30+/mom/ she:her I’m here to read. I’m bad at friendship but I try really hard at it just the same. You all feed my hunger for fics so you’re all my friends and I love you all for your beautiful art I get to experience.
it also includes short films, animated movies, documentaries of every genre, full recordings of live performances. all spanning different decades from different countries. YOU DONT EVEN FUCKING KNOW
there are also websites like worldscinema, solidaritycinema, and rarefilmm hosting incredible obscure world cinema for free! and if you're more inclined towards the esoteric, there's also evilbjork's avant-garde canon playlist on youtube! also important to mention Maya S. Cade's incredible black film archive and the otherness archive, an obscure queer cinema archive! You could always be watching more films !
everyone talks about how strong and great Aragorn was for refusing the ring when Frodo offered it to him as if this man has not spent his entire life dodging leadership and responsibilities like bullets in the matrix 🙄
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, two people being dumbasses
word count: 9.8k
a/n: surprise—you get it one day earlier!! thank you all for still keeping up with this series and interacting!! your comments are the best part of my day <33 i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow the diagnosis: married? masterlist and turn on notifications instead <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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It takes a good half hour before you're able to catch your breath enough to speak. By the time you finally reach for your phone, your lungs are aching from sobbing, your eyes are swollen, and your whole face feels hot and tight. The t-shirt you had under your scrubs is drenched from the number of times you've lifted it to dry your eyes.
Your hands shake so badly that it takes two attempts to tap Olivia's name. As the phone rings, your fingers twist into the duvet, trying to steady yourself.
"Hey, what's up?" Olivia answers, her voice warm but laced with concern. It's not like you to call without warning, and especially not at this hour. "What's wrong?"
You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, a shaky breath escapes you, followed by another. Olivia waits patiently through the silence.
"What happened?" she asks gently after a moment.
You press your lips together, trying to compose yourself, but your voice still cracks when you finally speak. "I'm so stupid."
"What?" she says immediately. "No, you’re not."
A sharp laugh escapes you. You wipe roughly at your face, trying to force the tears in again. "You don’t even know what I’m talking about."
"I don't need to," Olivia insists. "You're not stupid."
"I'm not too sure about that." You shake your head even though she can't see it, then stare blankly at the wall. "I was wrong. He doesn't—he doesn't love me, Liv."
The words tumble out, broken and raw, now that you've begun.
"He doesn't even want me. He was just—" Your voice catches. "He was just being nice, and I turned into something more. Something it wasn't."
"Okay, hold on. Why do you think that?"
"Because I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The way he looks at her," you shrug. "The way he talks to her. He’s so gentle with her, Liv." Your breath shudders as you remember how Jack looked at Lily. The fear in his eyes. The anger when it had been directed at you. "And here I was, thinking he looked at me like that when he doesn't. Hasn't ever." You rub your eyes harshly. "God, I'm such a fool."
Olivia is quiet for a second, trying to keep up. "Okay, who are we talking about?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Lily—she's one of the nurses."
"So... You think Jack is in love with Lily?" Olivia doesn't have to speak her disbelief aloud; it saturates her every word. But she hasn't seen what you have.
"I know it."
"You do not know that," she counters firmly.
"Yes, I do!" you snap, sitting up as if anger might help hold you together. "I saw how he was with her."
"What did you actually see?" she presses.
"Why? So you can explain why I’m overreacting? I'm not overreacting!"
Olivia sighs softly on the other end. "I'm trying to understand what happened," she says gently.
"Lily got hurt, and he looked terrified. He was just—he was so careful with her. And so angry with me because he thought I made it worse."
"And that means he’s in love with her?"
"Yes!" The word bursts out too quickly, too loudly. You pull your knees to your chest, trying to hold yourself together.
"Okay," she says. "But people look scared when someone gets hurt. That doesn’t mean they’re in love."
You let out a hollow laugh that breaks into a half-sob. "You don’t understand. It's not just that."
"Then help me understand," she says. "Because the last time I saw him, he was completely smitten with you."
"Well, you were wrong about that. Because it was never me." Your voice breaks on the last word. "I thought all those little moments meant something, but they really didn’t. I thought..." you swallow. "Never mind what I thought. He asks about her. He laughs with her. He likes her. "
You can hear Olivia shift her position, thinking her words through before she speaks again. "Did Jack ever tell you he has feelings for her?"
"...No."
"Did he tell you he doesn’t want you?"
"...No."
"Then why are you acting like this is a fact?"
"Because she’s everything I’m not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "She’s calm, and kind, and easy to be around. She isn’t trouble, she isn’t messy—she doesn’t complicate everything."
"Honey—"
"And I do," you continue, your voice cracking more with each word. "I make everything harder."
"No, you don't—"
"God, I’m so embarrassed." Your breathing comes out in uneven bursts. "I was crawling into his bed every night, Liv. Every night. And he never even asked me to. I thought he wanted me there, but he was probably just too nice to tell me to stop."
"That is not what this sounds like," Olivia says.
Your voice sharpens. "Then what does it sound like?"
She sighs. "It sounds like you’re hurt and jumping to conclusions. People don't share that kind of space with someone they don't want."
You let out a scoff. "Of course you’d say that."
"Because I know you," Olivia says gently. "And because nothing you’re telling me proves that he doesn’t care about you."
Your eyes fill with tears again, your anger deflating. "He doesn’t care the way I care."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," you reply. "I do."
"Hey, listen to me," Olivia says, her voice growing firmer. "You’re scared, so you’re turning your worst fear into the truth."
Deep down, you know she might be right. But the other part—the louder part—keeps replaying Jack’s face and the panic in his eyes and the tenderness in his hands as he cradled Lily's face.
"I can’t do this," you whisper. "I can’t stay there and pretend I’m okay while he falls in love with someone else."
"Honey—"
Your lips quiver. "And the worst part is, I still want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me. I just don't know if I'm strong enough to pretend that I don't care."
Olivia shifts on the other end, but you continue before she can speak.
"Robby asked me to move to the day shift temporarily, but maybe I'll see if I can stay there permanently."
"He did what?" Olivia's voice sharpens instantly. "Are you serious?" She lets out an irritated breath. "Never mind. Let's hold off on any big decisions right now. You need some sleep, and then we can revisit this tomorrow, okay?"
You bit the inside of your cheek instead of answering. "I wish you were here," you whisper.
"Me too," Olivia replies. "But I’m just a phone call away. Everything will be alright, and I need you to promise me you won’t make any decisions today."
You let out a shaky breath. "I’m not sure."
"Promise me."
You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "…Okay."
"Good," she says softly. "I promise it’ll be fine," she adds. "And I never break my promises. You know that. I still can’t look at pictures from my first year in college—pink hair really didn’t suit me."
You laugh, even though it’s a shaky sound. But it’s a laugh, nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you soon." You sniffle, wiping your eyes. "Love you."
"Love you more," she says.
The call ends, and the room feels unbearably quiet. You curl tighter around yourself beneath the blankets, staring into the dark. No matter what Olivia says, you know what you saw. You know what it meant.
You're still not asleep when footsteps sound outside the door, but you don't rise from the bed. You won't disturb him anymore because Jack doesn't belong to you any more now than he did when this all started.
Jack walks through the front door nearly three hours later than he was supposed to. Day shift had been short a resident, and when the replacement called to say they were running late, Jack stayed behind to help. A thing he never should have said yes to, because half an hour in, they were slammed with multiple traumas.
And as he moved through them, fully present as he answered questions and guided residents, in the breaks in between, his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Home. With you.
Because the whole shift, one recurring thought had weighed heavily on his chest, a weight that made it harder to breathe: he had hurt you.
You'd assured him it was fine. Had looked him in the eye and said it was over, that it had just been the heat of the moment. But Jack knew better. He knew the difference between your real smile and the thin, careful one you’d given him outside the ambulance bay. He hated that he was the reason for it.
He'd replayed that scene over and over again; you throwing yourself at danger without any fear, how that patient had lunged at you, the violent rush of panic that shot through him when he realised just how close that first had come to your face, and the subsequent relief when you were okay.
A relief so sharp it had made him feel sick. Because the ugly truth was that for that split second, all he could think was: thank god it wasn’t you in that headlock. Lily had been hurt—she had bruises forming around her throat, was coughing and shaken, and needed care—and all Jack could feel was sheer, overwhelming relief that it wasn’t you.
The guilt of that still sat bitter in his stomach.
Then that fear—that sick, helpless fear—had spiralled into anger before he could rein it in. Anger was easier. Easier than admitting his hands had been trembling. Easier than saying: I thought I was about to watch you get hurt, and it would have shattered me.
So instead of telling you how proud he was—how fearless you had been, how quickly you had moved, how you had stepped in without hesitation to protect someone—he snapped at you. Scolded you in front of everyone. He had made you feel reckless. He had made you feel small. And worst of all, he had called you trouble.
The word still echoes in his mind as he drives home, hands tight on the wheel. He'd usually say it in a soft tone to tease you, but it was always fond, never cruel. But tonight, he had thrown it at you like an accusation.
And he hates that. Because you are trouble. But never in the way he’d made it sound. You were trouble because you had somehow made his world rearrange itself around you. Because his pulse spiked when you were close. Because his whole body knew the difference between you and everyone else. Because the idea of losing you hollowed him out.
That was what he’d meant. Not that you were a burden or difficult to deal with. Not that you were something to endure. But the moment the word left his mouth, all that tenderness had turned into something sharp enough to wound you.
Now all he could think about was getting home to you and making things right. He would apologise again. Hell, he’d even beg if that’s what it took. He’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell you exactly what he should’ve expressed in the hallway—that he’d been terrified, that none of it was your fault, that seeing you throw yourself into danger scared him to his core.
He’d tell you he was so sorry. He’d tell you he never intended to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.
But by the time he gets home, the house is dark and quiet. He glances automatically down the hallway. Your door is shut, not cracked open the way it usually is. Jack pauses for half a second, staring at it. Then he tells himself not to read into it. You could still be waiting for him like usual.
He makes a point of stepping down as he walks past your room, letting his feet hit the floor harder than necessary. He waits a second, ears straining, but he hears nothing. Not yet. So he heads to the shower, washing the hospital smell off as fast as he can. Afterwards, he climbs into bed and leaves the bedside lamp on. And then he waits.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Jack glances at the clock. Still nothing. He tells himself you're probably coming soon. Twenty minutes slip by. He reaches for his phone, checks it, then sets it back down. Thirty minutes pass. For one reckless second, he thinks about going to your door—knocking softly, apologising half asleep if he has to. But the thought of waking you, of asking for comfort after being the one who hurt you, keeps him rooted where he is.
He stares at the doorway, the bedside lamp still casting warm light across the empty room, but the sheets beside him stay untouched. There's no soft knock at the door, no sleepy smile, no weight dipping the mattress beside him. Slowly, the awful reality settles over him. You’re not coming tonight.
He sits there for another few minutes anyway, staring at the doorway like he can will you to appear. Maybe you’re asleep already. Maybe you were too tired after the shift to wait for him.
No matter how much he tries to explain it, he just can't shake that awful feeling. And for the first time in weeks, Jack falls asleep alone. Or he tries to.
Jack wakes with an ache in his limbs that he hasn't felt in a long time. But he doesn't have to wonder why, not when he's spent most of the day thinking rather than sleeping. The few hours of broken sleep that he had got weren't enough to dull the pain.
He stares at the ceiling for another minute and then pushes himself upright. He can still fix this. So he dresses and slips out of the house quietly.
The flowers are impulsive. He sees them outside the grocery store—soft pink and white tulips wrapped in brown paper—and buys them without thinking about it too long. Because they feel like something, something that says I'm sorry better than words might.
He's never been good at words.
Then he grabs breakfast. Coffee for both of you. Pancakes and eggs—the kind of breakfast you love on lazy mornings.
He balances everything awkwardly as he lets himself back into the house, feeling insanely nervous. He tells himself not to be. It was just an argument. People have arguments all the time. He’s just apologising. And yet his pulse picks up when he walks down the hallway toward your room.
He knocks softly, waiting for you to answer before he pushes the door open with his shoulder. You're sitting up in bed, wrapped in the blankets, the room dim except for the afternoon light leaking through the slightly opened curtains.
You turn your head to look at him, and for a moment, relief eases the tightness in his chest—until he sees your face and how puffy your eyes look. A rush of guilt overtakes it so fast it almost hurts and makes the knot even tighter than it was before.
"Hey," he says quietly, watching you carefully.
You glance at the flowers, then at the food, and a small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "Wow," you say. "What’s all this?"
Jack steps inside, carefully setting everything on the bedside table. "Peace offering," he tries to smile at you, but it falls flat.
"You didn’t have to do that," you say.
He shrugs, holding out the flowers to you instead of answering.
You take them after a brief hesitation. "They’re beautiful."
Jack lingers at the edge of your bed for a second before sitting down cautiously. "I’m really sorry about last night."
You shake your head immediately. "It’s okay."
The words hit him wrong immediately—too quick, too flat, like you're trying to smooth over something that still hurts.
"No," he says firmly. "It’s not. I was out of line."
You look down at the flowers in your lap. "Jack—"
"I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that."
You nod once, still avoiding his gaze. "Okay."
The word makes something twist painfully in his chest because that’s not like you. Usually, you’d argue with him. Tell him he was being a dick or tease him for spiralling. But now you’re just... accepting it.
For one brief second, he wonders if this is about more than last night—if something else is wrong—but guilt crushes the thought almost as soon as it appears. Of course, this is because of him. He did this.
He leans forward slightly, desperate for you to know, to see just how sorry he is. "I was scared," he admits.
That finally gets you to look up, but your expression remains unreadable. "I know."
"No, I mean it." His hands instinctively clasp together as he searches for the right words. He wants to hold yours instead, but he isn't sure you'd let him. "When that guy swung at you, I thought—" He exhales shakily. "I just lost it. That doesn’t excuse what I said, but I need you to know where it came from. Still, I’m really sorry."
You nod again. "I understand." Your voice is calm, and there's no anger or hurt on your face.
Jack studies you more intently now. "Did I make you cry?" he asks quietly. He already knows the answer to that. Can see it in your face. In how tears seem to bead at your waterline again. His hand twitches at his side, the urge to reach for you almost unbearable, but he stops himself.
Your shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. "No."
