hard.’”

He laughs again, quieter. “And you were right. You were always right about that.”

Michael’s thumb keeps moving, steady, rhythmic.

“You ordered first,” he says. “Without even looking at the menu. Like you’d already decided before you got there. I remember thinking… who does that? Who walks through life like that?”

His smile fades.

“You do,” he whispers. “You did.”

The ventilator hisses.

The monitor blinks.

Michael’s voice drops, almost reverent.

“And then you started talking about Hawaii. Like it was inevitable. Like it wasn’t ridiculous. Like we weren’t two strangers on a first date and you weren’t already picturing the ocean.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening.

“We were supposed to go,” he says, and now the words crack. “We were supposed to go in October.”

His eyes lift to the ceiling, as if looking there will stop the ache in his throat.

“You were right about the flights being cheaper,” he whispers. “You were right about everything.”

Michael’s grip tightens for half a second before he forces himself to loosen it again, careful.

“I asked you to be my girlfriend in the stupidest way,” he says after a moment, voice shaking less, like he’s rebuilding himself word by word. “Do you remember that?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“I rehearsed it,” he admits quietly. “Three times. In my car. Like a teenager.”

A soft exhale leaves him, something close to a laugh.

“And then you opened the door and you were wearing that sweatshirt you always wear when you don’t feel like trying, and you looked at me like I was insane, and I forgot everything.”

He looks at your face again, eyes burning.

“I said—” he pauses, swallowing, “—I said, ‘Do you wanna… be my girlfriend or whatever?’”

His voice breaks on the last word.

“You laughed,” he whispers. “You laughed right in my face. And then you said yes before I even finished. You said, ‘Michael, I’ve been your girlfriend.’”

He presses his lips to your knuckles, barely a touch.

“I don’t know how I got you,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how you stayed.”

His breathing becomes uneven. The guilt that has been circling him all day finally sinks its teeth in again.

“I should’ve seen it,” he whispers. “I should’ve—”

He stares down at your hand as if it can answer him.

“I saw the stutter,” he says, voice low and sick with regret. “I saw you miss words. I saw you try to smile it off. And I— I told myself it was nothing. I told myself you were tired. I told myself—”

His throat tightens. He shakes his head hard once, as if he can physically dislodge the thought.

“I’m a doctor,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to see it.”

His thumb stops moving. His hand trembles.

“I waited too long,” he says, and now his voice breaks fully. “And you— you were scared and you couldn’t talk and you looked at me like I was the only thing you could hold onto and I—”

He drops his head, forehead pressing into your hand again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

The words come out like a confession. Like a plea. Like a punishment he can’t stop giving himself.

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch it sooner,” he says again, quieter. “I’m sorry you had to feel it. I’m sorry you had to watch your own face stop listening to you.”

His breath shakes.

“I’m sorry you had to say my name like it hurt,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have had to fight for that.”

The ventilator continues, indifferent.

Michael’s voice turns desperate, small.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Please come back to me.”

He lifts his head, eyes red, fixed on your face like he can will you awake.

“I don’t care if you’re angry,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t care if you can’t talk for a while. I don’t care if—”

He stops. Swallows.

Because he does care.

He cares so much it’s unbearable.

“I just—” he whispers, voice cracking, “—I need you. I need you here.”

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing against your skin like it’s oxygen.

“You don’t get to leave me like this,” he says, barely audible. “Not after you— not after you fought to say my name.”

Silence.

Machines.

Time.

Michael’s shoulders rise and fall slowly, like he’s trying to force his body to stay calm for you.

Outside, someone passes in the hallway. A murmur of voices. A soft knock that never becomes an entrance.

Michael doesn’t look away from you.

He talks again, softer now, like he’s afraid volume might scare you farther away.

“My favorite moment,” he whispers, “isn’t even the big stuff.”

He smiles faintly, and it hurts to see.

“It’s the morning you stole my shirt and made coffee like you knew where everything was. Like you’d always lived there. Like my apartment was just… yours too.”

His thumb resumes its slow circle over your knuckles, automatic.

“You stood at the counter with messy hair and you were humming,” he says, voice thick with memory. “And I remember thinking—this is it. This is the thing. This is what people mean.”

He blinks, hard.

“I was going to tell you that tonight,” he admits quietly. “At dinner. I was going to tell you that you— you made my life feel like something I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”

His voice drops.

“And then you started stuttering.”

He closes his eyes.

“And I watched the moment change.”

Michael’s breath shudders.

“I’m here,” he whispers again, because he doesn’t know what else to say that won’t break him. “I’m right here.”

He sits like that for a long time.

Talking in small waves.

Remembering.

Apologizing.

Promising things he can’t guarantee.

Every so often a nurse slips in to check your vitals, your pupils, the numbers on the monitor. They don’t say much. Their faces stay neutral in the way hospital staff learn when families are breaking.

“It’s too early,” one of them says gently when Michael asks the question he can’t stop asking.

Too early.

The phrase becomes a refrain.

Too early to know.

Too early to tell.

Too early to say she’s okay.

Michael nods each time, jaw clenched tight like the only thing holding him together is the act of listening.

Then the door closes again.

And it’s just you and him and the ventilator.

Michael’s voice goes hoarse.

His eyes burn.

He leans forward, resting his forehead against your hand, his grip careful, reverent.

“Please,” he whispers into your knuckles, so softly it almost isn’t sound. “Please.”

Silence.

And then—

A movement.

So small it might not be real.

Michael freezes.

His entire body locks, breath catching hard in his chest.

He lifts his head slowly, eyes wide, staring at your hand like it’s a miracle he doesn’t trust.

His fingers adjust around yours, barely shifting, careful not to mistake his own movement for yours.

“Wait,” he whispers. “Wait—”

He holds still.

Perfectly still.

And then it happens again.

A second twitch.

Tiny. Faint. Almost nothing.

But not nothing.

Michael’s throat works like he’s trying to swallow his heart back down.

“Baby?” he whispers, voice shaking. “Baby, is that you?”

The ventilator hisses.

The monitor continues its steady rhythm.

Your face remains still.

And your hand—

Your hand twitches, just barely, once more—

Or maybe it doesn’t.

Michael doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

He just holds on.

And the room holds its breath with him.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Masked 

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

tw: medical emergency, stroke complications, emergency surgery, hospital scenes, cardiac arrest, intense medical procedures

Part one. Part three Part four

The white isn’t empty.

It’s loud.

It hums and whirs and clicks, fluorescent lights glaring down so harshly it feels like they’re drilling straight into your skull. The stretcher rattles beneath you as you’re maneuvered through doors and hallways, voices overlapping in a way that makes it impossible to track who’s speaking to you and who’s speaking about you.

You’re aware of hands on your body. Gentle, but firm. Purposeful.

“Slide her over.”

“On my count.”

The surface beneath you changes—harder, colder—and you flinch as the chill seeps through your clothes. Someone tucks a blanket around your shoulders anyway, like a reflex, like they remember you’re a person and not just a problem to solve.

Michael’s hand is gone.

That realization hits harder than anything else so far.

You turn your head instinctively, panic spiking sharp and sudden in your chest, a broken sound tearing out of your throat when you don’t see him beside you anymore. The noise echoes too loud in the room, wrong and unrecognizable even to you.

“Hey, hey—” a voice says, closer now. A woman’s face comes into view, masked but kind-eyed. “It’s okay. He’s right there.”

You follow her gaze.

Michael stands just beyond the line they won’t let him cross, hands shoved uselessly into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them if he’s not holding onto you. His face is carefully neutral, the way it gets when he’s working—but his eyes are locked on yours, intense, unblinking.

“I’m here,” he says again, louder now so it carries over the noise. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to nod.

You’re not sure it happens.

They slide something beneath your head. A strap goes across your chest—not tight, just enough to keep you still. You hate it anyway. The machine looms above you, massive and impersonal, the circular opening looking more like a mouth than a tunnel.

“CT scan,” someone says, like that explains everything. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

You want to ask how long. You want to ask why you feel like your head is full of cotton and static. You want to ask if this is going to stop.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing useful comes out.

Michael’s jaw tightens when he hears it. He takes a half-step forward before stopping himself, like he’s run into an invisible wall.

“You’re doing great,” he says quickly. “Just lie still. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

The table starts to move.

You’re swallowed by the machine inch by inch, the white narrowing into a tight circle above you. The noise starts—loud, mechanical, rhythmic. It vibrates through your bones.

Your heart races.

You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on Michael’s voice in your head, replaying it like a mantra. I’m here. I’m right here.

