SUMMARY: Dealing with the fallout of a mass casualty is intense enough as it is. But, when a disgruntled patient fires at you, the department has to fight desperately to keep you alive even in the midst of chaos.
NOTES: Pittfest-based, accidental shooting, GSW and blood, medical settings (ICU), angst, established relationship.
REQUESTED BY: @maxinebxrnes
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The sirens outside the Pitt had long since ceased to sound like individual vehicles, blending instead into a continuous, howling wall of noise that vibrated through the very soles of your sneakers. It was just past seven in the evening, but the concept of time had completely fractured three hours earlier when the first alerts of a mass shooting at Pittfest started flashing across the emergency department monitors.
The hospital wasn't just overrun. It was drowning in a deluge of torn flesh, muddy festival gear, and the raw, piercing panic of the young and the terrified.
You had been moving on pure adrenaline, your nursing scrubs already stained with a patchwork of fluids from half a dozen different patients, your hands working in a flawless, unspoken synchronicity with Frank. That was the thing about the two of you, even in the middle of a literal war zone, with the entire department tearing itself apart at the seams, Frank Langdon was your anchor. An established rhythm existed between you.
Right now, that rhythm was being tested to its absolute limit on a patient crammed into the makeshift overflow area near the ambulance bay. The man on the gurney was large, aggressive, and reeked of cheap bourbon and woodsmoke, his upper thigh torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel or a ricochet from the festival grounds. He was thrashing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he roared obscenities, fighting the very hands trying to save his life.
Frank was leaning over him, his broad shoulders tensed as he applied heavy, two-handed pressure to the femoral artery, his face a mask of fierce, locked-in concentration. You were positioned just opposite him, your fingers deftly trying to establish a secondary IV in the man’s uninjured arm while the chaos of the ER swirled madly around you.
Just a few feet away, Dr. Abbot was shouting orders, his voice cracked with exhaustion as he directed a trauma team toward a crashing teenager. Dana was somewhere down the corridor, her authoritative tone echoing as she managed the triage nightmare at the front doors. Everyone was stretched to their absolute breaking point, operating on instinct and sheer willpower.
"I need that line running now!" Frank barked, not out of anger toward you, but to be heard over the deafening noise of a nearby heart monitor screaming and the desperate sobbing of a girl two bays down. "He's losing his pressure. We don't have time for him to be fighting us."
You nodded quickly, your voice calm and steady as you spoke to the thrashing man. You told him he was safe, told him that he was at the hospital and that Frank was going to fix his leg, but the words didn't seem to penetrate the thick fog of his intoxication and terror. The man gave a sudden, violent heave, his free arm flailing out wildly. His fingers clawed frantically at the heavy tactical waistband of his cargo trousers, diving beneath the blood-stained fabric of his shirt.
It happened in a terrifying, fragmented blur that defied the frantic speed of the room. You saw the dark glint of steel before your brain fully processed what it was, a compact handgun snagging on his belt as he yanked it free in a blind, paranoid reflex.
"Gun! He’s got a gun!" someone screamed from the corridor. It sounded like Robby, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity.
Time seemed to violently liquefy. Frank’s eyes widened, a sudden, horrifying comprehension dawning on his features as he instantly let go of the wound, lunging across the gurney in a desperate, instinctive attempt to smother the weapon or shield you. The patient fired blindly into the air, the deafening roar of the gunshot exploding inside the enclosed space, shattering a nearby fluorescent light fixture in a shower of sparks and white dust.
From down the hall, the immediate, instinctual response was instantaneous; voices shouted to get down, and a chorus of bodies hit the linoleum floor as medical staff and ambulatory patients dropped to seek whatever cover the flimsy privacy curtains and stainless-steel carts could provide.
But the man’s wrist snapped sideways as he recoiled, the weapon discharging a second time before Frank could pin his arm to the mattress.
There was no grand explosion of pain, just a sudden, violent impact against your ribs that felt like being struck full-force by a swinging baseball bat, knocking the breath entirely out of your lungs. The momentum threw you backward, your feet tangling in the stool behind you, and you went down hard against the cold, hard floor, the bag of saline you had been holding bursting against the metal leg of the gurney.
For a second, the world went completely silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the screams, the shouting, and the heavy thud of security guards finally tackling the gunman to the ground just inches away from where you lay. You stared up at the cracked ceiling tiles, wondering vaguely why the air felt so thick, why it was suddenly so incredibly difficult to draw a single breath.
Then the silence shattered, and the world rushed back in with a terrifying, agonizing roar. Frank was on his knees beside you before you could even register that you were on the floor, his hands trembling in a way you had never seen before as they hovered over your chest. His face was entirely drained of colour, his lips parted in a silent gasp of horror that quickly transformed into a frantic, breathless plea. "No, no, no, please, God, no," he muttered, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, sounding entirely small and broken.
His palms came down hard against the left side of your upper abdomen, just beneath your ribs, and the sudden, searing agony that ripped through your torso made your back arch off the floor, a choked, ragged scream tearing from your throat. The fabric of your scrubs was already turning a deep, heavy crimson, the warmth of your own blood soaking through his fingers as he pressed down with everything he had.
The immediate area exploded into a frenzied, chaotic scrum of activity, but this time, the emergency was you. Robby was there in an instant, his face pale and eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees on your other side, "I’ve got the back, Frank, I’ve got the exit wound, keep pressing!" Robby yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to stabilize your writhing frame.
Jack appeared above you, his authoritative calm momentarily cracking as he took in the sight of one of his own nurses bleeding out on the floor. "Get a gurney over here now! Someone get me a chest tube tray and two units of O-negative!" Jack roared, his commands snapping the stunned onlookers into motion.
Samira was right behind him, her hands steady despite the visible tremor in her jaw as she ripped open a pack of trauma dressings, quickly tucking them under Frank’s straining hands. Dana was on the radio, her voice cutting through the hospital page with a sharp, trembling urgency, calling for an immediate surgical consult and clearing a path straight to the operating theatres.
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, shallow gasp and the sound of it seemed to fracture something deep within him. "Stay with me, do you hear me? Look at me, sweetheart," he begged, leaning down so close that his sweat-dampened hair brushed against your forehead. His eyes were wild, swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You breathe for me, come on, just keep breathing."
The vulnerability in his voice was terrifying; this was a man who stared down death every single day without flinching, but looking at you, he looked utterly defeated, stripped entirely of his medical armor.
With a coordinated heave, Frank, Robby, and Jack lifted you off the blood-slicked floor and onto a clearing gurney, the sudden movement causing the agony in your chest to flare into a blinding, white-hot sheet of pain that threatened to turn the world completely black.
You gasped, your fingers clawing blindly at the air, and Frank instantly caught your hand in his own, his grip incredibly tight, almost crushing, yet it was the most comforting thing you had ever felt. He didn't let go, not even as Jack began cutting away the remnants of your ruined scrubs, exposing the neat, horrific puncture wound where the bullet had torn through your muscle and bone.
“Shit, this doesn’t sound good," Jack muttered, his stethoscope pressed firmly against your skin, his expression grim. "Dr. Mohan, give me that scalpel, we need to drop a tube now before they arrest."
"Frank," you whimpered, the word barely a whisper, your vision beginning to tunnel, the bright fluorescent lights of the ER fading into a hazy, shimmering blur.
"I'm right here, I’m not leaving you, I swear to God I’m right here," Frank cried, his voice breaking completely as he used his free hand to wipe the blood from your lip, his thumb caressing your cheek. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury. "Do it fast, Jack, please, just do it fast."
You felt the sharp, sudden sting of the local anesthetic, followed almost immediately by the heavy, suffocating pressure of the chest tube being inserted between your ribs. It was an invasive, brutal sensation, a choked sob tearing from your throat as you tried to pull away from the pain.
Frank held you steady, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you pinned to the mattress, his face pressed against the side of your neck as he whispered frantic, broken promises into your skin. "You're okay, you're doing so well, just hold onto me, sweetheart. I've got you."
As the tube found its mark, a dark, heavy rush of blood and trapped air hissed into the collection chamber, and suddenly, a massive, cooling relief washed through your lungs. You could breathe again, the suffocating weight lifted from your chest, even as the profound exhaustion of blood loss began to pull you down into the dark.
The gurney was suddenly in motion, rattling violently as it was pushed out of the trauma bay and down the long corridor toward the elevators. Dana was there at the doors, holding them open, her face pale as she reached out to briefly touch your leg, her voice fierce as she looked at the surgical team waiting for you. "Take care of them," she ordered, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Frank walked alongside the moving bed, his hand still locked in yours, his eyes on you, his thumb tracing endless, soothing circles against the back of your hand.
When they finally reached the double doors of the surgical suite, the anesthesia resident stepped in front of him, gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Frank, you need to stay here. We've got them, we're going to take care of them, I promise."
Frank stopped, his sneakers skidding slightly on the polished floor, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to push past the man. He looked down at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, terrifying helplessness, his grip loosening only when the momentum of the gurney forced your fingers to slide apart.
"I'll be right here," he called out, his voice echoing down the sterile hallway as the heavy doors began to swing shut, separating you from his sight. "Right here when you wake up. I love you, do you hear me? I love you!"
As the darkness finally took you, the smell of antiseptic and the bright, shadowless lights of the operating room fading into nothingness, the last thing you felt was the lingering warmth of his hand against your skin, and the steady, unbreakable promise of his voice.
Everything felt incredibly heavy, as though your limbs had been poured full of wet sand, and your throat was dry and parched, tasting of stale plastic from the oxygen cannula resting beneath your nose. For a long moment, you simply drifted in that twilight space, aware of a dull, throbbing ache radiating across the entire left side of your chest, a deep-seated soreness that flared into a sharp pinch every time you tried to take a deep breath.
But beneath that pain, and the overwhelming exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, there was a profound, grounding warmth enveloping your right hand.
Slowly, with an effort that felt almost monumental, you forced your eyes open. The harsh, chaotic glare of the emergency department was gone, replaced by the soft, dimmed shadows of a private recovery room in the intensive care unit. The blinds were drawn against the morning light, casting long, quiet bars of grey across the linoleum floor. And sitting right beside your mattress, his frame uncomfortably curled into a stiff hospital armchair, was Frank.