"Sweetheart—"
Before he can say more, you reach for the book on the bedside table, settling back against the pillows. "It’s fine, Jack," you say with your eyes fixed on the book rather than on him. "Really." You lift the book slightly. "I need to study."
The sound of paper rustling fills the silence between you.
Jack sits there for a moment, staring at the side of your face. He swallows. "I don’t want this to sit between us."
You shrug slightly, still not looking at him. "It’s not."
But it is. He can feel it—how your body is angled away from him, how you avoid his gaze, how the food sits untouched beside you. He wants to keep pushing—to ask what’s wrong, to make you talk to him, to somehow force the warmth back into the room—but the tension in your shoulders tells him that pressing further would only make things worse.
So instead, he nods once. "Okay."
You don’t answer.
He stands slowly. "Eat before it gets cold."
"I will."
You still don't look up at him. Jack hesitates by the door. Waiting, maybe, for you to call him back. For you to soften. For something. But your gaze stays fixed on the book.
So he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. It's only once he’s in the hallway that he lets out the breath he’s been holding. This feels worse than if you’d yelled at him, because at least anger would mean you were still letting him in.
But this carefulness, this distance—it’s unbearable, and he doesn't know how to fix it.
Later that evening, there's a warm and rich smell of garlic and spices drifting out from the kitchen, filling the house in a way that makes everything feel normal again.
Jack sits on the couch, watching you move around in the kitchen, the TV on low in the background. He'd offered his help, but you'd refused, pointing him towards the couch, telling him to relax before work. You'd pointed out that he was the one in scrubs and not you before he had a chance to argue otherwise. Even though you had rejected him, it had been said lightly with a shake of your head and a gentle 'I've got it', and it hadn't felt like you didn't want him there. The soft pat on his bicep had been the selling point that things might not be as bad as he thought earlier. Maybe you'd just needed a few hours alone for things to be good again.
He sinks deeper into the cushions, breathing out slowly as he listens to the familiar sounds of you in the kitchen—cabinets opening, a pan clinking against the stove, the low hum he doesn't think you even notice you make. It feels so normal that it almost makes him forget how tense everything had felt earlier.
You were okay now. You had to be. You’d even laughed at him. It was just a small thing he said—something he can’t even remember the exact words of now—but you'd laughed. That had to be good.
When you finally step back into the living room, it’s with two bowls in your hands. "Here," you say lightly, placing them on the coffee table.
Jack smiles. "Thank you."
You give him a quick, easy glance, and that simplicity settles him even more. It’s nothing like this morning—the book, the silence, the way you avoided meeting his eyes. This is good. This is you.
You disappear back into the kitchen before he can say anything else, and he watches you go for a moment longer than he means to.
You place a container on the kitchen island. "For later," you call out to him. "You’ll forget to eat otherwise."
"I don’t always forget," he retorts with a smirk.
"You do," you reply immediately, a slight smile tugging at your lips.
Jack grins more genuinely this time. "Okay, fair enough."
Leaning against the counter, arms loosely folded, you watch him now. There’s still something subtly different about you if he looks too closely—the way your smile fades the second he looks away, the way your arms stay folded like you’re holding something in. A softness that feels… a bit guarded. But it isn’t sharp. It isn’t pulling away. So he doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin it. Instead, he just nods toward the food. "You didn’t have to do all this."
"I know," you shrug, sliding onto the couch next to him. Your leg nearly brushes his. "Did you talk to Robby yesterday?"
"I did," he says, shovelling a bite into his mouth. "This is good," he points down at his bowl.
You don't answer that but shift in your seat instead, fixing him with a scrutinising gaze. "And?"
"And—nothing?"
"Nothing?"
"Yeah. Things were okay when I left," he says.
"Oh. Okay. Well... That's—that's good."
Your face falls slightly, but he isn't sure why. Maybe you were just reminded of yesterday again.
He hesitates, thumb tracing the edge of the bowl before he finally says, "Hey… about earlier—"
You cut in before he can finish. "It’s fine, Jack. Honestly." You're not dismissive, but you say it with a tone final enough to stop him from pushing.
You look at him, your voice softens, "You don’t need to keep apologising."
He studies your face longer than he should. You still look tired, a little too composed, but there’s no distance, nothing to suggest he should be concerned. So he nods. "Okay," he says quietly. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure."
And when you smile at him after that—small but normal again—he lets himself believe it. Perhaps he had blown it out of proportion in his mind.
By the time he heads out the door, he lets himself believe the worst of it is over. That whatever had shifted this morning was already settling back into place.
"Hey brother," Robby claps his shoulder as he steps beside Jack at the hub as morning slowly seeps into the Pitt. "I’ve been meaning to catch you."
Jack glances up from the tablet in his hand. "That doesn’t sound promising."
Robby lets out a short breath, but there's clear tension behind it. "I wanted to tell you yesterday, but, you know—" His head tilts as he shrugs. "Yesterday kind of got away from us."
Jack nods as he sets the tablet down, giving him his full attention.
"Just hear me out before you—" Robby starts, hands lifted in the air.
But Jack’s attention catches on movement to his left—you in scrubs.
His entire body goes rigid. You were not supposed to be here until tonight. This ruins his plans to treat you to another breakfast—preferably eaten together this time.
Jack straightens slowly, his eyes fixed on you as he speaks to Robby. "Who called out?"
Robby follows his gaze and mutters, "Shit."
Jack turns back to him, his voice already edged. "Why is she here?"
Robby rubs the back of his neck. "Heather wanted to switch to nights."
Jack stares at him for one long second. "So you traded her."
"It’s temporary—"
"You switched her to days?" Jack cuts in, louder now. He feels like he's been dropped into an ice bath.
Robby glances around at the nurses and residents nearby who are pretending not to listen. "Keep your voice down."
Jack huffs, arms crossing tightly. "No, I don’t think I will. You moved her without even talking to me?"
"It was the easiest fix—"
"The easiest fix?" Jack steps closer, his voice dropping into something sharper. "Out of everyone on this floor, that was your solution?"
Robby lifts a hand. "Jack—"
"No." Jack’s jaw clenches. "Absolutely not. Put someone else on days."
Robby’s expression tightens. "I needed coverage."
"So take Ellis."
Robby shakes his head. "Ellis can't."
"Then Crus."
"Jack—"
"I said no." The words crack out of him hard enough that Dana's eyes flit over, eyebrows raising in shock. She's seen Jack angry before, but never like this.
Robby lowers his voice, trying to contain the situation. "I’m not doing this to piss you off."
"Then what the hell are you doing?" Jack snaps. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you decided to screw with the one thing in my life I didn’t ask you to touch."
Robby exhales slowly. "Heather needed nights. I needed someone for days. She made the most sense."
Jack’s laugh is bitter now. "She made sense?" He shakes his head. "You had half the damn residency list to choose from, and you picked her."
"Because she agreed," Robby lets slip, his own irritation flaring.
The words hit like a punch. Jack goes dead still. For a second, the anger leaves his face entirely, replaced by something else—something wounded. "...What?"
Robby hesitates, like he knows too late he’s said the wrong thing. "...She already said yes."
Jack stares at him. The rage comes back all at once, but now it’s different—less explosive, more uneven. "She agreed?" His voice drops low. "You asked her before you told me?"
Robby’s silence says enough.
Jack huffs again, a low and furious sound. "Unbelievable."
"Jack, listen—"
"No, you listen." Jack points at him. "You knew exactly what this would do, and you did it anyway."
"I didn’t think—"
"That’s the problem, Robby, isn’t it?" Jack bites out. "You didn’t think."
Jack can’t stop the thoughts slamming into him. You agreed. You said yes. Without telling him. Without warning him. Without even giving him the chance to ask why.
"I'm sorry, man. But it's only a couple of weeks."
Jack’s mouth twists. "A couple of weeks?" he repeats. "You think that makes this better?"
Jack looks away, dragging a hand over his mouth, trying and failing to get control of himself. Because suddenly all he can think is that maybe this was your way out. Maybe you were tired of the arrangement. Maybe you’d realised what this had started to mean to him and decided distance was easier than saying it.
"She’ll still be here," Robby says.
"That’s not the point." Because this means no more quiet drives home. No more slipping into bed beside you in the dark and pretending none of this was temporary. Just hallway conversations. Passing glances. And the worst part—the part clawing at him—is knowing you chose it.
Well, Robby had offered it, but you hadn't said no. His chest burns, each breath scorching on its way out.
"I thought you talked things out yesterday?" Robby asks carefully.
Jack looks back at him. "We did." That's what he thought, but maybe the argument had been the tipping point for you.
Robby studies him for a second too long, then sighs. "Then maybe this isn't what you think it is. Maybe she's just being nice."
Jack isn't sure. Would you really switch to days without telling him if it didn't mean what he thought it did?
"Take someone else," he tries again.
Robby’s expression softens, but he doesn’t budge. "I can't. She's already been scheduled on days."
He breathes out harshly. "Fine," he says flatly. But there is nothing fine about the way his hands are shaking. Nothing fine about the rage burning behind his ribs. Nothing fine about the fact that beneath all of it—all the anger, all the fury—what he really feels is hurt.
He turns and heads for the lockers before Robby can say another word.
You're purposefully slowing down your movements as you place your jacket and bag in your locker, hoping to delay your entry enough that Jack might have already left.
You're a good actress, have been for years, ever since your parents showed their first signs of disappointment in you. You'd learned how to smile through it, pretend it didn't hurt you while the ache worsened inside. It's a skill that proved incredibly useful in navigating interactions with Jack yesterday, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong.
He wasn't supposed to see your puffy face or be able to discern that you were hit harder by seeing him with Lily than you were supposed to—so you mustered all your strength in pretending to be fine. You cooked him dinner. You laughed with him.
But when he told you he was okay with you switching to days, that pretence had faltered for the briefest second. Because you thought or at least hoped that he might have put up a little bit of a fight, tried to convince you not to go, but instead, he had just accepted it.
It only served as reinforcement of your conclusion from yesterday. And during your next phone call with Olivia, she couldn't convince you of anything else.
Jack liked Lily. That was it.
You're not lucky enough to avoid him, though. You hear him before you see him, his familiar stride, quick and purposeful, sounding heavier before he stops in front of you. His eyebrows are drawn together, lips pressed into a tight line.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me?" he asks.
You pause mid-motion, your locker half-open, and turn to face him. "Tell you what?"
"That you switched shifts." The words come clipped, like he’s forcing them out evenly.
You stare at him, brows furrowing. "What?"
Jack's arms cross. "Did you not think I would find out? Or were you just waiting for me to figure it out on my own when I saw you walking in?"
"I don't understand what's going on," you say, watching him with narrowed eyes.
"No?" His jaw tightens. "Let me spell it out for you then. You agreed to switch your entire schedule, and somehow that wasn’t worth mentioning?"
Irritation spikes through you. "You told me yesterday you talked to Robby," you say sharply. "You said it was all good."
"What?"
"You said you talked. That everything was fine," you snap. "How was I supposed to know you meant everything except this?"
Realisation flashes on his face, but your anger is already mounting.
"Jesus, Jack, if you didn’t know, this makes us look suspicious as hell."
His brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"
"You know what I mean." Your voice drops but sharpens in edge. "If I’m switching shifts and my husband doesn’t know about it, what does that look like to others?"
Jack stares at you for a moment, then his voice lowers as well. "That’s what you think this is about?"
You cross your arms and give him a one-armed shrug. "Then what’s it really about?"
His voice rises before he can rein it in. "It’s about you making a decision that impacts both of us without even telling me."
The force of his words takes you by surprise. You expected relief, not this intensity.
"It’s just a temporary shift change."
"That’s not the point."
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Then what is the point?"
Jack steps closer, frustration spilling over despite his attempts at control. "The point is that you agreed to this without talking it over with me."
"I didn’t realise I needed your permission. Is this my attending talking to me right now?" Like it had been yesterday when he'd yelled at you about protocol.
He rubs his face with a rough hand and mutters, "I knew things weren't fine between us."
"They are, but you're being a dick again."
He places his hands on his hips, exhaling hard through his nose. "I don't understand why this isn't a big deal to you?"
It is. But it shouldn't be to him.
Because if he wanted Lily, then this should make things easier for him. Because you’re trying to give him room to have what he actually wants. But you can’t say any of that. You don't even understand why he feels this heated over it. He's probably just annoyed he didn't know. That this means that how he conducts the night will change.
You're interrupted as a nurse slips into the hallway, glancing furtively at the two of you. You step aside as she hurries to her locker, pushing her bag in and leaving just as fast. The interruption drains the heat from the moment, leaving only the things neither of you can say with someone else in earshot.
Your anger starts to fade into something quieter as you wait for the door to close again.
"It’s only for a few weeks," you murmur. "Night shift will survive."
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No, we won’t."
You give him a tired look. "You managed before I switched to nights."
"No," he insists, more firmly this time. Almost like he's trying to goad you back into arguing with him.
But your frustration has evaporated, and you just feel drained. "It’s temporary," you repeat, your voice calmer. "Heather wanted nights. I know day shift. It makes sense."
Jack stares at you as if your explanation only makes things worse. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"
You shrug, trying to sound neutral. "I thought you knew." You hesitate for a second. "And... I didn’t think it mattered that much."
His expression shifts, as if your response hit him harder than you intended. You realise you’ve given him the wrong answer, but you have no idea what he wanted to hear.
"It’s only for a couple of weeks," you repeat, moving to step around him.
As you near the door, his voice halts you. "It matters to me."
Your chest tightens. For half a second, you almost turn back. For half a second, hope surges so suddenly it makes your chest ache. Maybe he doesn't want the distance. Maybe he meant—
No.
You shut the thought down before it can fully form. You can’t let yourself hear more—not when you know none of this means what you wish it did. Because this only matters in terms of the schedule and what he needs to do as your attending. Not because he's hurt that you're switching. Not because it means more like it does for you.
So, you keep your back turned to him. "You’ll be fine. Robby already sorted out the schedule. You don’t need to do anything."
He doesn't follow you when you step out.
Day shift welcomes you back like you'd never left. You fall back into the pace easily, picking up charts, checking orders, moving room to room without having to think too hard about where you need to be next. Still, there's a nagging pit in your stomach that won't fade.
Because every time there's a slight lull, a moment where your mind can wander, it circles back to Jack standing in front of your locker this morning. With a clenched jaw, eyes sharp, demanding to know why you hadn't told him.
Demanding like it mattered. Demanding like the decision hurt him.