The scan feels like it lasts forever.

When they pull you back out, the world rushes in again all at once. Lights. Faces. Voices.

“Okay, that’s it.”

They unstrap you quickly, efficiently, already moving on to the next step before you can even process that the first one is over.

Michael’s there again almost immediately, hand finding yours like muscle memory, grip firm enough to remind you that you’re real.

“That’s done,” he says softly. “You did good.”

You look at him, searching his face for answers he won’t give you yet.

Dana appears at his shoulder, already reading images on a tablet, her expression focused but tight.

“CTA next,” she says. “We’re still in window.”

Michael nods once. “Okay.”

You’re wheeled again, this time into another room, another table. More instructions. Another IV—this one burning as it goes in, a sharp, uncomfortable heat spreading up your arm that makes you whimper despite yourself.

“I know,” Michael murmurs immediately. “I know.”

They ask you to lift your arms. To push against hands. To smile again.

You try.

Your face doesn’t cooperate.

Dana’s eyes flick to Michael’s for half a second. It’s enough. They both understand.

“She’s aphasic but following commands,” Dana says. “Let’s move.”

Time fractures after that.

You’re vaguely aware of consent forms being placed in front of Michael, of his pen hovering for just a fraction of a second before he signs anyway. You catch snippets of words—ischemic, candidate, risk, bleed—and none of them sound good.

Michael comes back to your side before they take you anywhere else.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching so he’s eye level with you now. “They’re going to give you some medication to help break up the clot. It might make you feel a little weird. That’s okay.”

You try to say his name.

You know it. You can feel it sitting right there, heavy and solid in your chest.

Your lips part.

Nothing.

Frustration wells up, hot and overwhelming, tears sliding sideways into your hairline as you shake your head helplessly.

Michael reaches up, brushing them away with his thumb.

“Hey,” he says, voice steady even as his eyes shine. “You don’t have to say anything. I know what you’re trying to tell me.”

Do you?

You’re not sure you even know what you’re trying to tell him anymore. That you’re scared. That you don’t want to be alone. That you don’t want this to be the thing that breaks your life in half.

They start the medication.

Your arm aches. Your head throbs. Fatigue crashes over you like a wave, heavy and disorienting. Keeping your eyes open feels like work now. Keeping track of where you are feels impossible.

Michael stays until they tell him he can’t.

“I’ll be right outside,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m not leaving.”

You cling to his hand until the last possible second, until a nurse gently pries your fingers loose.

“I’m here,” he repeats, even as they wheel you away. “I’m right here.”

The ICU is quieter.

Not silent—but controlled. Monitors beep softly, ventilators hiss, footsteps move with purpose instead of urgency. The lights are dimmer here, muted, like the world has been turned down a notch.

You drift in and out of sleep.

Sometimes you wake up and Michael is there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, jacket tossed over the arm, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. Sometimes it’s Dana, checking your pupils, your strength, your vitals.

Sometimes it’s no one, just the steady beep of machines and the weight of exhaustion pressing you back into the mattress.

When you wake again, it feels like hours have passed.

Your head hurts. A dull, constant ache that makes you nauseous if you move too much. Your mouth feels dry. Heavy.

Michael notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning forward. “You’re awake.”

You nod.

At least, you think you do.

He smiles a little, relief breaking through the tension in his face. “Good.”

He reaches for your hand again, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin.

“You’re in the ICU,” he explains gently, like he’s done this before. “They gave you medication to help with the stroke. You did really well.”

You watch his mouth move, understanding every word, every inflection.

You just can’t answer.

You try anyway.

Your lips tremble. Your throat tightens.

A sound comes out—small, broken, nothing like what you meant to say.

Michael’s smile falters for just a second before he schools it again.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk right now.”

But you want to.

God, you want to.

You squeeze his hand instead, fingers weak but determined. He notices, eyes widening slightly.

“Hey,” he says, hope creeping into his voice despite himself. “That’s better. That’s good.”

Is it?

You don’t know.

All you know is that the word you want—the one you need—is trapped somewhere inside you, and no matter how hard you push, it won’t come out.

And the fear that settles in your chest this time is quieter, heavier.

Because what if this is it?

What if this is how it stays?

——

Michael stays when the room settles again.

Not in the way people say it—he doesn’t hover, doesn’t pace, doesn’t talk just to fill the quiet. He just stays. In the chair pulled too close to your bed, knees angled toward you like his body knows where it belongs even when the rest of the world doesn’t.

The monitor beside you keeps time. A soft, steady beep. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once.

He notices every small thing.

The way your eyes track him when he moves.

The way your brow tightens when a new sound cuts through the quiet.

The way your fingers twitch when you’re tired but refusing to sleep.

“You’re doing okay,” he says softly, more for himself than for you. “They’re happy with where you’re at right now.”

Right now.

Not better. Not fine. Just… right now.

Dana comes in not long after, moving with that familiar controlled urgency, clipboard tucked against her side. Her gaze flicks from the monitor to your face, then to Michael.

“How’s she been?”

“Awake on and off,” Michael answers immediately. “Following commands. Grip’s a little stronger on the left. Still aphasic.”

Dana nods, stepping closer to you now. “Hey,” she says, voice gentler than you expect. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

You do. Slowly. Unevenly. But you do it.

“Good,” she says. “Now lift your eyebrows for me.”

You try. One side lags behind the other, but it moves more than it did earlier.

Dana glances at Michael again. This time there’s something like cautious relief in her eyes.

“That’s improvement,” she says. “Small, but real.”

Michael exhales, the sound shaky despite his attempt to keep it controlled.

Dana straightens. “We’ll keep monitoring closely overnight. Risk of swelling is still there, but for now… this is good.”

Good.

The word feels dangerous.

Dana leaves after a few more checks, promising to be nearby. The door clicks shut behind her, and the quiet returns—thicker now, heavier with everything she didn’t say.

Michael leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together like he’s afraid to grip too hard.

“You hear that?” he asks you gently. “You’re doing better than you were.”

You look at him.

You understand every word.

You just can’t answer.

Your throat tightens anyway, emotion swelling faster than your body can keep up with. Tears blur your vision, sliding down into your hair, soaking into the pillow beneath your head.

Michael’s on his feet instantly.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, one hand cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing carefully under your eye. “It’s okay. Cry if you need to. You don’t have to hold it together for me.”

You shake your head weakly, a frustrated sound clawing its way out of your chest. You try to speak—just one word, any word—but it fractures before it ever reaches your mouth.

Michael presses his forehead lightly to yours, grounding, familiar.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

You cling to that promise like it’s oxygen.

Sleep takes you in uneven pieces after that. You drift in and out, waking to nurses checking vitals, adjusting lines, murmuring reassurances. Each time you surface, Michael is there—sometimes dozing lightly in the chair, sometimes wide awake, watching you like he’s afraid to miss something important.

At some point, the light in the room changes.

Morning, maybe. Or late afternoon. Time doesn’t make sense anymore.

Your head still aches, but it’s quieter now. Duller. Less sharp. You feel… heavier. Like everything takes more effort than it should.

Michael notices you stirring and straightens immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly. “How’re you feeling?”

You consider the question carefully.

Scared.

Tired.

Frustrated.

Still here.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing.

Your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through the fear. You don’t look away this time. You keep your eyes on him, forcing yourself to try again.

A sound escapes—thin, broken, not enough.

Michael’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t finish anything for you.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.”

You close your eyes, breathing through it, concentrating on the shape of the word you want. You know it. You’ve said it a thousand times. It lives in your chest. In your bones.

You open your eyes again.

Your lips tremble.

“M—”

The sound is rough, dragged out, barely recognizable.

Michael stills completely.

You swallow, throat burning.

“My—”

The syllable collapses in on itself. You shake your head, tears spilling again as frustration claws its way up your spine.

Michael’s hand tightens around yours—not stopping you, just anchoring you.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this if it hurts.”

But you need to.

You draw in a breath, deeper this time, forcing air through lungs that feel too small.

“Mi…ch—”

Your voice cracks. Breaks.

You pause. Try again, slower. More deliberate. Like you’re pushing the word through molasses.

“M…Michael.”

It comes out fractured. Uneven. Wrong.

But it’s his name.

For a second, he doesn’t react at all.

Then his face crumples.

A sharp, broken sound leaves his chest as he presses his forehead against your hand, shoulders shaking as he lets himself cry—really cry—for the first time since this started.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You did that. You—you did that.”

He lifts his head, eyes red, smile trembling and impossibly wide all at once.