He looked entirely shattered. He was still wearing his scrub trousers, though he had swapped his blood-stained top for a faded, oversized grey university sweatshirt that looked as though it had been pulled from the bottom of his locker. His elbows were resting on the edge of your mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his fingers tightly, desperately interlaced with yours.
As you shifted your weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your chest tube site, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. The sound was barely audible, but it acted like an electric shock to Frank. His head snapped up instantly, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. For a fraction of a second, his expression was blank with a raw, lingering terror, but as his gaze focused on your open eyes, his face cracked, a look of profound, overwhelming relief washing over his features.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and hoarse, rough from hours of silence and unshed tears. He shifted instantly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache for reasons completely unrelated to the bullet wound. "Hey, beautiful. Don't try to move too much, alright? You're okay. You're safe."
"Frank," you croaked, the word catching in your throat, sounding small and entirely broken.
"I'm here. I'm right here," he murmured, his touch lingering against your skin as if he needed the physical contact to completely convince himself that you were truly alive. He reached for a small plastic cup on the bedside table, dipping a pink foam swab into some ice water before gently pressing it against your cracked lips. "Just a little bit, sweetheart. Your throat's going to be sore from the ventilator, just let it sit there."
The cool moisture was an absolute blessing, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over you. When you opened them again, you looked down at the heavy, white dressings taping the chest tube firmly to your ribs. The memory of the gunshot, the sudden, violent impact, and the terrifying sight of Frank kneeling over you in a pool of your own blood came rushing back with a vividness that caused your heart rate to spike on the monitor.
Frank noticed the rhythmic acceleration of the beeping instantly. "Hey, look at me, honey," he commanded softly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "The guy's gone. Security took him down, police have him. The hospital is secure. You are out of danger, I promise you."
"You... you look terrible," you managed to whisper, a faint, weak attempt at a smile touching the corners of your lips.
A ragged, wet laugh spilled from his chest, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. "I have never been so terrified in my entire life," he confessed into the fabric of your hospital gown, his voice trembling in a way that made your throat tighten. "I’ve seen a lot of things in that department. A lot of blood, a lot of close calls. But when you went down... when I saw what that bastard did... I froze. My brain just stopped working because the only thing that mattered was that it was you."
You squeezed his hand back with what little strength you had, your heart swelling at the raw vulnerability in his tone. "You didn't freeze," you murmured softly. "You caught me. You held me."
"Because I couldn't let you go," he said, pulling back to look down at you, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down the rugged line of his jaw. "Robby, Jack, Samira... they all practically had to drag me out of the operating theatre doors. Dana sat with me in the hallway for four hours while you were under. She kept telling me to go home, to wash the blood off my clothes, but I couldn't leave this building knowing you were in there. Collins kept checking the surgical log every fifteen minutes just to give me updates. Everyone's been by, sweetheart. They’re all terrified for you, but they're all waiting to see you."
"Tell them thank you," you whispered, the exhaustion beginning to pull at your consciousness again, your eyelids growing heavier by the second as the hospital pain medication kept you drifting.
"I will. I'll tell them all," Frank murmured. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You just rest now. I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up again, and I’ll be here when we finally get to go home. I love you so much."
As the darkness drifted back in to claim you, softer this time, devoid of the terror and the pain of the ER, you let yourself sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by the steady, protective warmth of his presence and the quiet, reassuring beat of his heart right beside you.
i’m going to be really honest with you guys i think the tendency to read the absolute worst possible intentions into every action you don’t agree with is getting too automatic and it’s eating you from the inside out
synopsis Robby is known to speak before he thinks sometimes, but when the cost of his words is losing you, he’d rather die (6.6k words)
warningheavy angst, language, hospital stuff, mention of drowning, near death experience, robby is constipated emotionally as always, jack to the rescue, kinda yearning Jack if you squint, inaccurate medical practices I am noooo doctor!
authornotethannk you so much for the request!!! and thank you for your kind words! I had so much fun writing, I think angst is probably my favourite to write over anything especially when Robby is the one yearning. I hope you liked! (Gif credits @emziess :)
Pitt masterlist Last robby fic!
As a resident in the Emergency Department there was a lot you knew.
You knew that preeclampsia effected about eight percent of all pregnant women worldwide. You knew how to intubate and had in fact done so many in your time at PTMC that you were sure you could do it with your eyes closed. You knew that in the bottom draw of Dana's select spot at the nurses station was a pack of nicotine gum hardly used because Dana thought they were a bunch of bull; in spite of the literal doctors orders.
You knew there was a leaky faucet in the women's bathrooms that drove everyone insane when they went in there to steal a moment's peace. You knew the computer in central fourteen was the faultiest one which was why you avoided charting in there all together.
So you knew there must have been a reason why Noelle from insurance was biding her time with your new boyfriend. There must have been a reason why he was grinning big at her like he hadn't with you for days.
“Hey!” said Samira falling at your side at the counter.
You were still too distracted by the two to even tear your gaze away and look at her. “Hey.”
Samira followed your eyeline. “You're staring, you know that?”
You nodded.
Robby rubbed at the side of his face as his cheeks flushed, Noelle shifted her weight onto her other heeled foot- apparently getting herself comfortable.
“Who is that, again?” asked Doctor Mohan.
“Noelle. She's from insurance.”
Samira nodded. “Noelle from insurance. Annnd do we like Noelle, from insurance?”
At that you realised just how transparent your glares might have been.
“Oh, you know,” you mumbled, finally looking back down to your tablet that had grown dark in the absence of movement. “It's our job to like everyone.”
Santos passed by you then, dropping herself down into your favourite chair in exhaustion. “Not everyone.”
“So we're all having a great day, I see,” you commented, sarcastically. However the sardonic tone of your voice was over-saturated with a loud laugh.
Your head practically snapped up to see Noelle laughing at something Robby had said. Even his face was scrunched up at his joke. You watched as Noelle's hand darted to his bicep, playfully hitting him in a way that could only be recognised as flirting.
You watched as Robby looked down to her hand on him and then he looked up, finding you and finding your watchful gaze. Only then did the pink in his cheeks subside and the wrinkles of amusement die.
“Didn't they have a thing before you and him got together?” asked Santos.
You sighed. “Yes, they did, thank you, Trinity.”
“Hey, just trying to be helpful.”
“Save it for the patients,” you said.
Robby took one step in your direction but you'd already dismissed yourself from Santos and Mohan, walking the ward like it was a battle field.
But you could hear your boyfriends heavy boots close behind you.
“Don't do that,” he said, calling after you.
“Do what? See a patient?”
“It's not what you think,” he said.
“Of course it's not,” you said, trying your best to be indifferent.
You knew about Noelle and Robby's history, just as you knew about his and Heathers, and his and the pathologist from upstairs, and the one from ortho. You knew and you understood, heck you'd even been around to joke about with Landon. Robby's famous seven-week itch.
Rumour had it before he finally got to hold your hand and kiss you whenever he liked he'd been trying to nail you down for years, but you weren't sure how much you believed.
It had been nine months, maybe closer to ten since you and Robby had officially started seeing each other. It was the real boyfriend-girlfriend deal where you could call each other at any moments of the day, could get take out together and discuss the boring things together.
Yet, you did none of that.
Robby and you didn't talk.
You fucked- but only each other. You worked on cases together- strictly professional. On the days where you were desperate there was an on-call room Robby could book out and steal time away with you.
But you didn't remember the last time you'd laughed like that with him.
“It's not,” said Robby again.
“Of course it's not.”
Robby sighed, falling closer behind you. “Well, it doesn't really sound like you believe me.”
“I believe you,” you said. “Do I believe Noelle...”
“Oh, c'mon,” Robby chuckled, like the very idea of them was ridiculous. Like the two of you didn't begin where they ended. “You seriously gonna be hung up on that?”
“Don't,” you warn, shaking your head.
You reached for an exam room door, where a sixteen year old boy was complaining of migraines but Robby grabbed your wrist and stirred you away.
“You wanna argue, not here,” he said.
“I don't want to argue.”
Robby led you out to the ambulance bay. Any nurses stealing a couple minutes of peace quickly diverted back in and even ambulances seemed to divert away. He let go of you, standing away and folding his arms over his chest, defensive. “So come on, tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You're mad because I was talking to Noelle- about a case, might I add,” he said. There was nothing soft in his tone, nothing that calmed your nerves on edge. He said it all like it was a joke that he already knew the punchline to.
You rubbed at your temple. “You can talk to Noelle about cases, of course you can-”
“- Oh, thank you, glad I have your permission,” he chuckled.
“Can you just not be a dick about this, for once!” you snapped.
Robby's brows rose to his head, almost shocked at your snap at him. He held out his hands. “Okay, I'm not being a dick.”
“You are, and it's like sometimes you don't even realise.”
His hands were worn with the mornings patients and you could see the stress he tried to hide away as he wiped up and down his face.
You took a deep breath. “Robby, if you don't want this to work out all you have to do is say.” You said it, un-sure if you even meant it. Un-sure that you could ever go back to who you were before meeting Robby, let alone sharing in his life. In the small moments grabbing take out together and eating it on his sofa. In the mornings where you both naturally woke up early enough to just admire each other before you had to get to work.
Robby chuckled dryly, hands on his hips. “Oh my god, all of this because I spoke to another woman?”
“Because you laughed with her like you haven't with me for weeks!” you argued.
For once, Robby was silent.
You told yourself after the seven week mark that it would be any day now, that he'd tell you you were better off friends; colleagues. Every day and week it didn't come, every month he got more comfortable in your bed you figured you'd easily get rid of him in your life as easily as you welcomed him.
Now you stood across from him in the early morning light of the ambulance bay knowing if he left you now you'd never get back on your feet again.
“I see the way Noelle looks at you, how the others from upstairs do to,” you begin.
Robby shook his head, something earnest in his gaze. “They're not- they don't-”
“- I know, I know,” you said, cutting him off with a grimace of a smile. “ ”I know you don't love them, Robby. I'm just not sure you love me either.”
As un-cultured as you were with your own relationships you weren't sure when the right time to say I love you was. You knew Santos had said it to Garcia drunk one night and woke up with regret pinning her to the bed. You knew Dana and Benji had said it to each other a week in. You knew you loved Robby before you even kissed him.
Robby looked down to his boots, shaking his head. “That's not fair.”
Your heart pinched. “I know I love you, Robby. But I can't watch all these woman over you and-and wonder.”