You hadn't expected it. Not when he, the previous night, had seemed indifferent. That look on his face when you told him it didn't matter lingered in your mind, and if you dwell on it too long, it makes you second-guess everything.
So you don’t.
You focus on your tablet. On your patients. On the familiar pace of day shift. You do not think about Jack.
"So..." Princess appears beside you so suddenly that you nearly jump.
You glance up from the tablet in your hands. "So?"
She leans one hip against the counter, grinning in that way that means she’s about to pry into something that is absolutely none of her business. "Heard you and Abbot got into a fight yesterday."
Your stomach drops. Of course, she heard. Nothing happens quietly in the Pitt, and yesterday had been many things, but subtle was not one of them. Jack had snapped at you in front of half the department, and you’d snapped right back. It had been brief, but the tension afterwards had been impossible to miss. And given your relationship, people were more than curious to know what was going on. Even if they had seen you being 'fine' at the end of shift.
You force your face into a neutral expression and look back at your tablet. "It was nothing."
Princess makes a sceptical noise. "That's not what I heard. Also, you're here."
You tap through a chart, pretending to read. "We disagreed about protocol. Then we moved on."
"Really?" she asks, drawing the word out. "Because from what I've heard, it looked a lot less like 'professional disagreement' and a lot more like 'married couple about to throw hands.'"
You let out a dry breath through your nose. "Princess."
"What?" she says innocently. "People noticed."
You finally look at her. "There is nothing to notice. And I'm here because Heather wanted to switch to nights. It's only temporary."
She studies you for a second, clearly deciding whether to dig deeper. You know that look. Princess thrives on details, a thing you normally don't mind; you just don't like it when it's directed at you.
She leans in a little closer. "So you’re saying you and Abbot are fine?"
"Yes."
She sighs dramatically. "Wow. You are no fun."
"Sorry to disappoint," you murmur.
She tilts her head, still watching you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"
The question is lighter than the last few, but the impact is greater. Because the honest answer would be not really. The honest answer would be that your chest still feels tight from the look on Jack’s face this morning. The honest answer would be that you don’t know whether he was angry because you apparently blindsided him, or because putting distance between you hurt him.
And that second possibility is a treacherous path to wander down.
So you give her the easiest answer. "I’m fine."
Princess squints at you like she doesn’t believe it for a second. With visible reluctance, she decides to let it go. "If you say so."
She glances around before leaning in again, brightening instantly. "Oh! Did you hear about Smith?"
"What about Smith?"
Princess grins, leaning in to murmur. "Robby put her on probation."
Your eyebrows lift. "For what?"
"Apparently, she tried to kiss him in the supply closet."
You stare at her. "What?"
Princess nods, delighted by your reaction. "That’s what I heard."
You let out a startled laugh. "No way."
"I swear."
"Smith tried to kiss Robby?"
Princess shrugs. "Guess she has terrible judgment."
You shake your head, still half laughing in disbelief. "That cannot be true."
"I mean, I didn’t see it happen," Princess says, "but the rumour is she cornered him, and he reported her."
"That's insane."
Princess laughs. "I know."
"Ladies." Robby steps up to the hub, stethoscope in his hands, sliding in beside you like he hasn’t just walked into the middle of a gossip session. "Working hard or hardly working?"
Robby raises an eyebrow, but doesn't chastise you. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely," she replies before backing away.
Robby shakes his head, pulling up the nearest computer to log in. For a second, neither of you says anything. You focus on your tablet. He pretends to focus on the screen. Then—
"So..."
You don’t look up. "No."
Robby glances over. "I haven’t even asked anything yet."
"You’re going to."
He huffs a laugh under his breath. "Probably."
You tap through another chart. "Then no."
He still shifts slightly in his chair, giving you his full attention anyway. "Did something happen between you two?"
You keep your eyes glued to the screen. "Me and Princess?" you reply lightly. "No, we're all good."
Robby gives you a look. "You know that’s not what I mean."
You shrug one shoulder. "Then I don’t have anything to tell you."
He studies you for a moment, then lets out a quiet sigh. "I know you two fought yesterday."
You let out a short breath. "We disagreed."
He rubs his beard, looking apologetic. "I didn't know when I asked you."
You shrug again. "Doesn't matter. I would have said yes, anyway."
Robby’s gaze stays on you; he hums unconvinced. "Mm."
You look back down at the tablet.
Robby is quiet for a second, then says in a gentler tone, "Whatever’s going on, it’s getting to him."
The words make your throat tighten. Because that isn't what you need to hear. Because it makes it harder to believe letting go is the right thing. But Robby doesn't know what you know.
You keep your expression blank. "It's just temporary."
Robby’s voice softens further. "Is it?"
That question almost cracks something open. For one dangerous second, you feel the sting behind your eyes. But before you can answer, Victoria appears at the counter, a tablet in her hand and an eager smile on her face. "Hey, can I present my case to one of you?"
You look up, grateful for the interruption. "Sure," you say, already stepping away.
Robby watches you go, and you can feel it. But you don’t turn around. If you do, he might offer some words of kindness, and right now, that would sting worse than judgment.
You know where you stand. You don’t need to hear it from Robby, too.
You follow Victoria toward the room, forcing your mind back to medicine, to facts, to anything that makes sense, away from Jack. You make it through the presentation on autopilot, nodding in the right places, asking the right questions, checking Victoria's conclusions.
The second it's over, you slip into the nearest supply closet. Try to breathe normally and fail. Your hands shake. You press them against the shelves. Try to still them like you do in a trauma.
It doesn't work.
Your breath catches hard enough to hurt, one hand flying to your mouth to smother the sound when the first sob breaks free. You allow it for a second, and then you wipe your face fast. Brushing away the tears and fixing yourself. Then you re-enter the E.D.
"Hey, you good?" Perlah asks as she passes you, concern glinting in her eyes.
"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
It's true, so you're not exactly lying to her.
Perlah hesitates like she might say more, but then she nods and keeps walking. You exhale slowly, forcing your hands to stay uncurled at your sides and straighten your shoulders again. Tucking the hurt somewhere deep enough to ignore as you grab a tablet, heading for your next patient.
It's a quarter to nine when Parker walks over to the hub after getting caught in back-to-back examinations. "Where's Trouble?" she asks, scanning the space with a frown. She hasn't seen you since you tossed her a protein bar after rounds. "Is she in triage?"
Lena looks up, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "Didn't you hear?"
Parker pauses, squinting at her. "Hear what?"
"She switched to days."
Parker blinks in disbelief. "What? She wouldn't do that."
Lena shrugs, then her gaze finds Collins in the middle of a trauma. She nods in her direction, "Collins wanted nights before she leaves."
Parker stares blankly at Lena, connecting the dots, then her gaze snaps towards Abbot. Suddenly, his pissed-off expression makes sense. She’d thought his mood was fallout from yesterday—from the argument, from Lily getting hurt on his watch—but this was worse. She still remembers how he acted when you were sick—this could only be worse. "Oh shit."
"Abbot?" Shen strolls over, coffee in hand, following her line of sight and grimace.
She nods resignedly.
"Ah, yeah," Shen sighs, taking another sip. "It's gonna be a rough couple of weeks."
"Weeks?" Parker shakes her head. "We're doomed."
The three of them watch Abbot for a second—the clenched jaw, the ramrod posture, the way he taps relentlessly at the tablet like it offended him.
"Yeah," Shen comments dryly, "looks like the honeymoon phase is over."
Parker groans, resting her forehead on her arms. "Great."
"If by great, you mean excruciating," Lena chimes in, then ducks her head down as the man in question walks over.
"If you’re done chit-chatting, there are patients waiting. Or have we forgotten why we’re here?" Abbot asks, voice flat.
"No," Parker murmurs.
"Then what are you waiting for?" He doesn't even stop to see if she moves, just walks away, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.
Parker closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Jesus."
Shen raises his brows. "We might not make it through this."
"Whoever gets Trouble back gets out of the next ortho consult with the shark," Parker proposes, looking over at Shen.
"You're on."
Parker doesn't care who wins as the shift drags on—she just hopes one of them is able to succeed because this is hell. Every interaction with Abbot is terse, every question he asks tinged with annoyance. He catches mistakes before they occur and looks furious for having to correct them. He moves through the Pitt like a tempest—cold, sharp and impossible to ignore.
And the worst part of it is that he's exceptionally good. Hyper-focused to the point that he misses nothing. Charts get corrected, incomplete labs still ordered on time, and the resident who hesitated for a second too long gets reprimanded for endangering a patient. Everything gets caught, and each correction comes with that same biting edge.
By eleven o’clock, the tension in the night team is palpable. Parker watches Abbot from the corner of her eye as she charts. She only turns her head enough to murmur to Lena, careful not to catch his attention again. "Is he really this upset just because she switched shifts?"
Lena glances up briefly, weighing whether to share what she heard from Dana. "No."
Parker frowns. "Then what is it?"
Lena sighs. "He’s upset because she didn’t tell him."
Parker winces. "Oh."
Across the room, Abbot mutters under his breath as he yanks off a pair of gloves with excessive force. Parker studies him for a moment longer, then quietly mutters, "Why in the world did she agree to switch?"
Lena shrugs.
Whatever happened between the two of you is written all over Abbot—in the clipped orders, the rigid posture, the way every word cuts.
Whatever it is, it’s bleeding into everything, and Parker doesn't think she can survive weeks of it.
Robby catches Jack on the rooftop after a trauma-heavy night. He leans on the railing, watching Jack's back, who hasn't looked back even though he'd clearly heard him enter. He tries humour first, "Rumour has it you've been terrorising the night shift."
Jack doesn't answer.
Robby continues when that doesn't work, "I know this is about her switching shifts." He breathes out slowly. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know it would hit this hard."
Jack huffs under his breath, sharp and bitter. He still doesn't answer him
Robby softens slightly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. Whatever might make this better."
"There’s nothing to say," Jack finally says.
"Bullshit."
Jack lets out a long breath. Robby waits.
Finally, Jack says, "She’s pulling away. She figured it out."
Robby frowns. "Figured what out?"
Jack laughs, a hollow sound. "That I’m in love with her."
The words sit there between them longer than either of them moves. It's the first time he's heard Jack say it aloud. State it plainly. Robby blinks, then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving breath.
And because the situation is awful (partly his doing, or so he's been told multiple times by Olivia) and because Jack looks like hell and because Robby genuinely cannot believe what he’s hearing, he says, "You think that’s what this is?"
Jack turns to him sharply. "What else would it be?"
Robby stares at him for a second. Because from where he’s standing, Jack has somehow taken a bad week and built an entire tragedy in his head. "She switched shifts after a fight," Robby says carefully.
Jack shakes his head immediately. "No."
Robby raises an eyebrow. "No?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "She was fine after the fight."
Robby doesn’t buy that, but he lets it go. Bites back a comment and watches as Jack drags a hand through his hair.
"She started pulling away after that. She barely talks to me. She won’t look at me. She changed shifts." His voice roughens. "She knows."
Robby folds his arms. "And your evidence is... what?"
Jack stares at him like the answer is obvious. "All of it."
Robby lets out a breath through his nose. "Jesus Christ."
Jack’s jaw tightens. "Robby." He says it like a warning.
"No, I’m serious." Robby shakes his head. "You think she found out you have feelings for her and decided to rearrange her life to avoid you?"
Jack looks away again. "Yes."
Robby stares at him, huffing a disbelieving laugh. "You are unbelievable."
Jack laughs once, a humourless sound. "Glad you find this entertaining."
"I don’t," Robby says sharply. "I find it insane. I see a sleep-deprived idiot making assumptions instead of having one honest conversation."
Jack doesn't answer him, just crosses his arms.
Robby rubs a hand over his mouth, clearly seeing that Jack isn't hearing what he's saying. "Okay," he says carefully. "Let’s say you’re right. Then ask her."
Jack’s answer is immediate. "No."
Robby blinks. "No?"
Jack shakes his head once. "No."
Robby stares. "If you think that’s what’s happening, why the hell would you not ask her?"
Jack’s voice drops quieter. "Because if I’m right, saying it out loud makes it real."
Robby studies him for a second. "And if you’re wrong?"
Jack laughs bitterly. "I’m not."
Robby tilts his head. "You don’t know that." He leans against the railing when Jack doesn't answer. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re dead wrong."
Jack gives a tired shake of his head. "You don’t know that."
"No," Robby says. "But I know what she looks like when she sees you."
Jack glances over.
Robby shrugs. "And I know what you look like right now."
Jack looks away again.
Robby presses on. "If you won’t talk to her because you’re afraid she’ll confirm this," he gestures between them, "then this spiral is on you."
Jack's shoulders tense. "...I can’t."
Robby exhales. "Then at least stop punishing everyone else." Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. "You don’t have to confess. But for the love of God, just talk to her."
Jack stares out at the city again. "Maybe."
Robby heads for the stairwell after a moment, then glances back once. Jack hasn’t moved. Still staring into the city like the answer might be written there—and refusing to look anywhere else.
Jack knows he's spiralling, but he can't understand how one argument has created this much distance between you. Every thought feeds the next one. Every unanswered question breeds ten worse possibilities. He tells himself he’s being irrational, that there’s an explanation, that if he could just hold on for another day, everything would make sense again—but the hours keep passing, and nothing makes sense.
He thought you were fine. That you just needed a little bit of space—he didn't realise you needed so much that you would switch to day shift. And it's not like he can even ask you because he only sees you at shift change. Only gets a brief moment of respite during his day, where he gets to spend time with you. But it's never alone.
You don't linger at the lockers. You don't have time for a quick break with him, always stating that patients are waiting. So all he has are the few moments, where he gets to feel your arms around his midriff when you greet him, and the few minutes he's breathing the same air as you as you do rounds.
And then he's alone again. He drives home alone. He eats alone. He sleeps alone.
Well, he tries to. The nightmares have come roaring back—violent and vivid and relentless. Every time he closes his eyes, something drags him under. He wakes sweating, heart pounding, gasping into the dark, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed only to find cold sheets. He’s lucky if he gets three hours. Most days it’s less.
And with the sleep deprivation comes the rest of it—the buzzing under his skin, the restlessness, the inability to sit still. The police scanner seems to be calling his name louder and louder with each passing day. Like it’s reminding him that there are easier things to deal with than this. Gunshots. Car wrecks. Overdoses. Those things make sense. Those things are simple: someone is hurt, and he knows what to do.