“You hear me?” he says softly, like he’s afraid the moment might disappear if he speaks too loudly. “You said my name.”

You don’t know how to answer him. The effort it took to push the word out has left you hollowed, exhausted down to your bones. Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. But the look on his face — the mix of awe and relief and disbelief — tells you everything you need to know.

Your fingers curl weakly around his.

He notices immediately.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding to himself like he’s cataloguing it. “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”

The nurse comes in not long after — drawn by the slight spike in your heart rate, by the subtle shift in the room that always seems to happen when something changes. She smiles when Michael explains what happened, careful not to overreact but clearly pleased.

“That’s a great sign,” she says, making a note. “Single-word output, intentional. That’s progress.”

Progress.

The word settles into the room like something fragile.

She runs through her checks again — pupils, grip, facial movement. Everything is measured, calm, methodical. There’s no rush now. No shouting. No alarms.

Michael answers questions automatically, slipping back into that familiar cadence without thinking, but his hand never leaves yours. Not once.

When the nurse leaves, the room feels different.

Not safe. Not fixed.

But… steadier.

Michael sits back down, still close, still angled toward you. He doesn’t ask you to repeat it. Doesn’t ask you to try another word. He just watches you breathe, watches the rise and fall of your chest like it’s something he needs to memorize.

“You don’t have to do anything else today,” he says softly. “That was more than enough.”

You believe him.

Sleep takes you in pieces after that — shallow at first, then deeper, heavier. You surface to the quiet hum of the ICU, to the gentle touch of hands checking vitals, adjusting lines, murmuring reassurances meant for people who might not understand them.

Each time you wake, Michael is there.

Sometimes sitting upright, alert despite the exhaustion carved into his face. Sometimes slouched slightly, eyes closed but never fully asleep, like he’s trained himself to wake at the smallest change in the room.

At some point, the light through the narrow window shifts.

The harsh white gives way to something softer. Pale gold. Late afternoon, maybe. Or early evening. Time has blurred into something abstract, measured only by vitals and footsteps and the steady beep beside your bed.

Michael notices you stirring before you even open your eyes.

“Hey,” he says immediately, leaning forward. “You with me?”

You nod.

He smiles — small, careful, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away.

“Speech therapy came by while you were out,” he tells you. “They’re gonna come back tomorrow. They think… they think you’ve got a really good chance.”

He says it like he’s afraid of the words.

“Especially after earlier.”

Earlier.

Your name for him. His name for you.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to try again. He just talks — low, steady, grounding — about things that don’t matter but somehow do. The weather outside. The awful coffee down the hall. The fact that Dana threatened to steal his chair if he didn’t go stretch his legs.

You listen. You rest.

Hours pass like that. The room remains calm. Your head still aches, but it’s dull now, manageable. Your body feels heavy, like gravity has increased just slightly and you’re learning how to exist under it.

Michael allows himself to breathe.

Not deeply. Not fully.

But enough.

At some point — you don’t know when — he squeezes your hand gently and says, “You did that, you know.”

You look at him.

“That word,” he continues quietly. “That was you. That was all you.”

There’s something close to pride in his voice. Something reverent.

And for the first time since the restaurant, since Hawaii and October and unfinished sentences, the future doesn’t feel completely unreachable.

Just… far away.

And fragile.

But there.

——

Michael’s phone buzzes once in his pocket.

He doesn’t reach for it right away. He glances at you first, like he’s checking whether the sound startled you, whether it pulled you too sharply out of whatever thin, careful calm you’ve settled into.

When you don’t react, he finally looks down. A message from Dana. Short.

I’m around. Call if anything changes.

He exhales slowly and tucks the phone away again.

“Everyone’s hovering,” he murmurs, half to himself. “You’ve got a whole team invested in you now.”

You watch his mouth move. You understand every word. You even feel a flicker of something like humor at the corners of your chest — the idea of being invested in, of being something people are watching instead of something that’s happening to you.

You try to smile.

It’s better than before. Not perfect. But better.

Michael notices immediately.

“There,” he says softly, like he’s afraid of jinxing it. “That’s better.”

He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t celebrate. Just files it away carefully, like he’s building a case for hope one tiny detail at a time.

The nurse comes back in for evening checks. Vitals first. Blood pressure cuff tightening around your arm, pulse oximeter clipped back onto your finger. She asks you to squeeze her hands again, to lift your eyebrows, to stick your tongue out.

You comply. Slowly. Unevenly. But you do it.

“Nice,” she says, genuinely pleased. “That’s holding.”

Holding.

Michael nods, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“She’s been stable,” he says. “No new deficits.”

“Good,” the nurse replies. “That’s what we want to see tonight.”

Tonight. There’s something grounding about that word. It implies tomorrow. It implies continuity.

After she leaves, Michael shifts in his chair, rolling his shoulders like he’s finally feeling how stiff they are. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though — just adjusts so he can keep holding it without leaning awkwardly over the bed.

“You hungry?” he asks softly. “They’ll probably clear you for something light soon.”

You consider the question seriously.

Your stomach feels… strange. Not exactly nauseous anymore. Just off. Heavy.

You shake your head.

“Okay,” he says easily. “That’s fine.”

He doesn’t push. He hasn’t pushed all day.

Time stretches again. The light outside fades further, the gold thinning into gray, then into something darker. The ICU doesn’t change much with nightfall — it’s always lit, always awake — but the sounds soften. Footsteps slow. Voices lower.

Michael talks less now. He seems content to sit in the quiet with you, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your knuckles.

You watch him instead.

The way his brow furrows when a monitor beeps differently than before.

The way his gaze snaps to your face every time you shift.

The way he hasn’t once looked truly relaxed — just less afraid.

At some point, your head starts to ache again.

Not sharply. Not like before.

Just… pressure.

It builds gradually, like someone’s tightening something from the inside. You frown, shifting against the pillow, trying to find a position that eases it.

Michael notices instantly.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes.

You try again, a little harder.

Still nothing.

Your brow furrows deeper, frustration bubbling up alongside the pressure in your head. You lift your free hand, gesture vaguely toward your temples, hoping he’ll understand.

He does.

“Headache?” he asks.

You nod.

His expression tightens — not alarmed, not yet — but alert.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “Okay. That can happen. You want me to grab the nurse?”

You hesitate. The ache pulses once, stronger.

You nod again.

Michael’s already reaching for the call button.

The nurse comes back quickly, asking questions in that steady, practiced tone. When did it start? Is it worse than before? Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?

Michael answers where you can’t, his voice precise, controlled.

“It’s new,” he says. “Pressure-like. She was comfortable earlier.”

The nurse nods, concern flickering across her face before she smooths it away. She checks your pupils again. Your grip. Your facial movement.

You can feel it now — the way something doesn’t quite line up the way it did an hour ago.

Michael feels it too.

The nurse straightens. “I’m going to get Dana.”

Michael’s jaw tightens.

Dana arrives fast. Too fast for this to be nothing.

She repeats the exam, her movements brisk but careful. You follow her finger with your eyes, squeeze her hands, try to smile again.

It’s slower this time.

Uneven.

Dana doesn’t comment. She doesn’t need to.

She looks at Michael.

“Let’s get another CT,” she says. “Now.”

The word now snaps the fragile calm in half.

Your heart rate spikes. The monitor betrays you with its sudden urgency.

You look at Michael, panic rising sharp and fast as the pressure in your head blooms into something heavier.

You try to say his name.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

Michael leans in close, forehead pressing briefly to yours, his voice steady despite the fear flaring behind his eyes.

“I’m here,” he says firmly. “I’ve got you. We’re going to figure this out.”

The bed starts moving again.

The doors swing open.

And the quiet you’d finally started to trust disappears as you’re rushed back toward the light—

hope still there, somewhere—

but suddenly fragile enough to shatter.

——

The second CT is quieter than the first.

Not because the room is calm — but because everyone already knows what they’re looking for.

You’re slid onto the table without ceremony, straps secured, head positioned with careful precision. The techs don’t chatter this time. No gentle explanations, no reassurances meant to soothe nerves. Just efficient movement and low, clipped communication that barely registers over the hum of the machine.

The pressure in your head is worse now.

Not sharp — not yet — but heavy. Like something is pressing outward from the inside, insistent, unrelenting. Your heart races in response, a frantic rhythm you can feel in your throat, in your ears.

“Stay still,” someone says softly.

You do. You don’t have the energy to fight anything anymore.

The scan runs.

Seconds stretch. The machine hums. The ceiling blurs.