“Your insecurities are not my fault!” Robby snapped.
You knew he didn't mean it, or hoped he didn't. You knew in the very small arguments you'd had that he spoke without thinking and came grovelling back.
Maybe it was worse this time because you knew it was the truth. You knew these women- his ex something's- didn't get to see Robby in the early mornings and be the last thing he spoke to at night. You knew Robby wasn't inviting them into his self, but he wasn't pushing them away either.
They'd all been quick, snaps of bands on wrists. You were supposed to be something more.
Maybe you weren't.
Biting on the inside of your cheek, you felt the familiar burning in your chest, rising up to your neck.
“Okay.” You held yourself tight, heading past him and to the doors that were already welcoming you back.
Robby was hot on your heels, quicker even as he pushed himself ahead of you. “No, no, no- hey- wait, no I-I didn't mean that.” His eyes were wide, hands held out in front of you, not quite clasped together, pointing to the sky but pleading none the less.
“We shouldn't talk about this now, Robby-”
“- I- we... honey, please.”
He stood in between you and the doors. Beyond him you saw the chaos of the room, the charts being passed, the labs being reported. The world still turned.
Robby's hands fell to your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. “Let me- jus' let me-let me-”
“Hey! You two!”
Robby didn't jump apart from you, he squeezed your arms tighter as the two of you looked back to Dana who rushed out, wisps of grey hair falling around her. “What is it?”
“There's been a crash down the docks, all hands on deck!”
You thought you knew chaos, having seen all sorts of terror and oddities in the Pitt but the scenes at the dock were nothing like it. A complication with a boat, an explosion- small enough- rattled ferries and had them crashing into one another like terrible scene of dominoes.
Heck, you weren't even sure if the docks were safe to be standing on.
There were fire trucks and ambulances that didn't just respond to PTMC but Presby too. Police were corning off the area, talking to any witnesses but everyone blurred in one as you weaved in and out of them.
You'd been sent as an emergency respondent thanks to how level-headed and sturdy you were in the Pittfest. You still remembered how Robby nominated you as well as Whitaker to go with some from surgery, his eyes dark on you, a trusting nod passed before you were handed a jacket and pushed into an ambulance.
You'd already pulled a sheet over three bodies, one of them too small for your liking.
“Any for me?” asked a first emergency responder, you think his name was Spencer, catching it in the rig you caught a ride in. “We can take two.”
“Yeah!” you yelled and led him away. “This guy, approximately in his thirties, head lack to the right, needs to go to surgery immediately. This woman, late twenties, lost consciousness, possible pelvic bleed but she's stabilised, need's a ultrasound.”
“Got it!”
You'd gone through almost all the gloves you had in your pockets. There was blood seeping into your scrub uniform at your knees. You'd forgone your coat to a little girl who took an ambulance back with her mother, trembling from the cold.
A steady, firm hand settled between your shoulder blades.
“How you holding on, Slugger?”
Your heart soared in relief when you recognised Jack's voice, felt his steady hand and saw his easy smile in the middle of all the pain.
“Jack, thank god. Are you here with your team?” you asked, eying the uniform he was in.
“Yeah, we came to secure the area, doing everything I can to help,” he said, the two of you nudging your way through the people, stepping over the rubble and pools of water or blood. “How you holding up?”
“Lost three,” you told him.
Jack looked down at you, the weight of his gaze always heavy. “And how many you saved, huh? Focus on that number.”
The wind picked up, sending a chill over your bones.
“Hey, where's your jacket?” asked Jack, a frown taking over his features.
You chuckled. “Probably half way to Presby by now, think we've handed off all the traumas PTMC can take.”
Jack tutted and shook his head aside. “I reckon they've got one more in them.”
You didn't know how you and Jack had got so close, somewhere along the lines of hand-offs and covering night shifts you just always gravitated toward each other, working well and saving lives. Every daring procedure you'd taken was with him over your shoulder only for him to go and boast about you to Robby later.
Jack led you to Robby, for that you always had to be thankful.
“Hey! I've got a guy seizing over here!”
With your case in hand the two of you rushed off.
The man seemed middle-aged with no obvious wound to him as you and Jack took either side. The man was at the edge of the docks, the crashing of the waves fighting against you as you worked to stablilse him.
Jack steadied him. “Check if there's any medication on him! It might be a disorder!”
You checked, coming up empty pocketed. You fumbled in your bag and tried your pockets before finding the vial and clean needle. “Pushing diazepam!”
With five cc's in his seizing slowed to dull twitches.
“We need a back board and neck brace,” said Jack, looking around to try and flag down anyone.
Nobody was catching your eyes. This close to the water you were out of the way of most of the chaos.
“Go!” you told Jack. “I'll stay with him, make sure he doesn't sieze again.”
Jack's brows pinched together for a second. “You sure?”
You nodded. Your hands remained on your patient, feeling his tremors and already timing his pulse with your watch. “I've got it, go!”
In hind sight you should have thought about the implications. You'd been grabbed and yelled at and spat at in the ED by less sever patients but once you'd been attacked by a man who just woke up from a seizure, dazed and confused and naming you his enemy.
Robby had never been so close to murder.
It took weeks for the bruises to go down, for your hand to heal properly from the fall and you were on bed rest for a week.
You knew what it meant to be alone with a patient, but sometimes you supposed it couldn't be helped.
The diazepam should have helped- you've seen it help- but soon enough the man started twitching, slow at first, before it started to fit and his whole body moved.
He was a strong man. You weren't.
“It's okay, sir- sir!” you threw your weight against him to hold him still, wonder what you can do to stop him biting down on his tongue with the little equipment you had.
The man was mumbling to himself, thrashing violently.
“C'mon Jack, c'mon-”
It only took a wide sweep of the mans arm to send you hurtling back and crashing into the icy water.
The sky was darkening by the time Robby counted off his thirtieth patient of the day. Twenty-five of them had been from the incident at the docks. Only one he couldn't save, two sent up to the OR.
He counted the patients, counted the hours that ticked by, counted every ambulance that came by not carrying you. He'd expected you back by now, expected to have a little piece of mind with seeing you back in his eyeline.
Robby's heart was being squeezed progressively as the day went on, ever since he'd snapped and said words he never even meant.
Every second, passing from patient to patient and tearing off gloves to replace them with clean ones he checked his phone for any update from you.
Nothing.
You must have been busy down there.
But just three ambulances ago Whitaker returned saying he lost sight of you practically immediately.
So where the hell were you?
“Hey, Dana-” he called, rounding on the nurses station.
She looked as dishevelled as he felt, wisps of hair, dark circles under her eyes.
“Can you get a hold of transport, ask where the hell is my resident.”
“I just got off the phone with them, Robby-” she reached over and placed a hand on his, the one that had been tapping relentlessly. “She's on her way in now.”
Before Robby could even wonder why Dana had to hold his hand to tell him, why her eyes were glassed over and her voice trembled to tell him the doors bust open.
“Robby!” Jack yelled out.
He turned, catching sight of his old friend, the greying hair damp and sticking to his skin. He was half dressed in SWAT gear, his jacket discarded and bits of tinfoil falling from his shoulders. Jack was set over a gurney, hammering down on a chest and going in for CPR the old fashioned way.
“What happened? You fall in-”
Robby got to the other side of the gurney and breath caught in his chest.
“She's been down thirty- thirty-five minutes, I dunno, man,” said Jack as he continued hammering down on your chest.
It was you. Blue in the face and eyes closed, droplets of water at your lashes. Your hair was turning to ice fanned out underneath you. He'd been running his hand through your hair just that morning, had he not. There was a blanket, maybe two, thrown over you but your body only reacted to the thumping Jack delivered on your chest, pinching your nose to breath down your open mouth.
This morning you'd been warm, so warm, with a leg thrown over his hips in attempts to keep him in your bed. And he'd been close, so close to burying himself in your warmth.
He didn't even have to touch you to know you were cold.
“I found her- in the water- pulled her out-” gasped Jack as he continued compressions.
“What do you mean in the water?” asked Robby, surprising himself by how calm he sounded.
“She- she fell, or-or something, I dunno man-”
“You don't know?” he snapped. “Why isn't she bagged?”
“We ran out,” said the paramedic pushing you in.
“You ran out?!”
“Robby- Robby!” Dana's hands were on his chest, keeping him at bay before Robby even knew what he was going to do.
Robby shook her off. “What's open?”
“Trauma two just got cleaned up-”
He grabbed the gurney and pushed you into the room. The weight of Jack on top of you trying to save your life squeaking the wheels against the floor not long wiped from blood. Robby was aware of other voices, of people wondering if that was Jack and was it... no... it couldn't have been.
The doors closed behind a team of people all teaming in, stuttering when they saw you.
“Hook her up!” ordered Robby, ignoring any protocol of gowns and gloves. If he was going to get you back he was going to feel the beat of your heart under his palms. “Jack, move!”
Jack slowly climbed down and Robby jumped up next, quickly taking over compressions.
He remembered kissing down your chest, hiding himself there on mornings he wanted to steal away five minutes, pulling the covers up past the two of you. How he was breaking ribs to keep you alive. “Somebody get a bag on her, now!”
“She's- she's been down a long time,” said Jack, catching his breath.
Robby thumped down on your chest, kidding himself with the dull flutter of your eyelashes, knowing it was only through the force of his hammering down on you. “She's alive.”
“Jesus, Jack, you're as cold as ice,” said Dana from somewhere behind Robby.
“I'm fine,” he dismissed. “Robby, you shouldn't be working on her, brother.”
Others in the room stopped, hearing that.
It was protocol family waited outside, that if family or friends ever came in demanding help the same DNA did not attend. They were too emotionally clouded. To invested to think straight. The last time Robby found himself in this situation: blood pumping in his ears, chest tight was trying to save Jake's girlfriends life.
He'd failed.
The only person to pull him back from that was you.
There'd be nobody if you didn't pull through. He'd be left in that pedes room, never to leave.
“Robby!” Jack tried again.
“Shut up and get me some warm saline!”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, walking around till he was on the other side of your gurney. “No, I'm not going anywhere.”
Robby was still pressing his hands down on your chest when Jack reached over, past the bag they'd finally clamped over on you, and stroked back your hair.
“We're gonna get you through this,” he uttered in an oddly tender moment.