Because this creeping, gnawing fear that he is losing you and doesn’t know why—he has no idea what to do with that.
So his mind fills in the blanks. At first, it’s small. Maybe you’d just been kind when you agreed. Maybe you'd just been tired every time he'd caught your eye, and your smile didn't seem genuine. Maybe you just needed a little more space before things go back to normal. Maybe he's just overreacting, and you're fine.
But then the thoughts get darker. Maybe you’d realised he was too much. Maybe you’d seen how badly he’d fallen, and it scared you. Maybe all this distance was your way of telling him to let go.
Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe all of this distance—all the clipped words, the changed shifts, the careful professionalism—is because you finally realised what he’s been trying so desperately to hide. What he'd only just recently stopped doing because he thought you might like him back.
Because he does like you. God, he likes you so much it makes him feel sick. He likes the way you nudge his shoulder when you pass him in the hallway. He likes the way you steal fries off his plate. He likes the way your voice softens when you’re tired. He likes the way your face lights up when you laugh. He likes the way you know how to steady him when the world gets too loud. He likes the way being near you makes the noise in his head quiet down.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe you saw it in the way he watches you. Maybe you felt it in the way he holds onto hugs half a second too long. Maybe you noticed the way he finds excuses to be near you.
And maybe you didn’t like it.
Maybe you’ve been pulling away because the truth makes you uncomfortable. Because whatever arrangement the two of you created, it wasn’t supposed to become this. It wasn’t supposed to become feelings. And maybe now that you know, you’re trying to put the walls back up. Easing him out of your life without having to actually say it.
And the thought destroys him. Because if that’s true, then every day that passes is another day you’re proving to yourself that you don’t need him. Another day of learning how easy it is to breathe without him there.
A whole week passes in a blur, and that almost makes it worse—how fast time moves when he wants it to stop. Every shift ends before he can gather the nerve to ask what’s wrong. Every night comes before he’s slept enough to think clearly.
And all the while the clock is ticking. He can't help but be scared, even if he knows you're coming back to the night shift soon. But he also knows that means you'll be an attending, and with that, the arrangement you'd created also soon comes to an end. The strange little life the two of you built—the blurred lines, the late-night conversations, the stolen moments, the comfort of pretending this was more than it was—ends.
You becoming an attending means he'll stop being your husband and go back to just being a coworker. He stops being whatever he has been to you. Stops being the person you come home to. Stops being the one you curl up beside after a brutal shift. Stops being the person who hands you coffee when your eyes are half-closed after waking. Stops being the one who feels you tuck cold feet against his legs in bed.
You becoming an attending means you'll move out again.
Maybe the move to day shift wasn’t just about work. Maybe it was the beginning of goodbye.
Still, he dissects every word, every glance, every pause. Trying to find proof. Trying to find hope. He keeps smiling when he sees you. Keeps pretending he’s fine. Keeps taking those few scraps of closeness like they’re enough. Because if he asks and the answer is yes—if you tell him outright that you’ve been distancing yourself because of his feelings—then the fragile hope keeping him upright shatters.
As long as no one says it aloud, he can pretend. Pretend the shift change is temporary. Pretend the distance isn’t deliberate. Pretend you aren’t already halfway gone.
Ouchie. we're done for. Im so sad! I hate watching our babies ache and struggle. I feel just like olivia and Robbie. I could not handle watching this angst for more than a few days. How no one has punched Abbott in the face and tied Trouble to a chair I do not know. an intervention needs doing and needs doing now!
my mom told me this story tonight about my grandfather. she said when he was a little boy he was afraid robbers would break into his house in the middle of the night and try to abduct him out of his bed. he thought that they would be able to feel that he was the shape of a little boy under the covers and know to grab him. so he would try to fall asleep in the shape of a letter of the alphabet. so that they would feel for him and be like "oh it's just the letter R, not a kidnappable child"
Chapter Twenty-One: Did You Like Her In The Morning?
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Noelle Hastings (she here again help me),
Word Count: 6.9k
A/N: Absolute angst and pain in this one— that’s my bad… again. I promise in the next like 2 or 3 chapters. Probably.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Did You Like Her In The Morning? By NIKI
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11:00 A.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
The board at Central looks worse by the minute.
Rows of names, room numbers, vitals, and half-finished notes stretch across the Google sheet displayed on the large monitor. Dana stands beside you with her reading glasses low on her nose, scrolling through updates on the workstation while you track bed availability and lab statuses.
The ER hums around you—phones ringing, printers spitting out lab stickers, stretchers rattling across tile.
You’re halfway through double-checking a pending lab result when you hear the familiar squeak of wheelchair wheels approaching behind the desk.
Donnie’s voice cuts through the noise.
“Robby.”
Robby, who’s standing just across the counter reviewing something on the iPad, looks up.
“Yep.”
Donnie wheels the patient closer to the desk. A middle-aged woman sits in the chair, her foot propped awkwardly on the footrest. Even from where you’re standing, you can see the angry redness spreading up her lower leg.
“Cellulitis on the dorsum of the foot,” Donnie explains, gesturing toward it. “Now spreading up the leg.”
Robby moves immediately, already pulling gloves from the dispenser mounted on the wall.
“Hello,” he says gently as he crouches down in front of the patient. “I’m Dr. Robby. Mind if I take a look?”
The patient—Debbie, according to the chart on the screen—looks mildly concerned more than anything else.
“How long do you think this is gonna take?” she asks worriedly. “I took an early lunch break.”
Robby gently presses along the inflamed area, and the reaction is immediate.
Debbie hisses sharply and jerks her leg back, “Ow!”
Robby studies the leg for another moment before straightening up.
“I don’t know that you’re gonna make it back to work today,” he says calmly. He gestures toward the swelling, “Erythema and warmth halfway up her knee.”
Then he glances toward Donnie.
“When did you see her?”
Before Donnie can answer, another voice cuts in.
“He didn’t.”
Langdon steps forward from behind the wheelchair.
“I did.”
Robby pulls off his gloves with a sharp snap, the latex popping as they come free.
“When?” he asks.
Langdon doesn’t hesitate.
“About four hours ago. Gave her a dose of Keflex. Told her to come back if things got worse.”
Robby looks back down at Debbie’s leg, then at Langdon.
“Things have definitely gotten worse.”
He turns slightly toward Dana.
“Dana, what’s open?”
Dana glances quickly at the board, “Trauma Two.”
Robby nods once, then looks at you. “Ducky, can you get her started in Trauma Two with some vanco and blood cultures, please?”
You’re already reaching for the wheelchair handles.
“Sure thing.”
Debbie sighs as you begin turning the chair toward the trauma bay hallway.
Behind you, Robby and Langdon fall into step as you start wheeling Debbie toward Trauma Two. The hallway is crowded, forcing you to weave carefully around stretchers and supply carts.
Donnie peels off halfway down the corridor, heading back toward triage.
Langdon quickens his pace slightly.
“I’m coming with.”
Robby doesn’t look at him as they follow you through the trauma doors.
“Suit yourself.”
The tension between them hangs in the air—thin, quiet, unresolved.
You push the wheelchair into Trauma Two and begin prepping the room, already reaching for the blood culture kits and IV supplies as the two doctors step in behind you.
TRAUMA TWO — DAY
The trauma bay is already brightly lit by overhead lights when you wheel Debbie inside.
You move quickly, muscle memory taking over as you park the wheelchair beside the bed and help her shift onto the stretcher. Jesse is already pulling supplies from the cabinet—IV start kit, blood culture bottles, saline flushes.
The monitor begins its steady beeping as the pulse ox clips onto her finger.
You spike the antibiotic bag and hang it from the IV pole.
“Hanging vanco,” you announce as you connect the tubing and program the pump.
The clear liquid begins to drip steadily down the line.
Jesse moves beside you, securing the first IV while you prep for another draw.
From the bed, Debbie looks between all of you, anxiety creeping into her voice.
“What’s vanco?”
Langdon barely looks up from where he’s kneeling beside the stretcher, using a blue surgical marker to outline the spreading redness on her leg.
“A really strong antibiotic,” he says evenly, tracing the line carefully, “to kill skin germs.”
The trauma room door opens again.
Dr. Al-Hashimi steps inside, glancing around the organized chaos of the room.
“Need a hand?”
Robby doesn’t even turn from the chart on the workstation on wheels.
“No. We got this.”
Al-Hashimi nods calmly, folding her arms.
“I’ll just observe. Pretend I’m not even here.”
Langdon straightens slightly and rolls the workstation closer.
“Let’s send off a CBC, blood cultures, and CMP.”
Robby is already scanning the patient’s vitals on the monitor, “And also a lactic acid, CRP, and calcitonin.”
Langdon pauses, looking up, “Wait. She’s not febrile, not tachycardic. No evidence of SIRS.”
Robby twitches faintly at the interruption, glancing sideways at her.
Al-Hashimi lifts her hands slightly in surrender.
“Sorry.”
Langdon gestures vaguely as he types.
“An exaggerated defense response.”
Debbie frowns.
“A what?”
Robby steps closer to the bedside, his voice softening slightly.
“Sometimes the human body can have an overreaction to an infection,” he explains. “So we’re going to monitor you to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Debbie nods uncertainly—
—and then her phone begins buzzing loudly on the bed beside her.
She glances at the screen and winces.
“It’s my boss,” she mutters apologetically. “Sorry, I have to take this or he’s gonna fire me.”
Robby sighs but nods.
“Okay.”
Debbie answers the call.
“Hello. No, I’m still at the hospital. Being seen right now—Ow!”
You glance up briefly from the IV line you’re securing, giving her an apologetic look before returning to the task.
“No, they just stuck me with a needle,” she continues breathlessly. “I don’t know. You wanna talk to them?”
Both Langdon and Robby immediately shake their heads.
“They’re kind of busy right now,” Debbie says into the phone quickly. “I know you are.”
You tape the IV in place and straighten slightly.
“Second IV’s in.”
Debbie nods distractedly, still clutching the phone.
“No, I’m not overreacting. My body’s overreacting. Please—please don’t fire me. I—”
Before she can finish, Robby steps forward.
He pulls one glove off with a sharp snap and tosses it aside. Then he takes the phone directly out of her hand.
Your head snaps up.
Langdon freezes.
Jesse stops mid-motion with a saline flush.
Robby lifts the phone to his ear, voice suddenly firm and commanding, “This is Dr. Michael Robinavitch. I am the chief of emergency medicine at PTMC.”
The entire room goes silent.
“If you fire her,” he continues evenly, “she will sue you. And I will testify on her behalf.”
There’s a beat of stunned quiet.
Then Robby ends the call and calmly hands the phone back to Debbie.
His voice softens again as if nothing unusual just happened.
“Okay. Don’t worry about it. We got you.”
Debbie stares at him, wide-eyed, while you, Langdon, and Al-Hashimi all look at him in complete shock.
Robby simply turns toward the wall, pulling another glove from the dispenser like this is just another normal moment in the ER.
Your mouth is still hanging open.
Jesse notices and lightly gestures with two fingers.
Close your mouth.
You immediately duck your head, focusing very hard on adjusting the IV pump.
Because the way Robby just did that—
The authority.
The protectiveness.
The absolute certainty in his voice—
Your entire body feels like it just caught fire.
And you pretend, very carefully, that it didn’t.
Monitors continue their steady beeping. The IV pump ticks softly as the vancomycin drips through the line you’ve just secured. Jesse updates the chart on the workstation while Langdon stands beside the bed, watching the border of redness he marked earlier.
Debbie shifts slightly on the stretcher, with her legs straight. The inflamed skin is angry and swollen, the red marker line creeping dangerously close to the area Langdon had outlined earlier.
Robby leans down again, studying it closely.
“I am getting concerned,” he says quietly. “This is a millimeter past the line.”
Langdon shifts slightly. “Or my line was sloppy.”
Robby doesn’t answer that. His focus stays on the patient as he gently presses near the edge of the erythema.
“Any increase in pain?”
His fingers barely touch the skin before Debbie gasps sharply.
“Oh—!”
Robby immediately pulls his hand away.
“Okay, sorry.” His voice softens again. “Let’s try four morphine.”
You’re already reaching for the medication drawer, pulling the vial and drawing up the dose with practiced precision.
Langdon glances back at the lab results on the screen.
“White count’s only ten thousand,” he says. “It’d be over twelve thousand for SIRS.”
Robby stands slowly from the bedside, rubbing the back of his neck as he considers that.
“There are other criteria,” he replies evenly.
Jesse glances up from the monitor.
“Still afebrile.”
Robby looks back at Langdon.
“Did you ask about past history of MRSA?”
Langdon shakes his head. “Not specifically. But she’s never been hospitalized.”
Robby continues, almost like he’s running down a mental checklist.
“Any evidence of an immunocompromised state?”
“No,” Langdon says. “She’s healthy.”
“Steroid use?”
“Never.”
You glance briefly at the monitor before speaking up.
“Maximum heart rate’s only eighty-nine.”
Debbie turns her head slightly toward you.
“Is that okay?”
Langdon nods reassuringly, “That’s good. Very good.”
Robby’s expression doesn’t change.
He pulls his gloves off more sharply this time, the latex snapping as he removes them. Then he turns fully toward Langdon, meeting his eyes with a look that is calm—but unmistakably firm.
“Stay with her,” Robby says. “Monitor her closely.”
He gestures briefly toward the spreading redness, “If there’s any change in her condition, come find me.” His tone drops just a fraction more serious, “I mean any change.”
Langdon nods.
Robby holds his gaze for one more second, making sure the point lands.
Then he turns and walks out of Trauma Two.
The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.
The room is quiet for a moment.
You glance toward the doorway he just disappeared through, then back at Langdon.
And you shake your head slightly.
Because sometimes Robby worries like the whole world is one bad infection away from falling apart, and sometimes you wonder if he realizes he does the exact same thing with people.
TRAUMA TWO — DAY
The room has shifted from routine to tense.
You can feel it in the way everyone moves a little faster now, voices tighter, attention sharpening toward the patient in the bed.
Jesse presses a button on the monitor.
“Cycling the BP.”
The cuff inflates around Debbie’s arm with a soft mechanical hiss.
Robby is back at the bedside, leaning over her leg again, eyes scanning the red marker line Langdon had drawn earlier.
He frowns.
“Okay… this redness is now a centimeter over that line,” he says quietly. “And this might be a bulla forming.”
A small blister is starting to rise along the edge of the swelling.