When it stops, you’re pulled back out into the light — and for a brief moment, nothing happens. No one speaks. The tech’s eyes flick between the screen and your face, then back again.

His jaw tightens.

He zooms in.

Adjusts contrast.

Scrolls.

“That wasn’t visible before,” he says quietly.

Another tech steps closer. “It was masked.”

Masked.

The word lands somewhere deep in your chest, even though you don’t fully understand it.

Dana is there moments later, already pulling the images up on her tablet. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. She doesn’t need to.

Her eyes track across the screen once.

Then again, slower.

“There,” she says, tapping the display. “Secondary bleed.”

“How big?” someone asks.

“Small,” Dana replies. “But active. It was obscured by the initial hemorrhage — it took over the line of sight.”

Your stomach drops.

Active.

Dana straightens. “We need to take her to surgery. Now. Neurosurgery.”

There’s no panic in her voice — just urgency sharpened to a blade.

The room springs into motion.

You’re transferred back onto the bed, lines disconnected and reconnected with practiced efficiency. Someone presses medication into your IV; someone else adjusts the monitor leads. The ache in your head pulses harder now, nausea curling low in your gut.

You try to speak.

Nothing comes.

“OR’s being prepped,” a voice says.

“Get consent.”

That last order breaks off, carried away by footsteps already moving fast down the hall.

Michael has been standing exactly where they left him, arms folded tight across his chest, gaze fixed on the CT doors like he can see through them if he tries hard enough. When he sees the doctor coming, something in his posture shifts immediately.

He knows.

“There’s an additional intracranial bleed,” the doctor says, not wasting time. “It was obscured on the initial imaging. She needs emergency surgery.”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“Do it,” he says.

“We need your consent.”

The clipboard is shoved into his hands. He barely glances at the paper — just flips to the line that matters and signs. His name is steady. Clear. Final.

“Please,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it together. “Please save her.”

Michael is not brought to the OR.

He’s guided instead into a small consultation room just down the corridor — windowless, sterile, furnished with a table and a few stiff chairs. The door closes behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should.

“She’s going into surgery,” the nurse tells him gently. “Someone will update you as soon as they can.”

Michael nods, too stiff. “Okay.”

He sits. Stands. Paces. Sits again.

Minutes pass — or maybe seconds. Time doesn’t make sense anymore.

The door opens again.

They come in one by one.

Langdon first, expression unreadable.

McKay close behind him, jaw tight.

Javadi, her hand already reaching out before she seems to realize she’s doing it.

Whitaker, silent, steady.

King, pale but composed.

Abbott, leaning against the wall, arms folded.

No one looks panicked.

No one looks relieved.

“They found another bleed,” Langdon says carefully. “It was obscured on the initial scan.”

Michael swallows. “Is she—”

“She was stable when they took her back,” McKay says. “Vitals were holding.”

Stable.

Michael exhales, shaky but controlled. “Okay.”

Javadi speaks next, voice gentle. “They caught it. That matters.”

“She’s young,” King adds quietly. “She got here fast.”

Whitaker nods once. “She’s where she needs to be.”

They stay with him — not crowding, not hovering — just occupying the room so he doesn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. Someone hands him water. He doesn’t remember drinking it.

His hands are shaking now. He doesn’t try to hide it.

⸻

Inside the OR, everything is methodical.

Controlled.

You’re wheeled in beneath lights so bright they blur your vision, transferred carefully onto the operating table. The room is already alive — instruments laid out, monitors humming, staff moving with practiced coordination.

Your heart rate is fast but steady.

Blood pressure elevated — but responsive.

“Okay,” someone says calmly. “We’re starting.”

Your head is positioned again, padded, secured. A drape is placed. Hands move at your scalp, precise, deliberate.

The pressure in your head remains — but it’s tolerable. Uncomfortable, not unbearable.

“This is going well,” a voice murmurs.

And it is.

For a while.

Your vitals hold. Medications are adjusted smoothly. The bleed is located. Addressed. There’s no shouting, no alarms — just focused work and quiet communication.

The world narrows to sensation: the hum of machines, the distant murmur of voices, the strange, floating awareness that you are here but not fully present.

—

Back in the consultation room, Michael sits rigidly in his chair, eyes fixed on the door like it might open if he stares hard enough.

“They’d tell us if something went wrong,” he says, more statement than question.

Langdon nods. “They would.”

McKay shifts. “This part always feels longer than it is.”

Michael lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “She said my name.”

The room stills.

“Earlier,” he adds quietly. “She said my name.”

Javadi smiles softly. “That’s a good sign.”

Michael nods, clinging to that single fact like a lifeline. 

In the OR, something changes.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

Just… subtly.

“BP’s creeping up,” someone notes.

“Okay,” another voice replies. “Adjusting.”

Your chest feels tight again. Breathing takes more effort than it did minutes ago. The pressure in your head sharpens, a spike of pain cutting through the fog.

“Heart rate’s increasing.”

“Watch it.”

Hands move faster now. Voices sharpen.

“BP’s not responding the way it was.”

The monitor chirps — not an alarm yet, but a warning.

Your vision dims at the edges.

“Hang on,” someone says. “Stay with us.”

The numbers drop.

Suddenly. Steeply.

“BP’s crashing.”

“Wait—”

The alarm screams.

The line stutters.

Then flattens.

“—she’s coding.”

The room explodes into motion.

“Start compressions.”

“Time?”

Hands slam against your chest. Voices overlap, orders shouted, the calm shattered completely.

The sound doesn’t stop.

The monitor stays flat.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

3 Year Anniversary 

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

tw: sudden medical emergency, stroke, panic, hospital/ambulance, medical procedures

part two part three part four

The restaurant isn’t fancy in the intimidating way. It’s warm. Intimate. The kind of place that feels like it’s meant for people who already know each other well — low lights, soft music, tables close enough that you can hear quiet laughter from strangers without it feeling intrusive.

Michael sits across from you, jacket slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way that still sometimes surprises you, like he’s forgotten to keep his guard up because he doesn’t think he needs it tonight.

Three years does that.

You’re midway through your second drink, ice clinking softly as you set the glass down. He watches the condensation slide down the side, then looks back up at you.

“Hard to believe we’re here,” he says, not loud, not trying to make a moment out of it. “Three years.”

You smile. Not big. Not dramatic. Just real.

“I know,” you say. “Feels like we blinked and suddenly… here we are.”

He hums, thoughtful. “And somehow we didn’t kill each other.”

“Yet,” you add, deadpan.

That gets a laugh out of him — an actual laugh, head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. God, you love that sound. You always have.

“You know what’s wild?” he says. “I still remember thinking you hated me.”

You snort. “I did hate you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says, smiling into his drink.

“I absolutely did.”

“You were intrigued,” he corrects. “Which is different.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Okay, maybe. Slightly intrigued. Annoyed. Confused about why you kept showing up.”

“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “here we are.”

Here we are.

You let the silence stretch for a second, comfortable and full. The candle between you flickers, reflected in his eyes.

“You were such an ass at first,” you say fondly.

He pretends to look wounded. “I was reserved.”

“You were emotionally unavailable.”

“I was cautious.”

“You ghosted me for three days.”

“I was busy.”

“You were scared.”

That one lands.

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles a little, softer now.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”

You reach across the table without thinking, fingers brushing his. He lets you take his hand, thumb pressing gently against your knuckles.

“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say.

“Me too,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think I would’ve forgiven myself if I had.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You would’ve survived.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have you.”

That still hits, even three years in.

You talk about everything after that — your favorite memories, the moments that feel small until you say them out loud.

The night you stayed up until four in the morning talking about nothing and everything.

The first time he fell asleep on your couch.

The way he always pretends he doesn’t care which movie you pick but absolutely does.

The way you hum without realizing it when you’re focused.

“I love that you do that,” he says at one point, smiling.

“Do what?”

“That thing,” he says. “When you’re concentrating. You hum. Like you’re tuning yourself.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs. “I swear. It’s my favorite thing.”

You shake your head, embarrassed but pleased, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love that you notice dumb stuff like that.”

“It’s not dumb,” he says. “It’s you.”

The waiter comes by at some point — you barely notice — refilling water, asking if you want dessert later. Michael says yes without looking at you, already knowing the answer.

Eventually, conversation drifts the way it always does when you’ve run through the past and lingered there long enough.

Michael leans back slightly, studying you.

“So,” he says, casual again. “Hawaii.”

Your face lights up immediately. “Oh my god.”