“We need to get a central line in her,” said Matteo.
Jack looked at Robby. “Brother.”
“No.”
“You have to move, we need to get a line in her.”
Robby knew that. He knew so much as a doctor, as chief attending. But he couldn't stop, he physically couldn't bring himself to.
“Robby, man, you gotta let go.”
“I can't... I can't... I can't...” he said. The only thing keeping him sane was the one, two, three, four count in his head, was the cold feeling of your flesh under his hands. “Push three milligrams of epi.”
Jack huffed in frustration, probably the only thing keeping him warm. He marched around your bed to his side. “Robby, so help me god I will drag you out of here if you don't let her go!”
“I can't!” he yelled.
It was selfish but Robby had some how convinced himself he could be selfish with you. He could hold on tighter in the mornings and let you go for the rest of the day. He could watch patients get close to you because he knew it was him who got to kiss you. He could hold back the worst parts of himself to keep you, no matter how much it tore him apart to push you away on the days he wanted to be closest.
No, Robby could never let you go.
If you ever tried to leave him, he'd hold on tighter.
Robby dropped his voice low. “I can't.”
Jack took in a slow breath, a gentle hand on Robby's bicep. “Okay. Okay. You don't have to let her go... but to save her you have to move aside.”
A monitor somewhere in the room beeped.
Slowly, Robby moved from your chest.
The people swarmed you. Someone cut into you, getting a central line in on your other side.
Robby stayed where he was, a hand holding yours tightly as if he could squeeze his own life into yours. He cried- maybe loudly- at the feel of how cold you were.
“What's her temp?” asked Jack.
“Eighty.”
Robby looked up to the monitor reading your vitals. “That's- that's too low.”
“We're getting her warmed up.”
“Get the warm saline.”
“We are.”
Robby leaned over you once the line was placed, brushing back your hair and trying desperately to ignore how cold you were. “You're not dead, you're not,” he said, low for you. Your vitals may have been saying different. “You're not dead.”
“Doctor Robby-”
“Please,” he begged with trembling lips. “Please, don't do this to me.”
A monitor sung low and dry. The classic song of a flatline.
His head jerked up.
Jack caught his stupor and pushed him from you, sending him into Dana's ready hold. “She's going into V-fib!”
Dana held Robby. Physically she wasn't strong enough to hold him back but Robby wasn't strong enough to fight against her. “Robby... Robby, c'mon, let's wait outside.”
He was shaking his head.
“Panels, charge to three hundred!” called out Jack.
Dana had just managed to push him out the doors as he shouted clear!
Through the glass Robby watched your body jerk but not respond.
“Please, please, please,” he uttered. His back hit the nurses station, his knees giving out as he slowly slid and sank to the floor.
“Okay, okay,” muttered Dana, falling with him and holding him there.
The Pitt seemed to stand still at the sight of their boss, white faced and hands trembling, brushing back his hair. Noise travelled quick, that it was you in the bed, ribs breaking from compressions, chest hurting from the shock.
Robby's hands clasped in front of him, his star of David chain clenched in his hands. “Please.... she can't do this to me, please.”
Dana tugged on his body, bringing him in closer. With her sharp gaze she pushed everyone else that dared try and get closer away. “C'mon, Robby, she's strong, you know that. And stubborn like hell, huh?”
Robby nodded along with her words, un-sure if he could believe it.
“Charge again, three hundred, let's go!” called Jack, rubbing the panels before everyone backed up. “Clear!”
There was a small beep, a pick up in the line.
“There! Resume compressions!”
“Doctor Robby!” Santos ran up, her gown like a cape around her. She slowed to a stop in front of the two slumped. “Dana. Dana, is it- is it true, is it?”
Robby looked up, tear stained cheeks red.
“Yeah, kid,” said Dana, sadly.
Santo's jaw trembled before she shook her head in resolute, saying one simple word. No. Then she stormed into the room.
Robby knew you favoured Santos and somewhere along the way Robby had come to look for her when an interesting case came in. He came to favour the way you smiled at Santos when she did things right and Robby searched for any smile he could get from you.
So, he pushed himself up on shaky legs and followed her in- back into the chaos that was your room. The blankets had slipped from your body in the shocks and he desperately tried to hold himself back from fixing them.
“Doctor Abbot-” said a nurse or a intern or someone in the room. “It's been thirty minutes.”
“Hold compressions.”
Robby knew it was to check your pulse but he winced when they paused, when your body didn't respond.
“Still asystole, resume compressions.” Jack caught Robby's gaze.
He'd seen that look on Jack's face. Had seen the hopelessness and the devastation at losing a patient not only in his face but in his own reflection. “Don't-”
Jack lowered his head. “Robby.”
“No, Jack, her temp is not up! She's cold,” he said, walking back around the room. He rolled his shoulders back, pulling on gloves. If nobody else was going to save you he would. “She is not dead! She's not- She's not dead till she's warm and dead! Push another round of epi!”
Matteo jumped at the chance.
Jack stood by Robby's side. “Just... prepare yourself, okay? She's been down a long time. She might not come back from this.”
Robby glanced back at him. “She will.”
“And even if she did-”
Robby cut him off. “She will.”
They couldn't send you up to the OR- there was nothing surgical to do. They couldn't send you to the ICU- you weren't stable. They could work on you for hours, in the pitts of hell.
Robby didn't stop Jesse from compressions but he leant over you, leaning his lips into your forehead. “You'll come back, you have to come back.”
“What's her temp?”
“We're up to eighty-eight.”
“When was our last epi?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Push again.”
At some point Santos pushed her through the crowd, taking compressions from Jesse who she deemed weak-armed.
“Doctor Santos-” said Jack, the only one seeing this for what it was. A disaster. One more emotional person in the room wasn't going to help. If you woke you might just choke on tears from them all.
“I can do it,” she argued, nodding to the night attending. “I can do it.”
Santos was as stubborn as you. If anyone might have been able to beat her heart into beating, it would be her.
Robby leant over you. Robby could feel your skin cold against his lips and he pet back any bit of you he could reach, trying to warm you. He caught Jack's tired gaze, his lifeless stare like he was already grieving you. “I never told her I love her, Jack.”
“Get an APG,” said Santos.
Jack clasped his shoulder. “Tell her now.”
Robby looked back down to you, past the bag pushing your breath, through Santos keeping your heart beat. He kissed your forehead. “I-” he chocked on the words. He couldn't remember a time where he'd said it and meant it like he does now.
He knew Jack was giving him a way out. He knew Jack was giving him the chance to live with no regrets.
But Robby would regret not dying with you if you didn't make it.
There was a silence throughout the room, not even the beating of a monitor keeping him sane.
Robby's hot tears hit your cheeks.
“Temp?”
“Up to neinty.”
“Halt compressions.”
Santos paused.
Nothing.
Then a shrill beeping.
If Robby thought it was life he was going to be souly mistaken.
“She's in V-fib again!”
Robby backed away, tucking his head down to his chest as he watched Jack get the panels, rub the gel on.
“Charge to three hundred- clear!”
Your body jolted again, blankets slipping down your bare body and Robby suddenly wanted to cover you, wanted to pull every tube keeping you alive out and just hold you. Warm or cold. He just wanted to hold you.
“Again, charge. Clear!”
There was a silence. Maybe you were so angry at him you were proving a point by dying. You were a good swimmer. Why didn't you swim?
Everyone in the room paused, seeming to wait for someone to call it.
Jack looked at Robby.
“No,” he said, pushing past everyone.
“Robby-” interjected Jack.
He snatched the panels from Jack. “Charge again, three hundred-”
“-Robby-”
“I said charge again!”
The room was heavy as Jesse moved to do so, charging them up.
“Clear!”
Your body jerked again, violent. Your face remained peaceful, Santos remained off to the side, waiting for orders, waiting to know. Everyone else was looking to each other, silently deciding who would be the one to drag Robby away from your body.
“Wait- there!”
In the middle of them all there sat a pick up in your heart.
The room jumped into discussion about how to carry on, about how to keep the momentum going while Robby pressed his stethoscope into his ears and the other down on you. He listened, catching the beat of your heart.
“She's warm, she's warm and she's alive,” said Jack with a smile.
You were dreaming. It was a sweet sort of thing.
It was a warm body blanketing you and hands holding you. It was lips you knew pressing along you and drawing out pleasure. There were three tiny words spoken into flesh.
It was Robby, his head laid upon your chest in your bed and mumbling the words, tracing every letter over your ribs. When you reached for his hair, when you tried to say the words again you coughed up water instead. You clawed at your throat. You chocked in panic-
Then there was a beeping bringing you out of sweet dreams.
“Hey, hey. Honey? Honey, can you look at me?” a warm hand was running over your head, pushing back your hair. “Open your eyes.”
You tried to. They felt heavy. Sleep heavy.
But someone was coaxing you through it, holding your hand and brushing back your hair.
“Yeah, there we go... there we go, hey.”
The lights were bright, almost painfully so as they blared in your eyes. It took you a couple blinks to get them right but when you did there was a dark shadow looming over you, blocking out the lights.
There was the ragged pull of a beard and the slope of a well known nose.
You breathed in and smelt burnt coffee and hand sanitiser. “Robby?”
He smiled, crows feet at his eyes. “Hey, honey.”
You pushed up your arm, finding it oddly weak like it had been weighted down. You found an IV down in your arm. The white lights... the white walls and the IV all made slow sense.
“Wh-what?”
“Easy, easy.” Robby grabbed at your arms, holding you. He helped you sit up, reaching over and plumping your pillow and holding you there.
Only when you heard the monitor calming down and felt the pain lessen did Robby let you go, perching close on the bed next to you and grabbing your hand again.
“What happened?” you asked, finding your throat parched.
Robby sighed, pulling your hand into your lap. “There was an accident at the docks. You went with the responders to help. Your patient had a seizure and...”
You remembered the dock, the wind cold and the yells. You remembered Jack was there and the patient, he was seizing. “What happened to him?” you asked.
Robby stared at you, a small shake in his head as his brows pinched together.
“The seizing, the patient.”
There was a small look of disbelief, a soft smile creasing his chapped lips.
“What?”
His smile turned sharp with affection as he looked down. Your hand, engulfed in his, was pressed to his lips. He stayed like that as the scenes played in his head and the smile slowly started to fall. “You were brought in, your body temp was eighty. Jack was- was doing compressions. We- we had to shock you, so much, you don't- ” Robby sighed out a shaky breath. “You don't know what it was like.”