Langdon glances down at it.
“The vanco takes a little time to work.”
You check the monitor beside the bed, eyes scanning the numbers automatically.
“Vital signs are still stable,” you report calmly. “One twenty-two over seventy-eight.”
The wall phone suddenly rings, shrill in the small trauma room.
Jesse gestures toward it.
“I got it.”
He steps over and lifts the receiver.
Robby turns back toward Debbie.
“How are you feeling, Debbie?”
She shifts slightly on the pillow.
“I’m feeling a little warm.”
Robby presses the back of his hand against her forehead as Langdon shrugs lightly, “That can happen with vanco.”
Jesse is still on the phone, listening.
Then his expression changes.
“Thanks, man.”
He hangs up and looks toward Robby.
“Lactic acid 4.2.”
Your stomach drops a little.
That’s not good.
Robby’s head snaps toward Langdon.
“Okay.”
Debbie looks between the two doctors nervously.
“What’s wrong?”
Langdon straightens slightly, forcing his voice to stay reassuring.
“That can be a sign of a more serious infection,” he explains. “But the good news is we know what to do.”
He looks toward Jesse.
“Jesse—two liters of LR wide open.”
Jesse nods and immediately begins adjusting the IV fluids.
Langdon moves to the workstation on wheels, pulling up the order screen.
Robby follows him, voice lower now.
“This is severe sepsis.”
Langdon exhales quietly, “I know. But at seven a.m., it was a simple cellulitis. Anyone would’ve given her Keflex.”
He scrolls through antibiotic options. “We could add carbapenem or Zosyn to broaden our antibiotic coverage.”
Robby watches the screen for a second.
Then he taps his badge against the workstation and gently—but firmly—slides Langdon a step to the side.
“Okay,” Robby says. “I got it.”
Langdon steps back.
“Thanks.”
Robby starts entering the orders.
“Jesse, Ducky—one gram meropenem, nine hundred milligrams clinda.”
He glances up briefly.
“And page Dr. Garcia, please.”
You nod immediately, and Debbie shifts anxiously on the bed. “What’s going on?”
Langdon turns back to her, “We’re adding new antibiotics.”
Her eyes widen, “It’s serious?”
You strip off your gloves as you step toward the door.
“Excuse us a moment,” you say gently.
Langdon continues reassuring her as you leave. “We want to get ahead of it and make sure it doesn’t become serious.”
He glances toward Robby. “What else can I do?”
Robby doesn’t look up from the workstation.
“I think you’ve done enough.”
Then he finally meets Langdon’s eyes.
“You can go.”
Langdon pauses.
Then nods once and quietly steps out of the room.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The ER noise washes over you again the moment you return to Central.
Ahmad is arguing with someone about the betting board near the security desk.
You sit down beside Dana at one of the workstations, pulling up Debbie’s chart and typing the medication administration notes.
Dana watches you for a moment from the corner of her eye.
Then she sighs, “You haven’t sung a single note today, Ducky.”
You keep typing.
“This is worse than last year.”
You shrug faintly without looking away from the screen. “The songs cycling through my head right now are not very happy songs, if I’m being honest.”
You tap the keyboard a little faster.
“Besides… it’s only eleven a.m. Ask me again during lunch.”
Dana hums, unconvinced.
From the corner of your eye, you see Robby walking back toward Central.
Your shoulders instinctively tense as you shift slightly in your chair, making yourself smaller behind the monitor.
Robby leans over the counter beside Dana.
“How’s it going?”
Dana removes her reading glasses with a sigh. “Great. If you ignore the hot mess in chairs.”
Robby glances toward the waiting area briefly.
“Any update on our little baby Jane Doe?”
Dana scrolls on the iPad in her hand.
“Security’s reviewing the CCTV from last night and this morning.”
As she speaks, she notices Langdon walking toward Ahmad near the security room, where the betting board is still filling up with sticky notes.
Dana nods toward him. “You two kiss and make up yet?”
Robby sighs quietly.
“I think someone needs to smoke a cigarette.”
Dana frowns.
“I’m trying to quit.”
Robby shrugs as he straightens.
“Why don’t you quit when I’m on my trip?”
The word trip lands in your chest like a dropped weight.
You sink a little lower in your chair.
Dana glares at him as he walks past. “Asshole!”
Robby just lifts a hand over his shoulder in lazy acknowledgment and heads toward the ambulance bay for some air.
Dana watches him go.
Then she glances sideways at you.
And notices how quiet you’ve gotten again.
SOUTH 15 — DAY
The room is quieter now.
Louie sits upright on the bed, and the swelling along his gum reduced after the drainage procedure. The suction tubing has been cleared away, and the metal tray beside the bed holds neatly folded gauze and a capped syringe.
You stand beside the workstation on wheels, finishing the charting for the procedure—documenting the incision and drainage, the local anesthetic, the patient’s tolerance of the procedure. The soft tapping of your keyboard fills the brief lull.
Langdon steps closer to Louie, watching his hands carefully.
“Hold out your hand, Louie.”
Louie extends his palm.
There’s a faint tremor.
Langdon nods slightly. “A little shaky.”
Louie snorts, “No surprise. I’ve been here since four a.m.”
Langdon glances toward the monitor and then back at him.
“We can get you something for that.”
Louie lifts his shoulders lazily.
“Or I can take care of it myself if you cut me loose right now.”
Langdon exhales softly.
“Let’s get Louie fifty milligrams of Librium.”
Whitaker, who has just entered from the other door, is now by your shoulder, reviewing the chart, and nods. “I’ll put in the order.”
You close out the charting window and step away from the workstation.
“I’ll get it from the PDS.”
Whitaker shakes his head lightly.
“I’m already assigned as Louie’s treating physician. Just makes sense that I put it in.”
Langdon pauses for half a second.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
The words sound polite. But the tension behind them is impossible to miss. Langdon nods once and walks out of the room without another word.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
Ahmad still hovering near the security desk with the betting board like this entire place isn’t already chaotic enough.
You sit down at your workstation and start typing again, documenting Louie’s medications and the order Whitaker just placed.
Then Central 6 opens, and she walks out.
Noelle Hastings.
She moves toward a nearby workstation with the kind of confidence that fills a room whether anyone wants it to or not. As she passes Robby, she gives him a slow glance and a flirty smile.
Robby, meanwhile, is still talking with Dana.
Dana scrolls through the board on her iPad.
“Food poisoning in the hall’s asking to leave,” she says. “Wants to take her kids to the water park.”
Robby grimaces as he grabs his thermos on the desk, “Those places are cesspools.”
Dana snorts, “Preaching to the choir.”
“If she’s feeling fine on Zofran, she’s good to go.” Robby shrugs.
Dana nods. “All right. Louie’s in South 15. Meds are coming down. Another couple hours of monitoring and he can broom.”
Robby lets out a sad sigh, “Straight to the liquor store.”
“Don’t pass ‘go.’”
“What about that clamshell case that went up—anything?”
“Out of surgery. In recovery. Still sedated.”
Robby nods. “Good. Keep me posted on that.”
“Will do.”
Dana walks toward you then.
And the moment she gets close enough, she notices your face.
You’re holding it together.
Barely.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but you haven’t typed anything in several seconds.
Because Noelle Hastings is here.
Again.
Third time today.
And apparently, the universe has decided today is the day you test the structural limits of your own emotional stability. Maybe even the limits of your medication.
Across the desk, Robby sets his thermos down and crouches slightly, pretending to tie the loose lace on his boot.
“Three times in one day,” he says casually. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Noelle smiles.
“I came down for a consult,” she says lightly. “And to persuade Ahmad to start a new betting board.”
Robby glances toward the security desk.
“Why? Is the Westbridge board full already?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She tilts her head. “Was gonna ask him to start one about you and your midlife crisis trip.”
She smirks. “I give it four weeks. Seven tops.”
Robby stands again, grinning.
“Ye of little faith.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “Not about faith. Just facts.”
“Facts?”
“Based on my experience,” she says softly, “you’re a seven-week-itch kind of guy.”
They’re standing too close.
Too comfortable.
And something inside your chest twists so sharply it almost makes you dizzy.
Before it can spiral any further, Perlah suddenly calls out from the counter.
“Hey, Robby!”
He turns.
“Med student’s got a pickleball player in the North Hall with possible Achilles rupture. Asking for your opinion.”
Robby nods.
“Thank you, Perlah.” Then he grins over his shoulder, “At least somebody down here has a little faith in me.”
And he walks off.
The second he disappears down the hallway, Noelle leans against the counter.
“You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?”
Dana doesn’t look up from what she’s typing into the workstation. “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.”
Noelle shrugs. “Three months on the open road by himself. Man can’t stand to be alone more than a few hours.” She smirks, “He sleeps with the TV on in his bedroom.”
Then she glances at you, the look is subtle, but it lands like a slap.
“What about you?” she asks sweetly. “You’re close friends with him. Any secrets you want to share?”
Your jaw tightens.
You stare at your computer screen.
Because if you open your mouth right now—
The things that might come out would either send you to HR, a psych ward, or jail.
Dana notices. She sees the way your knuckles have turned white against the keyboard. The way you’ve gone completely still.
She turns slowly toward Noelle, “I really don’t think I needed to know that.” Dana sighs, “Look. Maybe he’s looking for something new. Or trying to outrun some old ghosts.”
Noelle shrugs lightly, “Well, I hope he finds what he’s looking for.”
She grabs her tablet.
“Man deserves some peace.”
Then she walks away toward the elevators.
Dana watches her go.
“...Amen,” she mutters.
Then she looks at you.
“Ducky.”
You don’t respond.
You’re pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes now. Hard. Like maybe you can crush the pressure building behind them.
“Ducky… you good?”
Your voice is small when it comes out, “I feel like I might vomit again.”
Dana softens immediately.
“You wanna go home early today?”
You shake your head.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not fair to everyone. To the patients.”
Dana exhales slowly. “Mm. This ain’t fair to you either.”
You stare at the desk, “I’ll deal with it.”
Dana studies you for a moment.
Then she opens her arms slightly.
“Want a hug?”
Your voice cracks.
“Yes.”
You wipe your eyes quickly.
“And then I’m going outside to scream in the ambulance bay. Or maybe get hit by a car. Who knows.”
Dana pulls you into a quick, tight hug.
Because she knows that tone. The one where you’re joking just enough to keep from falling apart completely. Sometimes the only way to keep moving is to accept that this is your life. That some people get the beautiful, easy stories. And some people get the ones where you learn to survive the heartbreak quietly.
You pull away after a second.
Take a breath.
Then turn back to the computer.
You pull away from Dana after a moment, wiping the last of the dampness from beneath your eyes before anyone else in Central can notice.
The computer screen waits patiently in front of you.
Vitals.
Medication times.
A half-written nursing note blinking in the corner of the chart.
Your fingers return to the keyboard, but the words won’t come.
Because your mind is somewhere else entirely.
It drifts to small things you can’t stop imagining—little quiet moments that don’t belong to you. The kind of ordinary mornings that build a life between two people when no one else is watching.
You wonder if she ever saw him the way you do.
If she watched the last of the sleep leave his eyes in the pale morning light. If he ever stood in some unfamiliar kitchen beside her, drinking coffee that had gone cold because he forgot about it while talking—coffee he never actually likes but drinks anyway out of habit.
Your mind builds these pictures whether you want it to or not.
Did she see past the walls he keeps so carefully in place?
Did she figure out the quiet parts of him the way you tried to—every small fracture, every soft place he hides under sarcasm and long hours and a stubborn refusal to sit still?
Or maybe she didn’t.
Maybe she just stayed long enough to leave a shape behind.
You swallow hard and stare at the chart in front of you, but the thoughts keep circling.
You imagine late nights somewhere far from the hospital—dim bars, low laughter, the weight of someone leaning into him after too many drinks. His hand steady at someone’s waist. The quiet intimacy of walking someone home through unfamiliar streets, the kind of night where time stretches because neither person wants it to end.
Maybe it started on one of those lonely nights people like him pretend they’re immune to. The kind where the apartment feels too quiet after a fourteen-hour shift, where the TV hums in the background just to prove there’s still noise in the world. Maybe someone laughed at something he said and stayed a little longer than they meant to. Maybe a conversation turned into something softer. Something easy.
And maybe later, when it ended—as things like that always seem to—he told himself it was just the loneliness talking.
Just the night.
Just two people filling space until morning came.
But that’s the problem with stories like that.
Someone always ends up meaning it more than the other.
And sitting here at this workstation, watching that blinking cursor like it’s keeping time with your own pulse, you can’t help wondering which side of that story you would end up on if you ever let yourself step into it.
TRAUMA TWO — DAY
The trauma bay doors slide open with a soft hydraulic hiss as you step back inside.
The room feels different from when you left it—heavier somehow. The air carries that sharp, sterile mix of antiseptic and plastic tubing, but beneath it there’s the unmistakable tension that settles in when a patient starts turning for the worse.
Jesse is standing near the foot of the bed adjusting the IV pump. Debbie lies propped up against the pillows, her face flushed now, damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead.
He glances over when he sees you.
“You okay?”
It’s not a casual question.
He’s been watching you for the past two hours—how quiet you’ve gotten, how you’ve started disappearing into yourself between tasks.
Your head throbs faintly, a dull pressure building behind your eyes. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until it slips out of you in a tired sigh.
“Mhm,” you murmur. “Just a lot today.”
You move to the monitor, automatically checking the lines and the numbers blinking across the screen.
Before Jesse can say anything else, the side door to Trauma Two slides open.
Robby steps in, the movement quick and purposeful.
“How we doing in here?”
Jesse answers immediately when you don’t. “Spiked a temp to 102,” he says. “Gave Tylenol. Check out her leg.”
Robby pulls a wheeled stool over and sits beside the bed, rolling closer to examine Debbie’s leg again.
The redness has spread even further now, angry and swollen. A large blister has formed along the edge of the infection.
“That is a definite bulla,” Robby mutters.
He glances up.
“Did surgery come down yet?”
Jesse shakes his head, “Not yet.”
Debbie’s eyes widen at the word surgery. “I need surgery?”
Robby shakes his head calmly.
“Page them again,” he says to Jesse. “Surgery would be a last resort.” He gestures gently toward her leg. “We’d like them to come down and take a look in case we need to remove this infected skin.”
Debbie looks shaken, “I thought it was just a little swelling… ’cause I’m on my feet all day.”