“We keep saying we’re going to do it,” he continues. “I feel like if we don’t actually plan it, it’s just gonna stay hypothetical forever.”

You nod enthusiastically. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”

He smiles. “So when?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Okay, so if we go in October instead of September—”

The words come easily at first. Familiar. Comfortable. You’re leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands moving as you talk.

“—it’s still warm, but not like… unbearable. And it’s less crowded. Plus flights are cheaper.”

Michael watches you the way he always does when you get excited — fond, amused, completely present.

“Because then we’d have more—”

You pause, just barely.

“—more—”

Your mouth stutters on the word.

You don’t stop.

“Oh jeez,” you mutter under your breath, waving it off, already pushing forward. “Anyway—”

Michael’s smile flickers, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“We could stay near the—uh—the place with the—”

You gesture vaguely, fingers circling as if the word might appear if you coax it hard enough.

“And then we could do, like… the whole island thing from there.”

You laugh lightly, automatically, the way you always do when a thought slips away.

Michael nods, but his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Encouraged, you continue — because talking has never been something you’ve had to think about before.

“And if we do it when the—”

You stop.

It’s subtle. Just a hitch. But it’s there.

“If we do it when the…”

The sentence doesn’t finish.

You blink, frown slightly, then try again.

“We could, um—if the—if we go when the—”

Your brow furrows. You shake your head once, like the thought is right there and you just can’t quite grab it.

Michael leans forward a little.

“You good?” he asks, gently.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just—”

The word catches.

“—I’m just—”

You trail off, laugh softly, a little breathless. “Sorry. My brain’s just jumping ahead.”

You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then set it down and try again.

“The flying—no—the car—when we—”

The words come out wrong.

You stop mid-sentence.

This time, you don’t laugh.

You open your mouth again, determined — and what comes out doesn’t sound like what you meant at all.

Michael’s chair shifts quietly as he moves closer, concern sharpening behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him, relief flickering through you, and try to answer.

Your voice betrays you.

And somewhere deep in your chest, something cold begins to spread.

Michael doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. He leans in instead, forearms resting on the table now, his voice dropping until it feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me for a second.”

You do. Of course you do.

“Can you squeeze my hands for me?”

You blink at him.

There’s a flicker of irritation, instinctive and sharp, cutting through the fear. This feels like too much. Like he’s being dramatic. Like he’s slipping into work when you need him to just be him.

“C’mon,” you say — or you try to. It comes out mostly right. Close enough. “Really?”

You give him a look, half exasperated, half pleading. Not now.

Michael doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue.

“Squeeze them,” he says, quiet but firm.

Something in his tone makes you do it.

You reach across the table and curl your fingers around his hands. His skin is warm. Solid. Familiar.

You squeeze.

You don’t notice anything wrong.

Michael does.

His thumb presses gently into your knuckles, like he’s confirming something he already knows. His face doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Good.”

That alone makes your stomach twist.

He lifts his gaze back to your face.

“Smile for me?”

You just stare at him.

Flat. Unamused.

He gives you a look — not annoyed, not panicked. Just steady. Waiting.

You sigh, a sharp breath through your nose, and humor him.

You smile.

Only one side of your face moves.

You feel it immediately.

The wrongness of it. The pull that isn’t there. The way your cheek doesn’t answer the command the way it always has.

Your smile drops.

Your breath stutters.

You try again — smaller this time, tentative.

Still wrong.

Your hand tightens around his, fingers trembling now.

“Oh—” you try to say.

Nothing coherent comes out.

Your chest tightens, panic slamming into you all at once, hot and suffocating. Tears spring to your eyes as you shake your head, like you can physically undo whatever is happening if you just try hard enough.

Michael is already moving.

He reaches for your wrist, grounding, firm but gentle, thumb pressing into your pulse.

“Hey,” he says immediately. “Look at me.”

You do. Desperately.

“It’s okay,” he continues, slow and controlled. “I’ve got you. Don’t try to talk.”

You try anyway. Instinctively. Fearfully.

It only makes it worse.

Your breathing turns shallow. Fast. Your vision blurs.

Michael squeezes your hand once — a promise, not a test this time.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He lifts his head just long enough to catch someone nearby — a waiter, a stranger, you don’t know.

“Can someone call an ambulance,” he says, calm and unmistakably serious. “Now.”

Then his attention is right back on you.

“Stay with me,” he says softly. “Just stay with me.”

Michael’s hand is still on your wrist when the room begins to rearrange itself around you.

Chairs scrape back. Someone’s voice rises, sharp with urgency, then another, quieter, trying to soothe. The candle on your table wobbles as the surface vibrates with movement, the flame guttering but refusing to go out.

You’re aware of everything and nothing at the same time.

Michael keeps his body angled toward you, like a shield, his thumb pressing steady into your skin — a rhythm. A tether.

“Look at me,” he says again, low, deliberate. “Just me.”

You try to nod. You’re not sure if it works.

Your mouth opens. Something broken spills out.

Tears blur your vision.

“It’s okay,” he says, immediately. “You don’t need to talk. You’re doing great.”

The sirens arrive before you realize someone actually called. Distant at first, then too loud, then suddenly right there — red light bleeding through the restaurant windows in uneven pulses. The noise slices through the haze in your head, sharp and wrong.

Michael squeezes your hand once.

“They’re here,” he says. “You’re okay.”

Two paramedics move in quickly, efficient, already assessing before they even speak. One crouches beside you, eyes kind but focused. The other looks to Michael.

“What’s going on?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” he says, voice steady despite the way his jaw tightens. “Acute onset aphasia. Started with stuttering, progressed to word-finding difficulty, then nonsensical speech. Right-sided facial droop. Right hand weakness.”

You hear yourself described like a case. Like a chart.

You want to interrupt. To say you’re right here. That you can hear them. That you’re scared.

Nothing usable comes out.

“No known allergies,” Michael continues. “No prior medical history. No history of strokes. Only known family history is maternal grandfather — single ischemic event in his seventies.”

The paramedic nods, already slipping a blood pressure cuff around your arm.

“When did symptoms start?”

Michael glances at his watch. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago.”

You feel the squeeze on your arm, the tightness, the pressure. Numbers are exchanged above your head. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger. Someone shines a light in your eyes.

You flinch.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’m here.”

They lift you gently, carefully, onto the stretcher. The movement makes the room tilt again, nausea rolling through you, panic spiking as the floor pulls away.

You grab at Michael’s sleeve.

He’s right there. Always.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’m coming with you.”

The ambulance doors close with a final, hollow thud.

Inside, everything is brighter. Louder. Cold.

The siren starts again, vibrating through your bones as the vehicle lurches forward. One of the paramedics is talking to you now — asking simple questions, voice exaggeratedly calm.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You try.

The sound that comes out is wrong.

The paramedic glances at Michael. He nods once.

“It’s okay,” the paramedic says gently. “Just relax.”

An IV goes into your arm. You barely feel it. Your body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.

Blood sugar check. Oxygen. Repeated questions. The words float past you, impossible to catch.

Michael stays close, hand never leaving you, eyes tracking every movement, every intervention.

“Any headache?” the paramedic asks.

Michael answers. “No reported headache.”

“Vision changes?”

“None noted.”

“Seizure activity?”

“No.”

You want to scream that you’re still here. That you’re not unconscious. That you understand them.

Your tongue won’t cooperate.

The ambulance slows. Turns.

“ETA two minutes,” someone says.

Michael exhales sharply, just once.

The doors open.

The night air hits you like a slap.

You’re rushed through automatic doors, fluorescent lights flooding your vision as the world shifts again — this time into a place Michael knows too well.

Voices layer over each other. Footsteps echo. Someone calls out vitals.

As they wheel you in, Michael’s gaze lifts — and lands on a familiar face.

Dana.

She’s mid-step, clipboard tucked under her arm, expression neutral until she sees you.

Until she sees him.

Michael doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.

“Dana,” he says, and his voice finally cracks. “Dana… help.”

Her eyes sharpen instantly. Clipboard forgotten. She’s moving before the stretcher even stops.

“What happened?”

“Stroke,” Michael says. “I think she’s having a stroke.”

Dana’s hand is already on the rail, walking alongside you, eyes scanning your face, your chart, the paramedic relaying information rapid-fire.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female, acute aphasia, right-sided weakness—”

“Get CT ready,” Dana says, already turning. “Stroke alert. Now.”

You’re moving again. Faster this time.

Michael keeps pace, one hand still locked around yours, knuckles white.

“I’m here,” he says, close to your ear. “I’m right here.”

The doors ahead swing open.