The dock, the bodies, Jack. The bite of cold water like a thousand daggers piercing into your skin. You had gasped for breath, limbs flailing.
It had felt like dying.
“Oh.”
You rubbed at your chest, pain blooming.
“You might be a bit burnt, from the shocks. And we were- we did compressions for a while so you broke a rib,” he said, chocking down a cry.
You squeezed his hand. “We?”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest. His lips were pursed.
You'd seen Robby cry before, in shades of red face and clenched palms and always trying to hide it away. But you'd never seen him try to hide away as much as he was now. Your hand escaped his hold, caressing down his cheek.
“Robby.... hey....”
His lips puckered to your palm, pressing a kiss there. His palm was large as he held your hand up to his cheek.
“Hey,” you cooed.
Robby glanced up at you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“No, no it's not, it's not okay,” Robby took a shaky breath and scooted closer. His arm came over you, bracing himself on the bed. “You almost died.”
You searched his eyes but only found pain and defeat. He looked tired. Really tired. “But I didn't.”
“That's not the point,” he said. He brushed back strands of your hair, kept petting it down in a way you guessed comforted him more. “Jack was doing compressions for almost an hour. Your temp was down the whole time. We shocked you four times. Four.”
Robby's voice broke.
“You almost died and the last thing we did was argue.”
You didn't know what to say to that. The words I'm sorry were already rising and like he sensed it, Robby gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah... probably wasn't the best timing.”
“We're never arguing again, you understand?”
You smirked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You could feel the race of his pulse. “Give us a week.”
“No,” said Robby. “Never.”
Something sour tasted it your mouth.
“Because we- are we, broken up?”
“No. No. We are not,” he said sternly.
You let out a breath. “Good. Good. I'd have hated to wake up from near death to that.”
“I should have listened to you,” he uttered. “Noelle is nothing, everyone else is nothing, nobody means anything to me, only you. Only ever you. And I am never letting you go again, ever.” He kissed your hand again.
You smiled at him. “What if I need to pee?”
“You can hold my hand.”
“And on mornings where I have really bad morning breath?” you teased.
“That doesn't happen, you know that,” Robby smiled.
Without any arguments left you gave up, sinking into your sheets with a shiver.
Robby frowned. “Are you cold?” he was up at once, pulling at the covers over you and the blankets. He was all but tucking you in as you laid there, taking it.
“Robby.”
“Yeah?” he hummed.
You tugged at his arm, pulling him down.
“What are you- what are you doing?” he chuckled, lightly.
“I'm cold, you're a human furnace, hold me.”
Robby was on the verge of complaining even as you pulled him down on the bed. He grunted at the squeak of the bed, was careful of the monitors assessing you. He squeezed in, pulling the rail back up as you curled up to the side to give him space. “These beds are not made for two.”
“You'll have to get onto the attending about that,” you teased, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Yeah, first thing tomorrow.”
“Meh, I can persuade him, if you like.”
Robby smirked. “He'll do whatever you say.”
His arm slung over your shoulder and rested there, holding your body into him till your head was on his chest and you could feel the beat of his heart. It was just like you dream. Of comfort and warmth.
Robby said your name in a whisper.
You looked up at him to see his eyes screwed shut before releasing them.
“I...”
You watched the move of his lips. “Robby, you don't have to-”
“No, I want to,” he said. Robby's hand was careful as he cupped your face.
“You don't have to say it just because of what happened.”
“I'm not, believe me, I'm not,” he said. “I love you.”
It was the words you wanted to hear, the words you needed to know, the very thing to finish off your dream.
“Robby-” you interjected.
“I love you,” he smiled, grinning wide at you. “I've said it now, I don't think you'll get me to shut up.” There was fake remorse in his voice, a feigned sort of sorry.
“I can think of a few ways.”
Robby's lips were warm and giving as you puckered your up to his, kissing him slow. If you lost your breath kissing him it'd be a hell of a way to go.
Robby smiled against your lips. “That might work.”
His body half rolled onto yours, the bed creaking in protest. Only when your monitor warned of you losing breath did he pull away and check the machine.
“Get some rest, Robby, you look like you need it,” you said, kissing his cheek slow.
There was fight of protest in him that quickly gave up.
Robby looked up at you, wide eyed. “Can I stay?”
You nodded.
“I love you.”
The words he'd given you, the words he'd never forget to say. The words he'd spoken and would never take back.
Watching the World Cup made me realize I could NEVER be a football player 😭 I’d get sent off in my first game. If someone shoved me, I’d shove them right back. If we were losing, I’d just start going in way harder on my tackles… We’re not winning? Cool. But you’re not leaving without getting a little bit hurt too 😭😭😭 I have absolutely ZERO sportsmanship. I seriously don’t know how to lose lmaooo
summary : jack always thought age would take him away from you. he never even considered you could leave him first.
warnings : angst !!!!!!!!! like a shit load haha good luck, mention of injure, mentions of blood, jack abbot being physically unwell
word count : 7.2 k
a/n: based on a rq !! nor proofread !
Time has never been Jack Abbot's friend.
He only had a few years with his wife before she passed away. Only a few years in service before he lost his leg.
He's always known his time was limited. That he would go sooner rather than later.
So when he met you, the hot-headed resident that swept the night-shift by force and took over every single of inch of him - body, mind and soul- he knew that he had to have you.
Just for a little while, before the earth reclaimed him and swallowed him whole.
The affair began in a sterile supply closet, the scent of antiseptic and desperation thick in the air. You were all sharp edges and furious energy, a storm in human form, and he was the ancient, weary rock you broke against. You challenged him in front of nurses, questioned his diagnoses with a fire that should have insulted him but instead ignited something long dormant in his chest. You saw the prosthetic leg, the limp, the weary lines around his eyes, and you didn't see a broken man; you saw a fortress to be conquered.
He let you in. He let you scream at him for being reckless with a patient, let you cry on his shoulder after a child coded on your table, let you fuck him with a ferocity that left him feeling more alive than he had in decades. He never spoke of love, and neither did you. It was an unspoken rule, a sacred pact between the ticking clock in his chest and the boundless, reckless energy in yours. He was your anchor in the chaos of the hospital, and you were his glorious, final blaze. He knew it was selfish, a cruel theft of your time and your heart, but as he watched you sleep, your face soft in the dim light of his apartment, he couldn't bring himself to care. He was a condemned man, and you were his last, perfect meal.
But unfortunately for him, Jack does love you.
God, does he love you.
He loves the way you march through the emergency department like you're declaring war on death itself. He loves how you refuse to accept "good enough" when someone's life is on the line. He loves that you steal his coffee because "yours always tastes better," despite the fact you make it the exact same way. He loves the little wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows whenever you're reading a chart. He loves that you hum under your breath during sutures. He loves the stubborn tilt of your chin whenever someone underestimates you. He loves you in a thousand tiny, impossible ways.
Which is exactly why he knows he has to let you go. The realization doesn't come all at once. It settles into him quietly. One Tuesday morning, while you're standing at the nurses' station arguing with Radiology because somebody lost your CT request.
You're furious. Absolutely incandescent.
"You either find the scan," you snap into the phone, "or I walk down there myself." Jack watches from across the department. A nurse bumps into you with an apology. Without even looking, you smile at her.
"It's okay." Then you're right back to terrifying someone over the phone. He smiles despite himself. God. You're beautiful. Too beautiful to spend your twenties watching an old man grow older.
Too beautiful to become someone's widow before you've even learned who you're supposed to be. He catches himself imagining impossible things.
A little house. A garden. You yelling at him because he planted tomatoes too close together.
Sunday mornings. Children.
The image hurts enough that he has to look away. Because he knows exactly how it ends.
Not with the house. Not with the garden.
With a funeral.
His.
And you standing beside the casket far, far too young.
He spends the rest of the shift avoiding you. Not because he's angry. Because if he looks at you for too long, he'll fold. You make it easy to avoid him. You don't seek him out either. You present cases through another attending. You eat lunch in the residents' lounge instead of his office. During trauma rounds, your eyes slide over him like he's just another physician in blue scrubs. Professional. Detached.
It should make him happy. Instead, it hollows him out.
After a bout six hours of this bullshit, you finally snap.
Your hand wraps around his arm as he walks by the supply closet and you drag him inside, locking the door behind the both of you.
"What the-"
"What exactly is your problem ?" You snap, shaking your head as you look up at him. God this man is beautiful.
He always has been.
The moment you met him, you knew you were as good as gone.
It had been your first week.
You'd walked into the emergency department with your chin held too high, your white coat too stiff, determined to prove yourself to every attending who thought a twenty-something resident couldn't keep up. Jack Abbott hadn't even looked up from the chart in his hands when he'd said,
"You're standing in my trauma bay." You'd looked him dead in the eye and replied,
"Then maybe work faster." The entire room had gone silent. A nurse had actually choked on her coffee. Jack had slowly lowered the chart. Looked at you. Really looked at you. Then the corner of his mouth had twitched.
"You're either very brave," he'd said.
"Or very stupid."
"I haven't decided yet." You'd smiled. He'd been doomed from that moment on. So had you. Now, months later, you're standing inches from him in the same supply closet where everything began. Only this time, neither of you is smiling..
Jack stares at the floor for a long moment.
"Baby.." Your expression hardens.
"Answer me, Jack."
"I'm fine." His voice is tired. You blink.
"No, you're not. Talk to me." He exhales slowly.
"I can't..." His hands settle on his hips. "I just- I can't handle this shift anymore. I'm exhausted." You step closer.
"You're lying to me." He doesn't answer. "Tell me what changed." Nothing. "You were fine yesterday." Silence. "You kissed me goodbye this morning." Silence. "You told me to drive safe." His jaw clenches. "So what happened between eight o'clock this morning and now?" Finally, he looks at you. Your heart splinters open. You reach up to him, your fingers tangling in his graying hair.
It's softer than it looks.
You cradle the back of his head, your thumb brushing slowly along his temple.
"Jack…" He closes his eyes. Just for a second. And he leans into your touch. The movement is so small most people would've missed it. You don't. You never do.
"There you are," you whisper. His breath catches. "You only do that when you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You're lying." A tired smile ghosts across his mouth.