Your eyes flick back to the monitor, and the numbers make your stomach drop. “BP’s down to eighty-five over forty.”
Robby’s head snaps toward the screen.
“How much LR is in?”
“Full bolus,” Jesse answers.
Robby nods once. “Do another liter. Then start Levophed. Titrate to a MAP of sixty-five.”
Jesse immediately moves to adjust the IV pump, while Debbie looks between all of you, fear creeping into her voice, “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”
You check the oxygen reading again, “Pulse ox down to eighty-nine.”
Robby turns toward the equipment wall.
“Hundred percent non-rebreather.”
You grab the mask immediately and secure it over Debbie’s face while Jesse increases the oxygen flow.
Robby leans closer to the bed again, his voice calm and steady.
“Sometimes an infection can cause your blood pressure to drop,” he explains, “and lower the amount of oxygen in your blood.”
Debbie’s eyes shine with panic. “Am I gonna be okay?”
Robby meets her gaze, “We’re doing everything that we can to make sure that you are.”
Robby stands near the main door, scanning the monitor and the patient with the sharp focus of someone mentally running through every possible next step.
Then his attention shifts to you.
“Ducky.”
You glance up briefly and move toward him where he stands by the doorframe, hands resting against the metal rail of the bed.
“Mm?” you hum softly.
You stop a few feet from him, but you keep your gaze lowered—toward the floor, the monitor cable, anywhere but his face.
For a second, he just watches you.
Not the patient.
Not the monitor.
You.
Your silence.
The way your shoulders are a little tighter than usual.
The way you’re avoiding his eyes.
Then he clears his throat slightly and gestures toward the airway cart.
“Be ready to intubate if you need to.”
You nod once and give a quick thumbs-up.
Still not speaking.
Still not looking at him.
Robby’s brow tightens slightly.
Jesse steps closer from the IV pole, glancing between the two of you. He’s known both of you long enough to recognize tension when it creeps into a room.
“You want me to call Langdon?” he asks.
Robby shakes his head immediately.
“No. I’ll be right back. And call surgery and tell them to get their heads out of their asses and get down here.”
Jesse nods.
“Got it.”
Robby turns and walks out the door, but just before stepping through, he pauses.
Something makes him look back.
Over his shoulder.
At you.
You’re already moving again—checking Debbie’s oxygen seal, adjusting the blood pressure cuff, glancing up at the monitor as the numbers flicker across the screen.
Your hands move with steady efficiency, your voice calm as you reassure the patient.
Like nothing else in the room exists.
Like he doesn’t exist.
You don’t look up.
Not once.
Robby lingers for half a second longer than he should.
Then he exhales quietly, pushes through the door, and disappears into the hallway.
The room has crossed from tense to critical.
Debbie’s blood pressure continues to sag despite fluids. The Levophed is running now, the infusion pump humming steadily beside the bed. The oxygen mask fogs faintly with each shallow breath she manages.
Robby stands at the head of the bed, already preparing the airway equipment while you move with him, muscle memory guiding every step.
The intubation tray is open. The laryngoscope blade glints under the harsh trauma lights. A syringe sits ready to inflate the cuff.
“Alright,” Robby says calmly, voice steady despite the urgency. “Let’s do this.”
The sedative and paralytic are already in. Debbie’s eyelids flutter once before her body relaxes completely against the bed.
Robby positions himself and slides the laryngoscope in, lifting carefully, eyes focused down the airway.
“Tube.”
You place the endotracheal tube into his waiting hand without hesitation.
He advances it smoothly.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
The tube slides into place.
He removes the blade and secures the tube while Jesse connects the bag valve mask.
Robby glances up.
“Okay, bag her.”
You move immediately to the head of the bed and begin ventilating, squeezing the bag in steady, practiced intervals.
Your eyes flick to the capnography monitor.
A line appears.
You announce clearly, “Yellow on the end-tidal.”
Confirmation of placement.
Jesse moves to Debbie’s chest with his stethoscope, listening carefully.
“Sounds a little wet.”
The trauma room door swings open behind you.
A young man in fresh scrubs hurries inside, pulling gloves on as he approaches.
“Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Got backed up.”
Jesse glances at him briefly.
Robby doesn’t even look up.
“Someone asked for a surgical consult?” the young man adds.
Robby adjusts the IV lines briefly.
“That’s because of all the fluid,” he mutters. “TKO the lines for now.”
You glance over at the ventilator as respiratory brings the tubing over.
“Vent settings fifty percent, tidal volume five hundred, AC twelve?”
Robby nods. “Yep. That’s perfect.”
The young man steps closer now.
“Surgery here,” he says awkwardly. “Hello.”
Robby finally looks at him.
“Hey. It’s about time.”
He scans the room behind him.
“Where’s Garcia?”
The young man shrugs.
“Stuck in the ER. She sent me down.”
He gestures toward Debbie.
“What you got?”
Robby gestures sharply toward the patient, “Septic shock. Respiratory failure. And possible necrotizing fasciitis.”
“She needs to go to the OR ASAP,” Robby continues. “The infection was isolated to the dorsum of the foot five hours ago.”
He points to Debbie’s leg.
“But now we’re almost to the knee with bullae, crepitus, and edema.”
The young man leans closer to look.
“Yeah.”
Robby studies him for a second.
“You seen nec fasc before?”
The man hesitates.
“In a textbook,” he admits. “I was a med student two weeks ago.”
Your stomach sinks.
He pulls out his phone.
“Gotta show this to Dr. Garcia.”
He starts snapping photos of Debbie’s leg.
Robby stares at him.
For one full second.
Then two.
His jaw tightens.
“Okay,” Robby mutters.
Then louder—
“Okay. Jesus Christ.”
The resident finishes taking pictures and starts backing toward the door.
“I’ll go get her—”
Robby cuts him off sharply.
“Go get anybody else from your service down here.”
His voice rises now, frustration boiling over.
“Shamsi. Miller. Walsh—”
The resident freezes halfway through the doorway.
“I don’t know any of those people, but—”
“Don’t take this personally,” Robby snaps as the man finally turns and runs down the hallway. His voice echoes out the door after him. “I just need a fucking grown-up down here.”
The trauma room falls quiet again except for the steady rhythm of the ventilator.
You continue monitoring Debbie’s airway, your hand resting lightly on the bag valve mask tubing.
Robby drags a hand down his face.
And for just a second, the exhaustion behind his anger shows through.
The trauma bay is thick with the smell of antiseptic and warmed plastic tubing.
The ventilator hums beside the bed now, delivering steady mechanical breaths to Debbie. The Levophed pump clicks softly with every dose as it pushes life-saving vasopressors through her IV line.
You stand near the monitor, watching the numbers with the kind of focus that makes the rest of the room fade out.
Your voice stays calm as you report the latest vitals.
“MAP’s holding on Levophed. One mike per kilo per minute.”
You barely glance at Robby when you say it.
He’s still at the foot of the bed, staring down at Debbie’s leg like it’s personally offended him.
“Do me a favor,” he says.
He doesn’t look up.
“Give me some four-by-fours on some Betadine.”
You move immediately, opening the antiseptic bottle and soaking several gauze pads before handing them over.
Just as he takes them, the trauma room door opens again.
Dr. Garcia finally steps in, tying her surgical cap tighter as she surveys the room.
“Sorry,” she says quickly. “We’re getting killed with transfers from Westbridge. Mesenteric ischemia, perforated bowel.”
Robby barely acknowledges the explanation.
“Got a hot one here.”
Garcia glances toward Debbie’s leg.
“Yeah. Possible nec fasc.”
Robby’s head snaps up.
“Possible?”
Garcia folds her arms.
“Need CT with contrast to confirm.”
Robby stares at her like she just suggested something completely ridiculous.
“This is spreading like wildfire,” he says sharply. “By the time you get your CT it’s gonna be up to her waist.”
He gestures toward Debbie’s thigh.
“She’s gonna need a hemicorporectomy.”
Garcia doesn’t budge. “She needs a CT scan.”
Robby doesn’t answer.
Instead, he grabs the Betadine bottle from the tray and begins spraying the antiseptic directly over Debbie’s leg, the brown liquid running down the swollen skin.
Then he grabs a scalpel.
“How about a stainless steel scan?” he mutters.
Garcia’s head jerks up.
“For Christ’s sake—Robinavitch!”
Her voice jumps an octave.
“Robby, what the fuck are you doing?”
But he’s already making the incision.
The scalpel slices through the skin with practiced precision.
Rick—still hovering near the doorway—goes pale instantly.
“Oh God,” he chokes. “I think I might puke.”
Robby doesn’t even glance up.
A thin, murky fluid seeps from the incision.
He gestures toward it with the tip of the scalpel like he’s presenting evidence. “That,” he says evenly, “is called dirty dishwater exudate without purulence.”
“There’s a gray appearance to the fascia,” he continues calmly. “And in the OR you’ll see easy separation in the tissue planes.”
Garcia stares down at the wound.
Her jaw tightens.
She already knows what that means.
Necrotizing fasciitis.
She exhales slowly and looks back up at Robby.
“When do you start your sabbatical?”
Robby wipes the scalpel clean against a gauze pad and throws his gloves on the ground.
“Tomorrow.”
Garcia shakes her head faintly.
“Not a moment too soon.”
Robby doesn’t respond.
He pushes the trauma room door open with his back as he steps into the hallway.
“Thanks for coming down,” he says dryly over his shoulder.
SOUTH 15 — DAY
After bringing Debbie to the OR, you return downstairs to the ED and sit at a workstation near Central to begin typing notes.
South 15 had been quiet only moments before.
Louie sits slumped slightly on the stretcher, the cardiac monitor tracing a lazy rhythm across the screen. The pulse ox cable trails loosely from his hand—again—after he’s pulled it off for the third time that morning.
Langdon stands beside the bed, trying to reattach it.
“You lose your pulse ox again, bud?” he mutters, tapping the sensor back onto Louie’s finger.
But Louie doesn’t respond.
Langdon looks up.
“Louie?”
Still nothing.
The color in Louie’s face looks wrong now—too gray, too slack.
Langdon’s voice sharpens immediately.
“Louie. Louie!”
Across the room, the door swings open.
Robby steps in from the hallway, still holding a cold can of beer from a relative of a patient's cooler.
He glances at the monitor.
“It’s on,” he says automatically. “It’s at seventy-one.”
Langdon shakes Louie’s shoulder harder.
“Louie, wake up.”
Louie’s head lolls.
No response.
Robby drops the beer can onto the counter without another thought and moves to the bedside, fingers immediately pressing against Louie’s neck.
A second passes.
Then another.
Robby’s expression hardens.
“I’m not getting a carotid.”
Langdon’s already moving.
“I got the airway.”
Everything in the room snaps into motion.
Robby looks up and yells, “Hey, Ducky—crash cart, intubation tray, please.”
You’re already running.
Your chair rolls backward as you bolt from the workstation, shoes hitting the tile hard as adrenaline kicks in. You round the corner toward the crash cart, heart hammering as the familiar rhythm of emergency takes over your body.
Monitors alarming.
Langdon calling for oxygen.
Robby preparing for compressions.
And you’re sprinting back down the hallway with the crash cart, knowing exactly how fast a moment like this can turn into a fight for someone’s life.
End Notes:
I will say again… oh Louie :(((
JFC NOELLE YOU PMO I—- (I need to calm down.)
Everyone is wondering when they’ll get their shit together… I’m sayING AROUND the end of S2… maybe idk (dONt pressure me, I promise it will happen)
My ask box is poppin' off, and I swear I will try to reply as fast as I can! I send you all my love! I sound like a broken record, but thank you sososososos much for reblogging, commenting and liking my fic. You guys are seriously the best. :>
I cant say im not pleased with Robbie's disappointment over Ducky's behavior. And I know time is truly crawling for everyone. A true hour takes soooo long. I do like that he keeps checking to see if she gives him her final glance like she always does, like hes always been used to. I like that he feels like he's missing out when he doesnt get it. But it feels unwaveringly selfish of him. And I kinda want to punch him in the face for it.
Chapter Twenty: It's An Endless Cycle, Turns Me Upside-Down
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby,
Word Count: 6.0k
A/N: This is where things begin to spice up! (in a not fun way lol)
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/snoozingsnoopy. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Cycles by Griff
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10:00 A.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
The Emergency Department has settled into that deceptive mid-morning rhythm—busy enough that nobody is standing still, but calm enough that people can breathe between cases.
You drift with the group toward the window beside the security room, where Ahmad stands with a dry-erase marker poised dramatically over a whiteboard like a game show host about to reveal a prize.
A small crowd forms—Dana, Robby, Dr. Al-Hashimi, and a couple of nurses passing by who pause just long enough to see what the speculation is about.
Ahmad draws a line across the board with unnecessary flair.
Robby unfolds his arms loosely, palms opening as if presenting the scene, “The man is in his element.”
Al-Hashimi watches Ahmad scribble numbers and guesses across the board.
“What’s he doing?”
Dana answers without looking up from the phone she’s dialing.
“Age-old ritual meant to capitalize off the unknown origins of Westbridge’s current state of affairs.”
She glances toward Al-Hashimi when the new attending doesn’t immediately catch on.
“Whoever guesses the reason they went Code Black wins the pot.”
Recognition dawns.
“Ah,” Al-Hashimi says with a small smile. “Interesting. We didn’t do this at the VA.”
Robby reaches into his wallet and pulls out a twenty, flicking it lightly between his fingers before holding it up.
“You game?”
“Of course.”
Ahmad gestures to the board proudly, “Now, how’s this look to you?”
Robby hums by the doorway, considering.
“My wager’s on flooding,” he says finally. “They’ll be down for three hours, and we’re getting twenty of their patients.”
Ahmad scribbles it down on a sticky note while Al-Hashimi crosses her arms thoughtfully.
“Put me down for flooding. Four hours. Thirty patients.”
Ahmad nods enthusiastically, “Okay, okay, okay. Hey, Dr. Robby—looks like you’ve got some competition.”
Robby glances sideways at her, amused, “Yes… it would appear that I do.”
Ahmad then turns the pen toward you.
“What do you think, Ducky?”
You hesitate.
Your brain does what it always does—runs through worst-case scenarios like a rapid diagnostic algorithm.
Your eyes flick to Dana, “Code Black. Internal disaster, right?”
Dana nods once, “That’s right, kid.”
Your brow furrows slightly as you think it through.
Robby notices immediately.
“I don’t like that look,” he says.