And everything disappears into white.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Spare Key

Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

Melissa King x Fem!Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

tw: cheating, emotional distress, yelling, breakup, overstimulation

You’re already there when Frank steps in close.

Close enough that you can see the tension in Mel’s shoulders, the way her hands keep folding in on themselves like she’s trying to make smaller versions of her fingers. You stay where you are—at Frank’s side, angled just enough that Mel can see you without having to turn her head.

Frank lifts his hand.

“Follow my finger.”

Mel’s eyes move with it. Slow. Careful.

“How’s the head?”

“It’s a little sore.”

Frank nods. He shifts behind her, fingers gentle but firm as he feels along the back of her head, pressing lightly, checking.

“Lean forward.

Let me take a look.”

She does, just enough. Her jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” Frank says. “You’re gonna have a pretty good goose egg.”

She exhales through her nose.

“Headache?”

“A little.”

“I can get you some Tylenol, unless you need something stronger.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m not very drug tolerant.”

“Lucky you.”

There’s a pause. The room hums softly—machines, distant voices, the low constant noise of the ER that never really goes away. Mel’s thumbs rub together, faster now.

You tilt your head slightly so she catches your eye.

“You’re doing fine,” you say quietly. “Nothing you’re saying is wrong.”

Her shoulders ease just a fraction.

“You know,” she says, looking back at Frank, “I’m glad you’re back.”

Frank lets out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he was holding.

“Yeah, I’m glad to be back.”

Then, softer—

“You know why I was away?”

Mel straightens, instinctively redirecting.

“I should see my patient…”

You don’t interrupt Frank’s space, but you add, gently, “They’re covered. You don’t need to solve anything right now.”

She nods once.

“I mean,” she says, “I heard rumors, but I learned a long time ago not to listen.”

Frank swallows.

“I was in rehab…”

“Oh.”

“For an addiction to benzos.”

“Oh.”

He keeps going, words careful but unguarded.

“Yeah, but I’m… I’m clean now.

A-and it never affected my work.

I just… needed to get it all out of my system once and for all.

Yeah, I-I didn’t handle things the way I should have.

I thought I could treat myself, and I let a lot of people down.

I’m sorry, Mel.”

She shakes her head immediately.

“You never let me down.”

Frank looks away, jaw tightening.

“Yeah.

Yeah, I did.

I should be setting an example, not a cautionary tale.”

There’s a knock.

The door opens before anyone answers.

“Hey.”

“How you doing?”

Mel blinks, startled by the shift.

“I’m okay.”

The officer steps farther into the room, voice gentler now.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about all that.

The guy robbed a liquor store last night.

He tried to get away on a bicycle but wiped out and took off on foot.

He must’ve hobbled in here… more so to hide out than to get stitched up, I think.”

Frank doesn’t hesitate.

“You catch him?”

“We will.

Anything you could tell us about him will help.”

Frank nods once.

“You think he gave legit information?”

“Probably not, but it’s all we have at the moment.

If we do find him, you may have to testify in court, Dr. King.”

Mel’s head snaps up.

“ ‘In court’?”

“As a material witness.

Attest to his injuries, his treatments… simple stuff.”

Frank steps in before the tension can build.

“Yeah, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, right?

Mel?”

She groans softly, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and tired.

“Rest here a minute,” Frank says.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Mm.”

She shifts, then exhales.

“You know, I’m…

I’m fine, really. I should—”

Frank cuts in gently, firmly.

“Ten minutes, please.

Doctor’s orders.

ER can be a little bright and noisy.”

Everyone in agreement heads out, the door closing behind them.

——

The hallway feels louder once the door shuts behind you.

You walk beside Frank without touching him, steps falling into sync automatically. The adrenaline from the room hasn’t fully worn off yet — everything still feels slightly off, like the volume hasn’t been turned down all the way.

“Thanks for being in there,” he says after a moment.

You nod. “She needed steady.”

He glances at you, brief. Appreciative. Then his focus shifts forward again.

You slow near the elevators, watching the numbers tick down, the quiet hum filling the space between you.

“I’m not gonna be able to stay over tonight,” you say, keeping your voice even.

He turns his head slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah. My friend called earlier — she just found out her boyfriend’s cheating.” You exhale quietly, more tired than dramatic. “She’s not doing great. I told her I’d come sit with her for a bit.”

Frank’s expression softens in that automatic, empathetic way. “That’s rough.”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open and you both step inside, standing shoulder to shoulder without touching. The doors close. The descent is smooth, silent.

“I’ll come by in the morning instead,” you add. “Coffee. Then we can drive in together.”

“Okay,” he says. No hesitation. No complication.

The doors open again. Night air drifts in when you step outside, cooler than you expect.

“You’ve got a key,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“I know.”

You stop where the walkway splits — you toward the lot, him back inside. It’s a pause you don’t acknowledge.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.

“See you tomorrow.”

You turn away first. He does the same.

——

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Your friend sits on the floor with her back against the couch, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on nothing. Her phone is face-down on the rug like it offended her personally. You sit beside her, close enough that your shoulders touch, close enough that she knows she’s not alone even if she doesn’t want to be looked at.

“I feel stupid,” she says finally.

Her voice is flat. That scares you more than if she were yelling.

“You’re not,” you say.

She laughs—short, sharp, ugly. “No, I am. I ignored everything. Every little thing. Because it was easier than admitting I was right.”

She presses her palms into her eyes, hard. When she drops them, they’re wet.

“I loved him,” she says, like it’s a confession she’s ashamed of. “Like actually loved him. I rearranged my life around him.”

Her breathing starts to hitch. She tries to talk through it anyway.

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t that bad. That I was being dramatic. That I was tired. That I was crazy.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t fix. You just stay.

“He lied to my face,” she says, louder now. “He looked at me and lied. And I believed him because I wanted to.”

The first sob rips out of her without warning. She folds forward, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

“I hate him,” she cries. “I hate him so much—”

Then, just as quickly—

“I miss him,” she sobs. “God, I miss him and I hate myself for missing him.”

Her chest heaves. She drags in air like she’s drowning.

“I don’t know who I am without him,” she says, voice cracking completely now. “Everything I planned had him in it. Everything.”

You feel it in your own chest, sharp and familiar.

“I feel like an idiot,” she screams suddenly, slamming her palm into the carpet. “I feel like everyone knew except me!”

You flinch, just slightly, but you don’t move away.

“You’re not an idiot,” you say again, firmer this time. “You trusted someone you loved. That doesn’t make you weak.”

She shakes her head violently. “It makes me disposable.”

“No,” you say, immediately. “It makes him a coward.”

She collapses against you then, forehead pressing into your shoulder, body shaking with the force of it. Her cries are loud now, raw, unfiltered, the kind that tear out of your throat whether you want them to or not.

You wrap your arm around her without thinking, hand splayed against her back, grounding, steady. You feel every shudder. Every sob.

She talks through it all—ranting, looping, circling the same pain from different angles.

“How long?”

“Was it real?”

“Was I not enough?”

“Did he ever actually love me?”

You answer when you need to. You stay quiet when you don’t.

Time stretches. The crying slows. Her voice goes hoarse. Eventually she just leans into you, exhausted, empty, breathing uneven but no longer breaking.

The door opens quietly.

Her sister steps inside, takes in the scene in one glance, and sets her bag down without a word. She crouches in front of her, gentle but firm.

“I’m staying,” she says. “Tonight. You’re not alone.”

Your friend nods weakly, too tired to argue.

Her sister looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“You need rest,” she says. “I’ve got her.”

You start to protest, instinctively, but your friend reaches for your hand.

“Go,” she whispers. “Please. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

You hesitate. Then nod.

You hug her carefully, like she might break again if you squeeze too hard.

“Text me,” you say.

——

You sit in your car with the engine running.

You don’t pull out right away. You don’t turn the radio on. The dashboard glows softly, familiar, steady. Your hands rest on the steering wheel like they don’t belong to you.

Your friend’s front door closes behind you somewhere in the distance. Her sister had waved from the doorway, already talking, already taking over. You told yourself you’d stay if she needed you. She didn’t. Not anymore.

You did what you came to do.

That should feel like relief.

Instead, there’s just this strange lightness in your chest — like something important slipped loose without making a sound.

You check the time.

Earlier than you expected.

Your phone sits face-down in the cup holder. You don’t pick it up. You don’t think about what you’d say if you did. You already know.

I’m on my way home.

I’m done earlier than I thought.

See you soon.

All of it feels unnecessary.