"…You're getting too good at reading me."
"I've always been good at reading you." Your fingers slide through his hair again, smoothing it back from his forehead. "You haven't looked me in the eye all day." Silence. "You've been avoiding me." Silence. "You skipped lunch." Silence. "You gave Mrs. Alvarez's discharge paperwork to Robby instead of me." Another silence. "And…" your voice softens, "…you haven't touched me." That one lands. You watch something inside him crack. His shoulders sag beneath the weight of it.
"I couldn't."
"Why?" He laughs once. It's a horrible sound. Because there's no humor in it.
"I was afraid if I did…" His eyes finally meet yours. "…I'd never let you go." The words steal every ounce of air from your lungs.
"Jack…"
"You smiled at me this morning." His voice has gone distant. Like he's remembering it instead of living it. "You stole half my toast."
"I did."
"You kissed me…" His hand comes up almost involuntarily, resting lightly against your waist. "So I spent the whole drive in thinking…" His thumb flexes once against your scrub top. "…how many mornings do I actually have left?" Your expression crumples.
"Don't talk like that, Jack." You say, your face falling "Please, don't." You beg. HIs face hardens as he sees the sad look cross your face, and he cups your cheeks, tilting your face up.
"Can't help it. I'm on borrowed time, baby. And I know that." His hands smooth down your neck to rub affectionately at your arms. "I just... God, i don't want to know you'll still be here when i'm not." You shake your head, grabbing his hand and pressing it to your chest as you mirror your hand on his.
"I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere." You press a kiss to his temple. "We're not going anywhere." Jack's eyes close the second your lips touch his temple. He stands perfectly still. As if he's trying to memorize the feeling.
"…You always say that," he whispers.
"Because it's true."
"It isn't."
"It is." He gives you a sad smile.
"You're too young to know what forever looks like."
"And you're too stubborn to let anybody love you properly." That actually earns a quiet laugh.
"Fair." Your thumb strokes across the back of his hand where it's pressed over your heartbeat.
"Feel that?" He nods. "That's where you live." His gaze drops to where your fingers are laced together.
"You've got your whole life ahead of you."
"I know."
"You could have kids."
"I know."
"You could travel."
"I know."
"You could find somebody who'll still be around when you're sixty." You shake your head.
"I already found somebody." His jaw tightens.
"Baby…"
"No." Your voice is gentle now. Not angry. Not pleading. Just certain. "I don't want some hypothetical man twenty years from now." You take another step until your forehead rests against his. "I want the grumpy attending who steals my fries." A tiny huff escapes him.
"I do not steal your fries."
"You absolutely steal my fries."
"I sample them."
"You sample half the basket."
"They taste better off your plate."
"They're the same fries."
"They ain't." You smile despite yourself. His expression softens.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable this time. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
"You should go home." You blink. "Your shift's over."
"I know." You glance toward the tiny window in the supply closet door. The afternoon light has already started fading. "You coming?" The question is so ordinary. So domestic. The kind you've asked a hundred times before. Jack's hand stills against your cheek.
"…Not yet." Your smile fades.
"What do you mean?"
"I've got some charts to finish."
"You can do those tomorrow."
"I'd rather do 'em tonight."
"Jack." His eyes slide away from yours.
"I just…" He clears his throat. "I need a little while longer." Your heart sinks.
"You still want to be alone."
"No." The answer comes quickly. Painfully quickly. "I just need to think." You study his face. The lines around his eyes. The exhaustion he keeps trying to hide. The fear he can't.
"You promise you'll come home?" His throat works.
"…Yeah."
"Jack." He looks back at you. "Promise me." Something flickers across his face. Something almost guilty.
"I promise." You search his eyes for another long moment. Then you nod.
"Okay." You smooth the collar of his scrubs absentmindedly. "I'll start dinner." His lips twitch.
"What're we havin'?"
"I was thinking pasta."
"The one with too much garlic?"
"There is no such thing as too much garlic." He smiles.
"There she is." You rise onto your toes and press a lingering kiss to his cheek.
"Don't stay too late."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"I know."
"And then I end up asleep on the couch waiting for you." His hand finds your waist again.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize." You squeeze his hand once. "You just have to come home." His chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. Home. Not your apartment. Not his. Home. Wherever you were waiting. He watches you unlock the supply closet door.
Before stepping out, you glance back over your shoulder.
"I love you." The words are easy. Habitual now. Like breathing. Jack smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I know." You frown.
"…That's not what you're supposed to say." A sheepish smile.
"I…" His voice catches. "I love you too." You grin.
"There we go." Then you're gone, disappearing back into the controlled chaos of the emergency department. Jack stays where he is long after the door swings shut. The closet suddenly feels impossibly quiet.
With one last glance in the direction you'd gone, he squares his shoulders and walks back onto the emergency department floor, never noticing the rain beginning to fall outside the hospital windows.
Time passes by in a blur.
Before he knows it the sun is coming up, and Jack's shift is nearing it's end.
He rubs his temples tiredly, a sharp clap on his back jolting him forward.
"You look like shit, Jackie."
"Could say the same about you, Robby." Jack bites back, waving half-heartedly at Dana as she walks by with her coffee and about five different interns trailing after her.
"Go home," Dana calls over her shoulder without breaking stride. "You're scaring the medical students."
"They're supposed to be scared."
"They're supposed to be inspired."
"They'll learn." She snorts.
"They'll learn therapy." Jack manages a tired smile. His shoulders ache. His prosthetic has been screaming at him for the last three hours. His coffee went cold sometime around four in the morning. And all he can think about is you.
Probably asleep on the couch.
Probably stubborn enough to have waited until midnight before finally giving up and going to bed.
He pulls his phone from his pocket. One unread message from five minutes ago.
4:42 AM
I love you. ❤️
His thumb lingers over the tiny heart. He smiles despite himself. Then types back.
Sorry, baby. Crazy night. Coming home now. Love you too.
He slips the phone back into his pocket.
"Finally listening to your girlfriend?" Robby asks. Jack doesn't bother correcting the title.
"…Yeah."
"Good." Robby claps him on the shoulder again.
"Go home before she comes down here and drags your old ass out herself." A quiet chuckle escapes him.
"Wouldn't put it past her."
"Neither would I." Jack reaches for his coat hanging over the back of the chair. Almost home. A shower. Pasta reheated in the microwave. Your feet in his lap while you complained about residents and he pretended not to fall asleep halfway through the story. His favorite part of every day. The pager on his belt shrieks. Everyone in the department freezes instinctively. The overhead speakers crackle.
"Code Trauma. Multi-vehicle collision. ETA four minutes. Repeat, Code Trauma. Multi-vehicle collision." Jack closes his eyes.
"…Of course." His coat slips back onto the chair. Around him, the emergency department explodes into motion. Nurses rush toward Trauma One and Two. Respiratory is already wheeling ventilators into place. Blood coolers arrive. Dana spins on her heel.
"Let's move!" Robby is already pulling on gloves. Jack doesn't think. Years of instinct take over. He's halfway to the trauma bay before he remembers he'd promised you I'm coming home. The ambulance bay doors burst open. Rain lashes sideways through the entrance. Sirens scream.
One ambulance. Then another. Then a third. Paramedics spill out, shouting reports over one another.
"We've got minor wounds to passengers of cars involved, one major trauma on the way, eta two minutes." People start piling out of the ambulances, all minor head wounds and scrapes - minor enough for Jack and Robby to motion for them to head inside towards Santos, Mel, Langdon, Mohan, Whittaker and Javadi to take care of them.
Another set of sirens cuts through the rain.
Louder.
Closer.
A trauma nurse looks toward the ambulance bay doors.
"That'll be the major." The radio clipped to one of the paramedics crackles with static.
"Medic Seven inbound. Single critical patient. High-speed MVC. Driver trapped for approximately seven minutes after crash. Prolonged extrication. ETA sixty seconds." Jack is already pulling gloves over his hands.
"What've we got?" The paramedic barely glances up from the radio.
"Female. Late twenties to early thirties." Jack nods once.
"Mechanism?"
"Pickup crossed the center line. T-boned on the driver's side. Car rolled." His stomach sinks.
"Vitals?"
"Unstable."
"Airway?"
"Compromised."
"BP?"
"Eighty systolic and dropping." Robby whistles under his breath.
"Damn." Dana is already assigning stations. "Jack, you're leading." He nods automatically. "Robby, airway."
"Got it."
"Dana, thoracotomy tray on standby." The room transforms into organized chaos. Nurses lay out chest tubes. Someone spikes blood. The ultrasound machine hums to life. Jack checks the laryngoscope without really seeing it.
Focus.
One patient.
One problem at a time.
That's what he'd taught every resident who'd ever worked under him.
The ambulance backs into the bay with a squeal of brakes. Its doors fly open before it's fully stopped.
Rain explodes inside. The paramedics are shouting before the stretcher even touches the ground.
The patient is covered almost entirely by blankets, cervical collar, oxygen tubing and blood-soaked dressings.
Jack can't see her face. Good. He doesn't need to. She's his patient. She's just another trauma. Just another life to save.
The wheels slam through the trauma room doors.
"One, two, three!" They transfer her onto the hospital bed. Blankets peel away. Trauma shears slice through soaked clothing.
Blood. Too much blood.
Jack's eyes scan automatically.
Pelvis. Chest. Airway. Hands.
His gaze catches on a silver ring wrapped around one finger.
Simple. Thin.
He knows that ring. His heartbeat stutters.
No. There are thousands like it. He reaches for the patient's wrist to assess perfusion. A woven bracelet slides free from beneath the bloodied sleeve.
Blue thread. Fraying near the knot.
You'd made him the matching one six months ago during a rare weekend away. His hand freezes.
"…Jack?" Robby's voice sounds strangely far away. He stares at the bracelet.
No. No.
His eyes finally lift. The paramedic pulls away the oxygen mask that had been resting loosely over the endotracheal tube while the respiratory therapist reconnects the ventilator. Blood-matted hair spills across the pillow. A bruised cheek. A familiar scar just beneath your jaw from the time you cut yourself opening an ampoule as an intern. Everything inside him stops.
"…No." It's barely audible. Dana looks up.
"Jack?" He doesn't answer. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him. Not you.
Please. Not you. One of the nurses glances at the chart clipped to the end of the bed.