You shake your head faintly as you reply, “Uh… I’ll put my bet down later.”
Dana lowers the phone and claps her hands once as she walks to Central.
“All right, guys and gals, enough fun. We have people to take care of.”
Her eyes shift to Robby.
“You want to bring Langdon back from triage for the extra hands?”
Robby answers without hesitation, “No, I do not.” His tone is calm but firm, “I don’t think that’s necessary. We’re doing just fine without him.”
Dana raises her eyebrows slightly but shrugs.
“You’re the boss, boss.”
As everyone disperses, you can still feel Robby’s eyes on you for a moment longer than usual—like he’s still trying to figure out what that look on your face meant.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The large tracking board hums softly overhead, names shifting as beds turn over. Princess leans against the counter beside you, phone still in her hand after sending a quick text.
“Rose should know what’s going on over at Westbridge,” she murmurs, sliding the phone back into her pocket. “If anyone’s gonna spill, it’s her.”
You nod absentmindedly.
Both of you lean slightly over the counter, watching Javadi type furiously at her workstation. Her brow is furrowed in that hyper-focused way that says she’s deep in charting.
Princess tilts her head.
“Hey, Javadi,” she says sweetly. “What are you doing for your birthday?”
Javadi freezes mid-keystroke while she looks up, eyes wide, “Who told you?”
Princess shrugs innocently, “Word gets around.”
Javadi shakes her head immediately. “Nothing. I hate celebrating my birthday.”
You sigh beside her, “You and me both, girl.”
Princess smacks your arm lightly.
“You only turn twenty-one once.”
Whitaker approaches Central just then, leaning casually across the counter like he’s been there the whole time.
“It’s your birthday?” he asks. “Oh, that makes you a Cancer, right?”
Javadi blinks at him.
“I didn’t peg you for an astrology girlie.”
Whitaker shrugs.
“Yeah. Been spending too much time around Santos.”
Right on cue, Santos walks up to a workstation, already grumbling as she taps her badge against the reader to log in.
“Yes,” she mutters. “You have.”
Princess glances between them with amused disbelief.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” she says. “Live together and work together?”
Santos looks over her shoulder and flashes a tired smile.
“It’s my cross to bear.”
Princess laughs and heads off toward another patient, leaving the rest of you clustered at Central.
Javadi shudders dramatically.
“It can’t be as bad as having to live with your parents.”
Whitaker shrugs.
“I don’t know. I haven’t lived at home in years. I kind of miss it.”
Santos clicks her mouse a few times, scanning through a chart.
“I can tell,” she says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time on that farm.”
Javadi turns in her chair.
“Farm?”
Santos smirks.
“Remember the burned farmer who came in last year? Propane tank explosion. He died in the ICU.”
Javadi nods slowly.
“Yeah. That was sad.”
“Well,” Santos continues casually, “this guy has been playing house with his widow and their baby.”
Javadi exhales through her nose.
“Oh. That’s messy.”
Whitaker straightens immediately.
“No—it’s not like that, okay?” he says quickly. “I’ve been helping Amy out on the farm after her husband died, and she’s a friend.”
Santos doesn’t even look up from her screen.
“Sure,” she says dryly. “Just a friend. With farm benefits.”
Javadi turns toward Whitaker, eyes lighting with mischief, “What are farm benefits?”
“Oh, use your imagination. You ever see a milking machine?” Santos grins.
Whitaker groans, “Oh my God. Can we not talk about this?”
You point at Santos, shaking your head, “Girl, you are freaky.”
“Takes one to know one,” Santos winks at you.
Before the teasing can escalate further, Dana appears behind the group.
“We’re getting two runs rerouted from Westbridge already,” she announces. “Chest pain and belly pain.”
She points toward the ambulance bay.
“Robby wants you three out back.”
Whitaker straightens immediately.
“Thank you.”
Dana shoves them gently away from the counter.
“Come on.”
The three residents scatter toward the ambulance bay, still bickering.
You glance up just in time to see Al-Hashimi briefly stop Santos in the hallway, saying something quietly before continuing toward the bay herself.
The moment the crowd thins, you turn back to Dana.
“Dana…”
She pauses mid-step.
“Yes, Ducky?”
You lower your voice slightly.
“I have this bad feeling that whatever’s happening at Westbridge might happen to us.”
Dana studies your face carefully, “You know something we don’t?”
You shake your head.
“Maybe. I just… have a hunch.”
You glance toward the ambulance doors.
“And I don’t want to jinx it.”
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The ED noise swells again as the morning settles into its rhythm—phones ringing, monitors chiming, the distant rumble of gurneys rolling through the ambulance bay doors.
A woman stands near the edge of Central, shifting nervously from foot to foot, her purse clutched tightly in both hands.
“Busy today, huh?” she asks uncertainly.
You glance at your watch out of habit.
“Uh… well, it’s 10:15,” you say with a small smile. “We’re actually just getting started.”
Her eyes widen a little.
“Oh.”
You guide her gently toward Samira, who’s standing near the workstation reviewing labs.
“There she is,” you say. “Dr. Mohan, this is Lorrie Diaz—Orlando’s wife.”
Samira immediately softens her posture and steps forward.
“Thank you, Ducky.”
You nod once and slip away, letting the physician take over the conversation. The way Lorrie’s fingers tremble around the strap of her purse tells you she needs a doctor’s answers more than a nurse’s reassurances right now.
Back at Central, you pause just long enough to glance at the board before grabbing the dental tray you’d prepped earlier.
South 15 — Louie.
Right.
You head down the short hall and knock lightly on the door before stepping inside.
SOUTH 15 — DAY
Louie is reclined slightly in the exam chair, looking miserable but still managing his usual crooked smile when he sees you.
“Hi Louie,” you say warmly as you roll the stool closer. “Ready to get rid of this toothache? Time to numb it up.”
He groans softly.
“Mm… could use a drink,” he mutters. “Might numb it all the same.”
You shake your head, pulling on gloves.
“Nope. No more alcohol for you.”
Louie sighs dramatically.
“I know.”
You prepare the syringe, checking the lidocaine vial before drawing it up.
Louie watches you work for a moment.
Then he asks casually—
“How are you and Robby?”
Your hands pause for half a second.
“What do you mean?” you ask carefully.
Louie shrugs slightly against the pillow.
“I’ve seen you two work together,” he says. “You both have that chemistry.”
He smiles faintly, distant for a moment.
“I used to have that with Rhonda.”
You busy yourself with the gauze and syringe tray, focusing on lining everything up just right.
Your voice comes out quieter.
“We’re just coworkers, Louie.”
Louie hums skeptically.
“Mhm.”
You keep your focus on the syringe, pushing the anesthetic slowly along the gumline. The fluorescent lights reflect off the stainless tray beside you, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the overhead vent.
“Besides,” you add quietly, eyes still on your work, “he doesn’t see me as anything more than that.”
Louie watches you carefully.
“You sure about that?”
You pull the needle out and press gauze gently against the injection site.
“Bite down for me.”
He does, cheeks puffing slightly as he holds the gauze in place.
You dispose of the needle in the sharps container and peel off your gloves.
Louie waits until you sit back on the stool before speaking again.
“I’ve been coming here long enough to know when two people got a thing,” he says.
You shake your head immediately.
“There’s no thing.”
Louie lifts a brow.
“You two look at each other like there is.”
You busy your hands with organizing the dental tray again even though it doesn’t need organizing.
“He’s seeing someone,” you say, softer now.
Louie nods slowly, “Ah.”
“And even if he wasn’t…” you continue, shrugging faintly, “he’s leaving for three months.”
Louie studies your face.
“That’s not the reason you think he doesn’t see you.”
You give a small, humorless laugh. “Louie, I’ve been working with him long enough to know.”
“You mean you’ve been watching him long enough.”
You sigh, “I’m not his type.”
Louie tilts his head, “And what exactly is his type?”
You open your mouth—then stop.
Because the honest answer is you have no idea.
Louie chuckles softly, the gauze still tucked in his cheek.
“Exactly.”
You lean back in your stool, folding your arms.
“He’s my friend,” you say after a moment. “That’s enough.”
Louie gives you a long look, “People say that when it’s not.”
You press your lips together.
Outside the room, a monitor alarms briefly somewhere down the hall.
Louie shifts slightly in the chair.
“Rhonda used to say something to me,” he adds quietly. “Said the worst kind of love is the one you never say out loud.”
You stare at the floor for a second.
Then you shake your head, forcing a small smile.
“Your gum should be numb in a minute,” you say, slipping back into nurse mode. “Then I can go get Whitaker, and then we can get started.”
Louie watches you for another beat before watching you leave the room.
But he lets it go.
For now.
CENTRAL 9 — DAY
The room smells faintly of alcohol prep pads and adhesive strips.
Whitaker stands beside the stretcher, frowning at the ECG leads he’s trying to place across the patient’s chest. The monitor behind him chirps softly, the rhythm irregular but not alarming.
Jean, a tired-looking woman in her sixties, shifts restlessly on the exam bed.
“Crap,” Whitaker mutters under his breath, pressing one of the stickers down again.
Jean watches him with the slow patience of someone who has been in hospitals long enough to know the routine.
“What’s wrong?”
Whitaker sighs and tries another lead.
“Uh… some of the leads aren’t sticking here.”
Jean rubs her eyes.
“Can I lay down now? I’m tired.”
Whitaker glances at the monitor and then back at her.
“Yeah,” he says reassuringly. “As soon as we’re done here.”
You appear in the doorway a moment later, one hand catching the beam of the frame as you lean in slightly.
“Whitaker,” you call gently.
He looks up.
“Louie’s all numb. His tooth is ready for you.”
Whitaker brightens a little at the news.
“That’s great.” Then he gestures helplessly at the tray beside him. “Hey—I’m having some trouble here with adherence.”
You step into the room, already scanning the setup.
The patient’s skin is slightly damp, the adhesive pads curling at the edges.
“Of course you are,” you say lightly.
You reach into the tray beside the bed and grab a small capsule of adhesive prep solution, cracking it between your fingers so the alcohol-soaked sponge pops inside.
“Try this.”
Whitaker takes it immediately.
“Oh,” he says, nodding as he wipes the area where the lead will go. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Jean watches the exchange with faint amusement.
“You two do this a lot?”
Whitaker presses the new lead down and watches it finally stick.
“More than we’d like.”
You step back toward the door again, already scanning the hallway outside as the noise of the ED drifts in—phones ringing, stretchers moving, someone calling for labs across Central.
“Shout if you need anything else,” you say, pushing off the doorway.
Whitaker gives a quick nod, already focused back on the monitor.
“Thanks, Ducky.”
You slip back into the flow of Central, the steady rhythm of the emergency department pulling you along toward the next patient waiting for you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The ED has grown louder since the last time you looked up from your charting. The board is filling faster now, sticky notes multiplying beneath Ahmad’s whiteboard guesses about Westbridge’s mysterious Code Black.
You’re finishing a quick note when Trauma Two’s doors swing open.
Dr. Al-Hashimi and Robby step out together, both peeling off gloves as they walk toward Central.
Al-Hashimi glances at another patient entering from the ambulance bay.
“Looks like we’ve got a couple more diverted from Westbridge.”
Robby wipes his hands with sanitizer as he scans the patient board, “Any estimate on their downtime?”
“Not yet.” She tilts her head slightly toward triage. “Time to pull Dr. Langdon from triage?”
Robby shakes his head immediately.
“No, no. First day back. I want to let him kind of ease into things.”
Al-Hashimi nods once.
“Understood. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Thank you very much.”
They move toward the window by the security room where Ahmad’s betting board has begun to fill with sticky notes and dollar bills tucked under magnets.
Flooding.
Power outage.
Bomb threat.
Al-Hashimi folds her arms as she studies it, “Thinking about changing your bet?”
Robby leans one shoulder against the wall, squinting at the board like it’s a complicated chess match.
“I’m just weighing my odds.”
She smirks.
“Don’t worry. I’ll buy you a drink with my winnings.”
Then she walks off toward the north corridor.
Robby blinks once in mild surprise before shaking his head under his breath.
Across Central, you’ve just stepped out of Louie’s room when you see the exchange.
The way she says it.
The way he looks momentarily thrown.
Your stomach twists.
You immediately redirect your attention to a stack of charts like they’re suddenly the most fascinating thing in the building.
You absolutely do not want to think about drinks with Robby. You especially do not want to picture anyone else doing it.
Robby glances across Central and spots you.
Before you can disappear back into a patient room, he crosses the floor and gently catches your arm.
“Hey.”
You look up in surprise as he guides you a few steps toward the whiteboard by the window.
“You place your bet already?”
You shake your head.
“Mmm… still thinking about it.”
“You don’t think it’s any of those?” he asks, nodding toward the board.
You shrug, scanning the guesses. Your brain is already running through worst-case scenarios again, “I’m not sure yet.”
Robby studies your face for a second. Then he suddenly reaches into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulls something out.
A granola bar.
He presses it into your hand like it’s a medical order.
“Okay,” he says simply. “Eat this.”
You stare down at it.
The wrapper crinkles softly in your fingers.
Then you look up at him.
“I’m fine—”
“Dana told me you threw up two hours ago.”
Your brows knit together immediately.
Of course she did.
You fold your arms defensively, the granola bar still trapped in your hand.
“It was the stress,” you mutter.
The department hums around you—phones ringing—but the two of you stand in this strange pocket of quiet beside the security window.
Robby doesn’t move.
“And you didn’t answer me earlier,” he adds, quieter now. “When I asked if you ate before taking your meds.”
You look away.
“I’m working,” you say.
“That wasn’t my question.”
You exhale sharply through your nose, “Why do you care so much?”
The words come out sharper than you intended, but you’re tired.
Tired of the way he notices things or the way he steps close enough to make your heart trip over itself. Tired of pretending it doesn’t mean anything.
Robby raises an eyebrow slightly, studying you.
For a second, it looks like he might brush it off with a joke the way he usually does.
Instead, he says quietly—
“Because you matter.”
Your throat tightens.
You immediately look back down at the granola bar.
It’s easier than looking at him.
“That’s not—” you start, then stop.
You shake your head.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
You shrug faintly, forcing your voice to stay neutral, “Take care of me like that.”
Robby leans one shoulder against the wall beside the window, arms folding loosely across his chest.
“I’m not taking care of you,” he says. “I’m handing you a granola bar.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself, “You’re unbelievable.”