You pull out of the lot and let the car take you where it always does. The route is automatic — red lights you anticipate, turns you don’t have to signal for because no one’s around. The city looks different this late. Quieter. Less demanding.

Your shoulders finally drop somewhere around the third stoplight.

You’re tired.

Not emotionally wrecked. Not spiraling. Just tired in the bone-deep way that comes from holding too much together for too long.

You think about Frank without ceremony.

Morning coffee.

Carpool.

The way he always forgets where he puts his keys.

You consider texting him once, briefly. Just to say you’re heading his way after all. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a second before you lock it again.

You have a key.

There’s no need to announce yourself.

The thought settles easily. Comfortably.

You drive a little faster after that.

By the time you turn onto his street, the decision feels finished — not impulsive, not emotional. Just practical. You’ll stop by. Say hi. Grab your things. Sleep. Everything else can wait until morning.

You park in your usual spot.

The building looks the same as it always does. A couple of windows lit. Nothing out of place.

You lock the car and head inside, bag slung over your shoulder, keys already in your hand. The familiar weight of them grounds you. Muscle memory kicks in — the door code, the stair you skip because it creaks.

Outside his door, you pause.

Not because you’re nervous.

Because you’re tired enough to take a breath before opening it.

The door opens the rest of the way.

The apartment is lit—not bright, just the lamp by the couch, the one Frank always leaves on. The space looks the same as it always does. Shoes by the door. His jacket over the chair. The familiar smell of coffee and whatever soap he bought last time because it was on sale.

You take two steps in.

That’s when you see them.

They’re standing too close to the couch. Close enough that there’s no innocent explanation waiting to be found. Mel is half-turned toward him, one knee bent against the cushion, her hands hovering like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Frank’s head is angled down.

He’s already pulling back when your brain finally catches up—already creating distance, already realizing something has gone wrong.

But it’s too late.

Because you saw it.

Not a blur. Not a misunderstanding.

A kiss. Brief. Careful. Real.

Your body reacts before you do. Heat floods your chest, sharp and sudden, like someone struck a match inside you.

Frank exhales, breath uneven. His voice is soft when he speaks—too soft, too intimate.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

The words don’t echo.

They don’t linger.

They detonate.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Your voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.

Both of them flinch.

Frank spins around. His face drains of color so fast it’s almost impressive. His mouth opens.

“Y/N—”

“You kissed my best friend,” you shout, the words ripping out of you, loud and ugly and shaking. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Mel’s eyes go wide. Her hands fly up to her ears instantly, her breathing spiking.

“I didn’t know,” she says, panicked. “I swear, I didn’t know—”

You turn on her, fury already spilling over.

“You didn’t think to ask?” you yell. “You didn’t think that maybe—just maybe—this was a bad fucking idea?”

The words are out before you can stop them. You know it. You feel it even as you say them. The part of you that understands her, that knows how she processes things, is already screaming at you to stop.

But you can’t.

Not now.

Not after that.

Frank steps between you instinctively. “Hey—don’t—”

“Don’t you dare,” you snap, pointing at him. Your hand is shaking. “Do not put yourself in the middle of this like you’re protecting her.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You told her she’s the best thing that’s happened to you,” you scream. “What am I, Frank? What the fuck am I?”

Mel lets out a broken sound, halfway between a sob and a whimper. She’s rocking now, hands pressed tight against her ears, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry,” she says over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” you shout, then immediately, viciously, “God, you always do this.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in your chest cracks.

Frank hears it too.

“Y/N,” he says, desperate now. “She didn’t know. I told you, I—”

“You lied,” you scream, rounding on him fully. “You lied to me. You lied to her. You stood there and you said that to her like I don’t exist.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“How else could you mean it?” you cut in, voice breaking but still loud. “You don’t say that to someone you don’t mean it about.”

Mel slides down onto the couch, curling in on herself, rocking harder now. The room feels too small. Too loud. You can hear your own voice bouncing off the walls, feel it vibrating in your chest.

“I trusted you,” you yell at Frank. “I trusted you with my best friend. With my life. With everything.”

He reaches for you again, hands open, pleading.

“Please,” he says. “Just let me explain.”

“No,” you say, stepping back. “You already did.”

Your eyes flick to Mel again. She’s shaking, breathing fast, her apologies dissolving into sobs. The sight of it finally cuts through the rage, sharp and painful.

This isn’t who you want to be.

But it’s who you are right now.

“I can’t even look at you,” you say, voice hoarse. “Either of you.”

You turn toward the door.

“Y/N,” Frank says again, closer now, panic bleeding into his voice. “Please don’t leave like this.”

You whirl back around, eyes blazing.

“Like what?” you scream. “Like the idiot who just walked in on her boyfriend telling her best friend she’s the best thing that’s happened to him?”

He has no answer.

Mel’s rocking slows just enough for her to whisper, “I didn’t know,” one more time.

You swallow hard. The anger is still there, but it’s starting to burn out, leaving something worse in its wake.

“I believe you,” you say, quieter now, but no less firm. “That doesn’t make this okay.”

You grab your bag from the chair by the door. Your hands fumble with the strap.

“Don’t follow me,” you warn Frank without looking at him. “If you do, I will say things I can’t take back.”

Silence.

You open the door.

The hallway air hits you like a shock. Cooler. Cleaner. Real.

You don’t wait to see if he listens.

The door shuts behind you hard enough to rattle the frame.

Your breath comes fast and shallow as you walk—then stumble—toward the stairs. Your chest aches. Your throat burns. The anger finally gives way to something raw and overwhelming.

By the time you reach your car, you’re shaking.

You slam the door shut and scream.

Not words. Just sound. Rage and grief and disbelief tearing out of you until your voice gives out and you’re left gasping, forehead pressed to the steering wheel.

You pound your fist once against the dash.

Once.

Then you break.

And you’re alone.

——

You don’t even remember turning the key.

The engine is suddenly on, the dashboard lighting up, the sound of it too loud in the enclosed space. Your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep them from slipping.

You pull out of the spot too fast.

The building looms in your rearview mirror for half a second longer than you can tolerate. Every window looks the same. Every brick feels like it’s watching you.

You can’t do it.

You make a sharp turn at the end of the block without signaling, heart hammering, breath coming in short, angry bursts. The second the building disappears from view, something in your chest loosens—but only barely.

Your eyes burn.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You drive.

Not carefully. Not recklessly. Just… forward. Lights blur past. Streets you recognize turn into streets you don’t. Your mind keeps replaying it in pieces, like it can’t hold the whole thing at once.

His voice.

The kiss.

Her hands over her ears.

The way he said it.

You hit the steering wheel with the heel of your hand.

“I was right there,” you say out loud, like saying it might make it make sense. “I was right fucking there.”

Your chest tightens again, anger flaring hot and fast, then collapsing into something hollow. You swallow hard, jaw clenched, trying not to cry again because it feels like if you start, you won’t stop.

You take a turn you don’t mean to.

Then another.

You don’t realize where you’re going until you’re almost there.

The street is quiet. Lined with parked cars. Porch lights glowing soft and yellow. It looks nothing like where you just came from—nothing sharp, nothing crowded, nothing that feels like it might collapse in on itself.

Your foot eases off the gas.

Michael’s house comes into view like a thought you didn’t consciously finish.

You laugh once. It comes out broken.

“Of course,” you mutter.

You sit there with the car idling, staring at the curb in front of his place. Your hands finally go still, but your chest feels worse now—tight and heavy, like it’s packed full of things you don’t know how to say.

This is a terrible idea.

You know that.

You also know you can’t go home. You can’t sit alone with this. You can’t look at your phone and see his name. You can’t hear your own thoughts anymore.

Your hand moves on its own, cutting the engine.

The silence is immediate. Thick.

You get out of the car slowly, like your body weighs more than it did five minutes ago. The night air is cool against your flushed skin. You shut the door quietly, even though there’s no one around to hear it.

Each step up the walkway feels deliberate. Heavy.

You stop at his door.

For a second, you consider turning around. Going back to the car. Driving anywhere else. Nowhere.

Your throat tightens.

You raise your hand and knock.

Once.

Then again—harder than you mean to.

You barely have time to drop your arm before the door opens.

Michael looks confused at first. Then he really looks at you.

Your face. Your eyes. The way you’re holding yourself together by nothing but will.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

The question cracks something open.

“Frank cheated on me,” you say.

The words come out flat. Lifeless. Like they don’t belong to you.

Michael doesn’t ask who.

He doesn’t ask how.

He doesn’t ask when.