"No ID found at scene." Another nurse holds up a shattered phone sealed inside an evidence bag. "It was locked." Jack finally sees the necklace lying against your throat. The tiny silver stethoscope charm. His birthday gift. His own hands had fastened it around your neck. His gloves tremble.
"…Baby?" Silence. The monitor shrieks. Heart rate plummeting.
"Eighty over palp!"
"We're losing pressure!" Dana snaps her fingers in front of him.
"Jack!" His head jerks up. Every eye in Trauma One is on him. For one impossible second, he is not an attending physician. Not a trauma surgeon. Not a teacher.
He's just a man staring at the love of his life on a trauma table.
Robby sees his face. Looks at you. Looks back at Jack. And all the color drains from his own.
"…Oh, God." The room falls silent for exactly one heartbeat.
Seven minutes, you were in that car.
Five minutes before you texted him.
You were on your phone behind the wheel.
Just to tell him you loved him.
This is his fault.
Oh god.
Oh god, he's going to be sick.
Jack backs out of the room, nausea crawling up his spine as he stumbles through the ER, staring at the door.
"Dr Abbot ?" Langdon calls as he's cleaning up a surface level cut on a child's head.
And Jack doubles over.
And throws upon the ER floor just as Robby barrels out of the room.
"Jack." Robby is at his side in an instant, one hand catching his shoulder before he can hit the floor. Jack doesn't even realize he's vomiting until his throat burns. His stomach empties violently onto the polished ER tile.
Again. Again.
His entire body convulses.
"Oh, Jesus," Langdon breathes, automatically guiding the child's mother a few steps away. Dana appears beside him so fast it seems impossible.
"Get Environmental Services—"
"No." Robby cuts her off sharply. "Not yet." He keeps one hand firm between Jack's shoulder blades as another wave hits him.
Jack can't breathe. He can't— You'd texted him.
Love you.
He'd answered.
Coming home now.
Seven minutes. Seven goddamn minutes.
If he'd just left when he'd promised… If he'd just gone home… If he hadn't stayed to finish charts… If he hadn't spent the whole afternoon trying to convince himself to leave you… His hands begin to shake so violently he can't control them.
"I…" His voice disappears. "I…" He swallows hard against another wave of nausea. "I'm supposed to go first." He gasps against the prickling in his eyes, the pressure in his skull. He can see Dr Shen and Dr Ellis trying to bring your pulse back in the room, your small frame crushed beneath Ellis as he breaks your ribs over and over.
Jack feels sick all over again.
"They're hurting her." Jack rasps, sidestepping around his own sick and trying to reach you. "Robby, they're-"
"Jack, no. They're saving her." Robby says, stopping him. Jack stares at you, the way your rest caves beneath Shen's hands, the way your hand hangs limp off the bed, the way your lips part to give way for the tube that was unceremoniously shoved down your throat.
You were texting and driving.
Just to tell him you loved him.
Jack has always knows fate was a tricky thing.
He didn't think she had a dark sense of humor.
"Robby, you- You have to help her. She's in her twenties, she's- She's too young. She has to live. Robby, you have to save her." Robby grabs him by both shoulders. Hard.
"Jack." His voice cuts clean through the panic. "Look at me." Jack doesn't. He can't. His eyes are locked on the trauma bay.
On you.
Ellis's elbows lock as he continues compressions.
One. Two. Three.
Each one lifts your slight frame off the mattress.
Jack flinches with every compression as if they're landing on his own chest.
"They're hurting her," he whispers again, horrified.
"Jack, no."
"They're breaking her ribs."
"They have to."
"No—"
"They have to." Robby steps directly into his line of sight. "You taught me that." Jack's eyes finally flicker toward him. "You taught every one of us that." Another crash cart alarm shrieks from inside. Shen's voice rings out.
"Epinephrine's in."
Dana: "Continue CPR." Jack shakes his head frantically.
"She's scared of hospitals when she's the patient." His voice is barely coherent now. "She always jokes she'd make the worst patient…" A broken laugh escapes him. "…She hates IVs." Robby feels his own throat tighten.
"I know."
"She pretends she doesn't…" Jack's eyes fill. "…but she squeezes my hand every time somebody sticks a needle in her." He looks back toward the room. "…Who's holding her hand?" Silence. That question hurts more than anything else. Robby glances through the glass. No one. Every hand is occupied.
Airway.
Chest.
Blood.
Ultrasound.
Nobody has a free hand. Jack makes to move again.
"I need—"
"No."
"I just need to—"
"You cannot go in there."
"They don't know—"
"They know."
"They don't know she gets cold." His breathing hitches. "They don't know she…" He swallows. "…she likes somebody talking to her." His voice breaks. "…She doesn't like silence." Robby's heart splinters. Because he's right. Everyone in that room knows you as a doctor. The brilliant resident. The relentless physician. Only Jack knows that you hum while making coffee.
That you fall asleep on the couch waiting for him. That you steal his fries and pretend you don't. That when you're frightened…you reach for his hand.
A nurse rushes past them carrying another cooler of blood.
"Four units O negative!" Dana doesn't even look up.
"Hang all four." Jack's knees buckle. This time Robby catches him completely.
"I can't lose her." The words are tiny. Childlike. Robby eases him onto a nearby chair before he falls outright. "I can't."
"I know."
"I've already buried one wife." His hands cover his face. "I can't bury her too." Robby crouches in front of him.
"You aren't."
"You don't know that."
"No. I don't." Honesty. "But I know who's in that room." Jack looks up. "Dana." A nod. "Ellis." Another. "Shen." Another. "Your whole night shift crew and hjalf my day-shift. And every single one of them has heard you say the same thing for twenty years." Jack blinks. "'One patient,'" Robby says quietly. "'One problem at a time.'" A beat. "They're fighting for her the way you taught them to fight." Inside the trauma bay, another voice cuts through the noise.
"We've got electrical activity." Dana reaches for the ultrasound probe.
"Come on…" Jack grips Robby's forearm so tightly his knuckles turn white.
"You save her." His voice is almost gone."Please." It isn't an order. It isn't attending to attending. It's just a man begging his oldest friend.
"Robby…" His eyes overflow. "…Please save my girl." Robby's own vision blurs. He squeezes Jack's shoulder once. Firm. Certain.
"I am going to do everything medicine allows." He stands. "And when I'm out of medicine…" He looks through the glass at you. "…I'll start borrowing miracles." Without another word, he pulls a fresh pair of gloves over his hands, turns, and runs back into Trauma One, leaving Jack standing alone outside the doors, one trembling hand pressed against the glass, watching the team fight with everything they have to bring you back to him.
------
Jack throws up at least three times before they finally tell him you're stabilised.
His head in the toilet bowl, fingers gripping the porcelain, a shy Mel King waiting for him outside the door with a piece of gum and a bottle of water every time.
The first time, it's violent.
The second, there's almost nothing left.
By the third, it's just dry heaves that leave his ribs aching and his throat raw.
He stays kneeling in front of the staff bathroom toilet long after his stomach is empty, forehead resting against the cool porcelain.
His hands won't stop shaking.
A timid knock sounds against the door.
"…Dr. Abbott?" Mel. He doesn't answer. The door opens just enough for her to peek her head through. She's still in scrubs. There's dried blood on one sleeve that isn't hers. She quietly sets a bottle of water and a packet of mint gum on the floor beside him.
"I thought…" she says softly. "…you might want these." Jack stares blankly at the bottle.
"…Thank you." She doesn't leave immediately. She just stands there awkwardly. Hands clasped together.
"I've never…" Her voice catches. "…I've never seen you scared before." Jack lets out a laugh that sounds more like another sob.
"I have." Mel's eyes sting.
"You always look like you know exactly what to do." He shakes his head.
"Not today." Silence settles between them. "…Is she…" He can't finish. Mel swallows.
"Last time I check they were still working on her.." His shoulders shake. "But she's stable enough." A nod. "They were taking her for CT." Another nod. "They thought…" Mel hesitates. "…they were thinking the bleeding's slower now." Jack closes his eyes.
"Good." His voice is barely audible. "Good." Mel watches him for another moment before clearing her throat.
"Dr Robby is asking to see you." Jack nods once. It takes him three attempts to stand. His knees don't seem to remember how. Mel instinctively reaches out, steadying his elbow without a word. He's the one who's always caught everyone else. Today, she catches him.
"...Sorry," he mutters automatically. She looks at him like he's lost his mind.
"You don't have to apologize." He can't even find the strength to argue. The walk back to Trauma is only thirty yards. It feels like miles. Every step echoes. Every monitor sounds too loud. Every white coat reminds him of yours. He passes nurses who suddenly find something fascinating to look at on clipboards. Residents lower their voices. Nobody knows what to say to the attending who just watched the woman he loves arrive dying in his own emergency department.
Outside Trauma One, Robby is stripping off bloody gloves. There are streaks of crimson across his gown. Across his forearms. Across the bridge of his nose where he'd pushed his glasses back without thinking.
He looks exhausted. He looks twenty years older.
"Robby." Jack gasps. "Please- Please tell me she-"
"She's alive, Jack. They wheeled her up to Gen surgery about an hour ago. Neuro thinks they can manage her without opening her skull since the bleeding slowed." Jack doesn't move. The words don't register. They hit him like a language he's forgotten how to speak.
"…Alive?" Robby nods.
"Alive." Jack stares at him.
"…Alive." Another nod.
"Yeah." The breath leaves Jack all at once. His legs give out. He doesn't collapse dramatically. He just… folds. Like someone cut the strings holding him upright. He sinks into the nearest chair, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face. A sound escapes him. Not crying. Not laughing. Something raw. Something that had been trapped inside his chest since he'd recognized your bracelet.
"Oh…" His shoulders shake. "…Thank God." The words dissolve into another ragged breath. For nearly a minute, neither of them speaks. Robby simply stands there. Waiting. Finally— "Talk to me." Robby nods.
"She arrested once." Jack's head snaps up.
"…How long?"
"Just under eight minutes before we got sustained circulation back." Jack visibly pales.
"Jesus…"
"We've got her back."
"What's broken?" Robby takes a slow breath.
"Left femur." A nod. "Pelvis." Another. "Six ribs." Jack closes his eyes. "Pulmonary contusion." His jaw tightens. "Liver laceration."
"Grade?"
"Three."