“Eat it.”
You hesitate.
Because accepting it feels… dangerous somehow.
Like giving in to something you’ve spent the last three months trying to get over.
But your stomach twists again, reminding you it’s been hours since you’ve eaten anything.
You unwrap the bar.
Take a bite.
Robby watches the entire time, quiet, satisfied in a way that makes your chest ache.
You chew slowly, then point the half-eaten bar at him.
“You’re bossy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
You shake your head, but your voice softens.
“You don’t get to care about me like this.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
His brow furrows slightly.
“Why not?”
You shrug, forcing your gaze back to the whiteboard instead of his face. It’s easier to focus on that than on the man standing beside you.
Because the real answer—
Because you’re not mine.
—sits heavy on your tongue.
The thought arrives the way it always does: quietly, like a bruise you press just to confirm it’s still there.
You keep chewing the granola bar.
It’s dry and slightly stale, but your body is grateful for the sugar anyway. Your stomach settles a little, the nausea from earlier easing as you swallow.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
You can feel his presence beside you even without looking.
Robby isn’t leaning on the wall anymore.
He’s standing straighter now, one hand resting on the edge of the door frame. His fingers tap once against the surface before going still.
He’s watching you.
You know he is.
You can feel it the same way you feel when someone stands too close behind you in a crowded elevator.
But you don’t look up.
Instead you take another bite of the granola bar, chewing slowly while pretending to study the board like you’re actually considering placing your bet.
Out of the corner of your vision you see his gaze flick briefly to your watch.
Then to the granola bar.
Then back to your face.
Something in his expression softens.
It’s subtle enough that if you were actually looking at him directly, you might miss it.
But you’ve spent years noticing small things about him.
The way his brow furrows when he’s thinking.
The way his mouth tightens when he’s worried about a patient.
The way he gets quieter instead of louder when something actually matters.
You swallow.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the wrapper.
You hate that he notices things like this.
Hate that he can read the room around you like it’s a chart he’s memorized.
Hate that it feels… comforting.
“Better?” he asks quietly.
You nod once without looking at him.
“Yeah.”
It comes out softer than you intended.
Robby exhales through his nose, like some small tension has left his shoulders.
For a second he almost says something else. You can see it—the way his mouth opens slightly, the hesitation that follows.
Then he stops himself.
A stretcher rattles past toward North. Life in the ED keeps moving, as if this quiet moment between you never existed.
You finish the granola bar and crumple the wrapper loosely in your hand.
Still staring at the whiteboard.
Still very aware that he hasn’t moved away.
Robby glances at the board again, then back at you.
“You’re still thinking about your bet,” he says.
You shrug lightly.
“Just weighing my odds.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
For a moment neither of you moves.
But something in the air between you feels… different. Just a slight shift—like the moment before a storm when the pressure in the air changes and only a few people notice.
And for reasons he probably can’t name yet, Robby finds himself still standing there beside you—
Watching you chew that granola bar like it might somehow matter more than it should.
SOUTH 15 — DAY
You walk in behind Whitaker and Ogilvie as they push through the glass door into the room.
Louie is already reclined on the bed, one arm resting comfortably across his stomach. His cheek looks slightly swollen, and the corner of his mouth droops a little from the local anesthetic.
Ogilvie is talking the entire way in, his confidence bordering on cocky.
“Dude, I resuscitated that parkour guy and… and intubated a STEMI,” he says, tugging on gloves. “I think I can handle this.”
Whitaker shakes his head as he pulls a stool closer to Louie’s bedside.
“It’s best if you watch the first one. How’s that tooth feeling?”
Louie opens his mouth experimentally, touching the side of his cheek with his fingers.
“The whole side of my face is numb.”
Whitaker nods approvingly.
“That’s how we like it.”
He leans in, gently lifting Louie’s lip to inspect the gumline.
“Okay… we’ve got a… a fluctuant gumline at—”
Ogilvie jumps in immediately.
“Tooth number 23. Lateral incisor.”
Whitaker glances at him briefly, then continues.
“With an extension to an—”
“Apical abscess,” Ogilvie says quickly.
Whitaker exhales through his nose, half amused, “Right again.”
Louie chuckles thickly through his numb mouth. “Ah, the kid’s smart.”
Whitaker gestures toward you without looking up.
“Hook up the Yankauer. Get ready to retract the gum.”
You nod and move efficiently to the bedside tray, connecting the suction tubing and testing it briefly before positioning yourself near Louie’s shoulder.
Whitaker speaks gently to the patient as he prepares the syringe.
“Hey, Louie, this is a temporary fix, okay? You’re going to need to get that tooth pulled by a dentist.”
Louie sighs dramatically.
“Hey, you going to find me one?”
Whitaker shrugs lightly. “We can have you talk to Dylan.”
Louie squints at the ceiling, thinking.
“Is Dr. Collins around? Sister always helps me out.”
You pause for a moment, then offer him a small, sympathetic smile.
“Uh… Dr. Collins finished her residency,” you explain softly. “She took a job in Portland as an attending physician.”
Behind you, the glass door opens quietly.
You catch the movement in your peripheral vision.
Robby.
He steps just inside the room, one hand on the door frame and the other resting loosely in the pocket of his scrub pants. He’s clearly overheard the last part of the conversation, but he doesn’t interrupt.
You glance at him briefly.
He meets your eyes for half a second.
Then looks away.
Louie blinks slowly, “Portland?”
Whitaker nods, “Yeah. I think that’s where she’s from.” He adjusts the syringe in his hand. “She’s adopting a baby. Wanted to be closer to her family.”
Louie smiles warmly.
“Well, that’s a beautiful thing.”
For a moment, the room grows quiet except for the faint suction hum and the monitor beeping steadily behind Louie.
You glance up again.
Robby is standing near the door, but his expression has shifted—something distant in his eyes, like he’s thinking about something far beyond the walls of the ER.
Or maybe somewhere far away. A life outside of here.
He exhales softly, then gently pulls the glass door closed again. Without saying a word.
Whitaker doesn’t notice.
Ogilvie doesn’t notice.
But you do.
Whitaker lifts the syringe slightly.
“Ogilvie, we’re set.”
Ogilvie straightens eagerly.
Whitaker positions the needle carefully.
“Okay. Ready? Three-cc syringe, twenty-gauge needle entering at the juiciest part… aiming for the apex.”
You angle the suction tip closer.
Ogilvie leans in to observe.
“Send that for culture?”
Whitaker shakes his head, “No. Pen V.K. for a few days. Bugs in the mouth are old school.”
Louie grins lopsidedly. “Ah… just like me.”
The room fills briefly with quiet laughter as Whitaker begins the drainage.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The diversion from Westbridge has started to trickle in—more charts printing, more names filling the tracking board, more movement in the hallways as stretchers rotate in and out.
You’re tossing the empty granola wrapper into the trash when you notice Javadi standing near the workstation with Dr. Caleb Jefferson, the attending psychiatrist. His wheelchair is angled slightly toward her, tablet resting on his lap as he scrolls through a chart.
Javadi looks relieved when she sees him.
“Oh, that was fast.”
Jefferson raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “Next time maybe wait until the patient wakes up before calling me down. Psychiatrists do best when we can actually talk to our patients.”
Javadi’s face morphs into embarrassment immediately.
“I got a little ahead of myself,” she admits. “Um—will do. Thank you. Sorry.”
Jefferson gives her a small nod and wheels past her toward Central.
You catch sight of him and wave lightly.
“Hi, Dr. Jefferson!”
“Hello, Ducky,” he says warmly as he rolls closer. “How’s your new meds treating you?”
Your eyes narrow instantly.
You glance down at him.
“Well… you’re not my psych.”
He smiles, unfazed.
“I’m asking as a colleague,” he says. “A friend, if you will.”
You shrug, leaning back against the counter.
“Could be worse,” you admit. “Less manic, if you will. The nausea never seems to end, but… overall they help.”
Caleb nods thoughtfully.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Then he tilts his head slightly.
“Have you seen Robby?”
“Uh, I think he’s in Trauma Two.” You point vaguely toward the trauma hall.
Caleb hums, thoughtful, “Have you tried talking to him about his trip?”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, “I did. A week ago.” Slowly, you fold your arms loosely. “And a few hours ago.”
“Mmm.” He rolls a little closer so your conversation gets swallowed by the general noise of Central. The sound of monitors and phone calls gives you just enough privacy.
“Have you shared your true feelings with him about his sabbatical?” Caleb asks quietly.
Your response is immediate.
“I’d rather walk into traffic.”
“Ducky.”
You grimace, “Sorry. Bad habit.”
Caleb studies your face for a moment, the way psychiatrists do—like they’re reading a chart written under your skin.
“You’re having a harder time with this than you’re letting on.”
You huff a small laugh, “I work in emergency medicine. ‘Harder than I’m letting on’ is kind of the job description.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
You pick at the edge of the counter with your fingernail.
“He’s leaving for three months,” you say lightly. “People go on sabbaticals all the time.”
“Yes,” Caleb says.
“But you don’t usually lose ten pounds, change shifts, and start throwing up at work because someone is going on sabbatical.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Dana talks too much.”
“Dana cares about you.”
You look away, and Caleb’s voice softens slightly.
“You don’t have to tell him how you feel,” he says. “But pretending you don’t feel anything at all is costing you more than you think.”
You stare at the floor for a moment.
“He’s with someone else,” you say quietly.
Caleb nods.
“Yes. I’m aware.”
“And he’s leaving.”
“Also true.”
You shrug helplessly.
“So what exactly would be the point?”
Caleb leans back slightly in his chair.
“The point,” he says gently, “would be that you’re allowed to have feelings about someone without punishing yourself for it.”
You shake your head, “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
Your voice lowers.
“If I say it out loud,” you admit, “and he doesn’t feel the same… I lose him.”
Caleb considers that.
“And if you never say it?”
You give a tired half-smile. “Then I only lose myself a little.”
He exhales slowly.
“That’s not how that math works.”
You glance toward the trauma hallway where Robby disappeared earlier. When you think about it too long, your chest gets snug like it always does.
Caleb watches your face carefully.
“Just promise me something,” he says.
“What?”
“Eat when you take your meds.”
You groan quietly. “Dana already yelled at me.”
“And now I am.”
You rub the back of your neck.
“Yes, doc.”
Caleb smiles faintly. “Good.”
Then he wheels himself toward the other rooms, pausing briefly before he disappears down the hall.
“Ducky?”
You look up.
“You deserve to be chosen too,” he says.
And then he’s gone—leaving you standing at Central, trying very hard not to think about how much that sentence hurts.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department never really slows down—it just changes rhythm.
You spend the next stretch of time doing what nurses always do in the quiet gaps between crises: the thousand small things that keep the entire department running.
You restock a medication cart and flush a sluggish IV line for a patient in South. You answer a Spectralink call about lab labels that were somehow printed incorrectly again. You help Emma reposition an elderly patient whose oxygen tubing keeps slipping off. Yet, none of it will ever make it into anyone’s chart as anything more than routine care. But the ER would collapse without it.
Eventually, you circle back toward South 15 to check on Louie after Whitaker finished draining the abscess.
As you pass the room, the glass door swings open and Langdon steps out, rubbing the back of his neck. Dr. Al-Hashimi is beside him, tablet in hand as they speak quietly about something clinical.
Langdon glances up and spots you.
You offer him a quick passing smile—professional, polite, easy.
He returns it, a little awkward but warm.
Then you keep walking toward Central.
As you pass the main workstation, Dana and Robby are standing a few feet away from the desk, talking in low voices. You catch only the tail end of the conversation as you move by.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Dana tilts her head at him.
Robby exhales, “Oh, they’re way more expensive than that.”
Dana smiles and shrugs, “I’m on a budget. Take it or leave it.”
Robby drags a hand down the back of his neck, “My day is not turning out the way that I expected.”
Dana doesn’t miss a beat.
“We had a callout. Langdon was available.”
Robby shakes his head faintly.
“I was sort of hoping to be on my sabbatical when he came back.”
Dana studies him for a moment.
“You two were very close. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling you it’s time to clear the air.”
Robby huffs quietly.
“Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.”
Dana’s gaze shifts across the department.
You’re a few stations away now, standing with Perlah and Princess while they argue about something on the patient board. Perlah says something animated in Tagalog that makes Princess laugh, and you smile along with them.
But the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
Not the way it used to.
Not the way it did a few years ago when the three of you first started working together.
Dana notices.
She notices everything.
It’s unsettling sometimes how quickly you can pull yourself back together. Two hours ago you were on your knees in the bathroom, shaking and throwing up until your throat burned.
Now you look fine, composed, and functional. Like nothing ever happened.
Dana’s expression tightens slightly.
Robby follows her line of sight.
His eyes land on you.
You’re leaning over the counter, laughing softly at something Princess just said while Perlah nudges your shoulder.
For a moment, he just watches.
Dana hums under her breath.
“I’m worried about her.”
Robby’s gaze doesn’t move.
“You mentioned her throwing up earlier?”
“Mmm,” Dana nods. “It wasn’t good.”
Robby’s brow furrows slightly.
“Was there a trigger or—”
Dana shrugs, “You should probably ask her.”
Robby exhales quietly, “She’s been more distant lately.”
“Could be she’s scared that you’re leavin’, or maybe she has somethin’ on her mind,” Dana says as she lifts an eyebrow.
Robby shakes his head faintly, “Doesn’t seem like it. She’s been acting weird with me all day.”
Dana slowly turns her head and gives him a look. A long, pointed look. The kind that says you cannot possibly be this oblivious. But she doesn’t say it out loud.
Instead, she just sighs and crosses her arms, watching you laugh again at something Perlah says—even though she knows you’re holding yourself together by sheer force of will.
And Robby, standing beside her, keeps looking at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t realize he was missing pieces of.
End Notes:
LOL Doc Jefferson also clocking you (Ducky) is just too real for me
Dana looking at Robby at the end like “wtf r we fucking for real rn???”
Oh, Louie… :(((
Lol Robby sharing food with you like a penguin giving a pebble to their mate help—
Robbie is so wrapped up in his own thing, and Ducky is so wrapped up in her own thing. Can she even see him and all his internal turmoil? I dont even know how they are gonna get through this. Dana is practically bonking them on the head! and the psych guy! whatever his name is. Hes like, "tell him!! tell him right now!" but he cant say that cuz its psych and she has to come to that decision on her own!
annaxmalina
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
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