He just steps aside immediately and opens the door wider.

“Come in,” he says.

And the second you cross the threshold, your legs finally give out.

——

Michael doesn’t ask anything else when your face crumples.

The sob hits you so suddenly it steals the air from your lungs, sharp and humiliating, and you fold forward with it like your body finally gave up pretending. Your hands come up to your face, useless, shaking, and the sound that tears out of you is ugly and loud and completely uncontained.

You hate it.

You can’t stop it.

Michael moves immediately—but not in a rush. He closes the distance and sits beside you, turning just enough that when you tip sideways, there’s somewhere to go. You collapse into him without asking, forehead pressed into his shoulder, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

You cry hard.

Not the cinematic kind. The kind that hurts. The kind that makes your chest spasm and your throat burn and your nose run and your pride evaporate. You cry until your ribs ache and your jaw trembles and you’re making these broken, animal sounds you don’t recognize as your own.

Michael doesn’t shush you.

Doesn’t tell you to breathe.

Doesn’t say it’s okay like that would mean anything.

He just holds you.

One arm solid around your shoulders, the other hand pressed warm and steady between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there while your body does whatever it needs to do. You feel him adjust when you sag, feel his thumb trace slow, grounding circles against your back—not soothing, exactly. Just present.

You cry until there’s nothing sharp left in it.

Until it turns into this quiet, wrecked leaking—tears still falling, but slower now, your breathing hitching instead of breaking. You sniff, wipe your face against his shirt without even thinking about it, too far gone to care.

Eventually, you pull back an inch. Just enough to breathe.

Michael looks down at you carefully, like he’s checking for signs you’re about to shatter again.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Let’s get you something warm.”

You don’t argue. You don’t nod either. You just let him take your hand and gently pull you up, guiding you toward the kitchen like he’s afraid sudden movements might undo you.

The kitchen light clicks on—too bright at first. You flinch instinctively, and he dims it without comment, turning on the under-cabinet lights instead. Softer. Easier.

“Sit,” he says, nudging out a chair.

You do, curling into yourself, arms wrapped tight around your middle like you’re holding yourself together manually.

Michael fills the kettle. The sound of water rushing feels too loud. He glances at you again, then turns it down slightly, like he’s calibrating the world to something you can tolerate.

“Chamomile okay?” he asks.

You nod, eyes still on the table.

He moves around the kitchen quietly, deliberately—every action unhurried. The kettle clicks on. A mug appears in front of you. He doesn’t ask you to drink yet. Just lets it sit there, steam curling gently into the air.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Your hands finally unclench.

“That was my best friend,” you say suddenly.

The words surprise even you.

Michael stills—but only for half a second.

He doesn’t react. He doesn’t push.

He just says, carefully, “Do you want to talk now?”

You swallow. Your throat feels raw, scraped out.

You nod.

“He cheated on me,” you say again, like you need to re-establish the baseline. “I walked in. I saw them. And then he said—” Your voice cracks. You stop, breathe, try again. “He said she was the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.”

Michael’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t scream right away,” you continue, staring at the mug like it might keep you upright. “I think part of me was still trying to figure out if I was hallucinating.”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“And then I did scream. At both of them. I didn’t mean to—” You stop yourself, shake your head. “No. That’s not true. I meant it. I just didn’t care in the moment.”

Michael finally slides the mug a little closer to you. “Drink,” he says gently. “It’ll help.”

You take a sip. The warmth spreads through your chest, slow and grounding, and something in you loosens just enough to keep going.

“I know she didn’t know,” you say quickly. “I know that. I know that. But in the moment all I could think was—how could you do this to me? How could you both be standing there like that?”

Your hands start shaking again. You curl them around the mug, clinging to the heat.

“I trusted him,” you whisper. “With everything. With my life. With the one person in the world I never thought I’d have to worry about.”

Michael leans back against the counter, arms crossed loosely, listening like every word matters.

“I didn’t know you two were together,” he says gently.

You nod. “We kept it quiet. On purpose. Work, optics, all of it.”

“That makes this harder,” he says. Not a question.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

Silence settles—not awkward. Just heavy.

“I didn’t come here because I wanted anything,” you say suddenly, panic flickering. “I just—couldn’t look at his building. I couldn’t go home. I needed somewhere that didn’t feel poisoned.”

Michael meets your eyes. His voice is steady.

“I know.”

That’s when the tears come back—but softer now. Exhausted. Grief instead of rage.

“And I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do next,” you whisper.

Michael steps closer, resting a hand on the back of your chair.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he says. “Tonight is just about getting you through it.”

You nod, shoulders sagging again, finally letting yourself lean into the truth of that.

And for the first time since you walked into Frank’s apartment, the world feels like it might stop spinning just a little.

——

“You don’t have to drive anywhere tonight,” Michael says quietly. “You can stay here.”

You look up at him.

He’s careful — not assuming, not pushing. Just offering.

“I’ve got a spare bedroom,” he adds. “Clean sheets. It’s quiet.”

The word quiet hits harder than it should.

You nod. “Okay.”

He lets you finish the tea first, waits until your hands stop trembling around the mug before he reaches for it and sets it in the sink. Then he nods down the hall, quiet invitation rather than instruction.

“This way.”

You follow him, footsteps soft against the floor. The house feels different back here — dimmer, calmer, like it’s intentionally holding its breath. He stops at the spare room and opens the door, stepping aside so you can go in first.

It’s simple. Clean. A neatly made bed, neutral sheets, a low lamp already plugged in. Nothing personal. Nothing overwhelming.

He flicks the lamp on, then gestures to the closet.

“Extra blankets are in there,” he says, opening it. “Top shelf has pillows if you want more support. There’s an extra charger in the drawer, too — I never remember to take it out.”

You nod, absorbing the information like it matters more than it does. Like this is something you can control.

Michael pulls one of the blankets down and lays it across the foot of the bed, smoothing it out automatically. The motion is familiar, domestic, careful in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Bathroom’s right across the hall,” he adds. “Door locks. If you need anything—water, meds, just… anything—”

“I know,” you say softly.

He stops talking.

For a second, neither of you moves. He glances at you, like he’s checking to see if you’re steady enough to be left alone. You realize, suddenly, that you don’t want him to go yet.

“I’ll let you rest,” he says finally. “Get some sleep.”

He turns toward the door.

That’s when it hits you — the weight of the night settling all at once. The quiet. The space. The fact that he’s done everything right and is about to walk away.

“Michael,” you say.

He pauses, hand still on the doorframe, and turns back.

You don’t explain yourself. You just close the distance and wrap your arms around him, pressing your forehead into his chest like it’s the only place left that feels solid.

The hug is tight. Desperate. Honest.

He’s surprised — you feel it — but only for a heartbeat. Then his arms come around you, firm and grounding, holding you like he understands exactly what this is and exactly what it isn’t.

You breathe him in.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice steady against your hair.

You stay like that for a moment too long.

When you pull back, your hands linger at his sides. His don’t drop right away either. You look up at him, eyes still glassy, face tired and raw and open in a way you rarely allow.

He’s already looking at you.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger. With something heavier. Something careful.

The space between you tightens, charged and unmistakable.

Neither of you speaks.

The kiss happens like a decision made by both of you at the same time.

You surge forward, mouth meeting his with sudden certainty, hands gripping his shirt as if to anchor yourself. He responds immediately — a quiet sound leaving him — before he catches himself.

He pulls back.

Not abruptly. Not harshly. Just enough to put space between your mouths, his forehead resting against yours, breath uneven.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re… you’re heartbroken.”

You don’t look away.

“I know.”

His hands are still at your waist, steady but unmoving now. “I don’t want to take advantage of you in this state.”

The words are careful. Earnest. They make something in your chest twist — gratitude tangled with want.

“I’m not broken,” you say. Your voice shakes, but your hands don’t. “I’m here. I’m choosing this.”

He hesitates. You can feel it in the way his breath stalls, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s fighting himself.

“Tonight’s been—” he starts, then stops. “I just don’t want you to wake up and regret—”

You cut him off by pulling him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower. Intentional. Your hands slide up to his shoulders, holding him there, grounding him the way he grounded you all night.

“I won’t,” you say against his mouth. “And if I do… we’ll deal with it. But don’t make this decision for me.”

He exhales, long and quiet, like something inside him finally gives.

His hand comes up to the back of your neck, thumb resting there, warm and certain.

“Okay,” he says. Just that.

You take a step back, tugging him with you into the room.

Michael follows.

The door slams shut behind him with a solid, final click.

——

to be continued?