"…Spleen?"
"Bruised."
"Head?"
"Small subdural."
"And…" Robby hesitates. Jack notices immediately.
"What?"
"They're worried about swelling."
"Brain?"
"No."
"Then what?" Robby exhales slowly.
"Her abdomen." Jack nods automatically.
"Compartment syndrome ?"
"Not exactly." Robby huffs. "Ten week old fetus. Lost in the trauma of the crash." Jack frowns. For a moment, the words don't make sense.
"…What?" Robby's face changes. The practiced mask every trauma surgeon wears slips just enough to reveal the man underneath.
"They found it on FAST." His voice is quiet. Gentle. "We didn't know until we got her clothes off." Jack just stares at him.
"No…"
"They estimate around ten weeks."
"No."
"Jack—"
"No." The word comes out harsher this time. Because it isn't denial. It's disbelief. His mind races backward. Ten weeks. The nausea you'd laughed off. The coffee you'd suddenly stopped drinking. The way you'd pushed the wine he'd poured one Friday night toward him instead. The afternoon you'd stood in the grocery store staring at baby carrots for almost five full minutes because they were "the only thing that sounded good."
He'd teased you relentlessly. You'd just rolled your eyes.
God.
"Oh…" His hand flies to his mouth. "…Oh, sweetheart." He hears himself whisper it. Not to Robby. To you.
"She knew…" Robby nods once.
"We think so. Police found a box full of pregnancy tests and baby clothes in the trunk. They think she was on her way to tell you." Jack's eyes begin to shine again.
"She…" He laughs weakly through the tears. "She was gonna tell me." He can see it now. The strange little smile you'd worn all week. The way you'd kept saying,
"Can we make sure we're both home Thursday night?" He'd assumed you wanted a date night.
God. You'd probably bought a tiny pair of socks.
Or one of those ridiculous mugs. World's Okayest Dad. You always liked making him groan at terrible jokes. His chest caves in.
"I almost…" His voice disappears. "I almost left her." Robby doesn't interrupt. "I spent yesterday convincing myself she'd be happier without me…" Jack's eyes squeeze shut. "…while she was carrying our baby." The words break him. Not loudly. Quietly. His shoulders fold inward. His face crumples. A single sob escapes before he can stop it.
"Oh, God." Robby kneels in front of him again.
"Jack."
"I would've never known." His voice shakes uncontrollably. "If she'd…" He can't finish. He can't say died. "I would've buried them both." Silence. Heavy. Awful. Jack rubs both hands over his face.
"Was…" He swallows painfully. "…was there anything…" Robby already knows what he's asking.
"No." Jack nods. Not because it hurts less. Because he needed the answer. "There wasn't anything anybody could've done." Another nod. "The impact…" Robby exhales slowly. "It was catastrophic." Jack's gaze falls to the floor. He pictures you driving. One hand on the wheel. The other holding your phone. Smiling. Typing three simple words.
I love you.
Maybe wondering how to tell him. Maybe rehearsing it. Maybe laughing to yourself because you'd always said he'd faint if you ever got pregnant. A broken smile flickers across his face through the tears.
"I would've." Robby blinks.
"What?"
"I would've fainted." Another watery laugh. "You would've had to catch me."
"I know."
"I would've built that damn garden." His voice is almost absent now. "We would've argued over paint colors."
Jack wipes his face. His hands are finally beginning to steady. Only a little.
"Does…" He clears his throat. "…does she know?"
"That she lost the pregnancy?" Jack nods. Robby shakes his head.
"No." Jack closes his eyes.
"When she wakes up…" The sentence hangs unfinished. Because there is no good way to finish it. No right time. No right words. Robby puts a hand on his shoulder.
"One thing at a time."
Jack looks at him.
"First…" Robby says quietly, "…we get her through surgery." Another beat. "Then we get her home." Jack nods. A nurse pushes through the double doors.
"Dr. Abbott?" Both men look over. "The OR called." Jack is on his feet before she finishes speaking. "The surgery went great. They're asking if you'd like to sit with her as they wean her off the anesthesia." His face crumples all over again.
"…Can I?"
"They said she'd probably like a familiar voice." His throat closes. Because of course she would. She'd always said she hated silence. He nods once. Unable to trust himself to speak as he starts toward the elevator.
The elevator ride is only three floors.
It feels like an eternity.
Jack stands alone inside the polished steel box, one hand braced against the rail as if the floor keeps threatening to disappear beneath him. His scrubs are still stained. Not with your blood. Someone else's. He can't stop looking at them. The doors slide open with a soft chime. The intensive care floor is quiet.
Painfully quiet. No trauma alarms. No shouted orders. Just the distant hiss of ventilators and the muted beeping of cardiac monitors.
A recovery nurse is waiting outside your room. She offers him a small, sympathetic smile.
"They're just finishing up." Jack nods. His throat is too tight for words. She opens the door. "…You can go in." He hesitates. For the first time in nearly thirty years of medicine…
Jack Abbott is afraid to walk into a patient's room. Not because of what he'll find.
Because of who he'll find.
He finally forces his feet to move. The room is dim. Morning light filters through partially opened blinds. Machines hum quietly around the bed.
You look… Small.
Smaller than you've ever looked before. The ventilator is gone now. Only a nasal cannula rests beneath your nose. Bruises bloom across the left side of your face in deep purples and blues. Your hair has been gently brushed away from your forehead by somebody kind enough to think about things like that. One arm is wrapped in thick bandages. Your left leg disappears beneath blankets, suspended slightly from traction.
IV pumps blink steadily beside you. Monitor. Blood pressure. Pulse oximeter. So many machines. Too many. Jack stops beside the bed. His knees almost buckle again.
"…Hi, baby." The words barely exist. He reaches for your hand. Carefully. As though you're made of spun glass. Your fingers are warm.
Thank God.
Warm.
He folds both of his hands around yours and bows his head until his forehead rests lightly against your knuckles. For a long moment… He just breathes.
He remembers the text.
I love you.
Three words.
Three words that nearly became the last thing you'd ever said to him.
His eyes squeeze shut.
"I love you too." The words come easier now. "I love you so much it scares me."
His thumb brushes over your wedding-ring finger.Empty.
Because you weren't married. Not yet. He'd convinced himself there wasn't enough time.
God. He'd been such a fool. His voice grows quieter.
Silence answers him.
Only the rhythmic beeping of your heart.
Steady. Strong. Alive.
He reaches out with trembling fingers and gently brushes a strand of hair away from your bruised forehead.
"You scared me." A tiny smile appears through the tears. His thumb strokes your temple. "…you've always been dramatic." Nothing. "So if you could wake up…" He leans closer. "…I'd appreciate it." Still nothing.
Another stroke through your hair. The monitor continues its patient rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Jack closes his eyes.
"I don't care if we never have another child." His voice is barely audible now.
"I don't care if we never get the house. I don't care if we eat burnt pasta every Thursday for the rest of our lives." He presses a gentle kiss against your bandaged hand. "I just want you." A tiny movement. So small he thinks he imagined it. His head jerks up. Your fingers. They twitch.
Once.
Against his palm. Jack freezes.
"…Baby?" Another tiny movement. Your brow furrows. Almost imperceptibly. Your lips part around a shallow breath.
The monitor speeds up by a few beats.
Jack shoots to his feet so quickly his chair skids backward across the floor.
"Nurse?" His voice cracks.
"Nurse!" The recovery nurse rushes through the doorway.
"What happened?"
"I—" He looks back at you. Your eyelashes flutter. Just once. Like you're trying very hard to swim toward the surface. Jack's heart climbs into his throat. He rushes back to your bedside, taking your hand again. "Baby ? God- Baby, can you hear me ?" His fingers rake through your hair, his lips ghosting over your temple.
Your eyelids flutter once more. A tiny crease forms between your brows. Like you're trying to remember how to wake up. The recovery nurse is already at your bedside, checking the monitor, shining a small penlight across your pupils.
"Easy," she murmurs, though she's not sure whether she's talking to you or Jack. "She's coming up."Jack doesn't take his eyes off your face.
"C'mon," he whispers. "You always were stubborn."
Another flutter.
Your fingers tighten— Barely. Just enough for him to feel it. His breath catches so violently it almost hurts.
"There you are." His thumb strokes over your knuckles. "There you are…" Your lips move. No sound. Just the ghost of a word. Jack leans in immediately until his ear is almost against your mouth.
"What?" Nothing. Your breathing hitches. Your brow pinches tighter. You try again.
"…Jack…"
His heart stops.
"I'm here." He swallows hard. "I'm right here." Your eyelashes tremble before finally lifting. Only a sliver. The room is nothing but blurred light and indistinct shapes. You blink slowly. Everything hurts. Your head. Your chest. Your leg. Even breathing feels wrong. The ceiling swims above you.
"…Mm…" Jack is crying openly now. He doesn't even notice.
"Hi." His smile is trembling so hard it barely looks like one. "Hi, my love." Your eyes drift toward the sound of his voice. It takes enormous effort. When they finally find him… You frown.
"…You…" Your voice is little more than dry air. "…crying?" A broken laugh escapes him.
"You notice that first?" Another slow blink.
"…Ugly." He laughs again, louder this time, the sound cracking in the middle.
"Yeah?"
"…Mm."
"So are you." Your lips twitch. The tiniest hint of a smile.
"There she is," he whispers. "There she is." He can't stop touching you. One hand holds yours. The other cups your cheek with impossible gentleness, careful to avoid the bruising.
"I thought…" His voice disappears. He tries again. "I thought I lost you."
Confusion clouds your face.
Lost?
You try to move. Pain explodes through your pelvis. A strangled gasp tears from your throat. Immediately, Jack's hand steadies your shoulder.
"Hey. Take it easy. Don't move, baby."He adjusts the blanket around you before liftingt he back of your mechanical bed to help you sit up a little. "I know you want to. But don't." You squeeze your eyes shut until the wave passes.
"…Truck." The word is barely understandable. "I remember…" Your breathing grows faster "…Lights." Jack nods.
"I know."
"…Rain."
"I know."
"…Home." His heart shatters. "You were coming home. And i- I was coming to you." You look at him again. Really look at him this time. His exhausted face. The dried tears. The blood still staining his scrubs.
"…You…" Your brow furrows. "…Didn't…" He knows what you're asking before you finish.
"I stayed." The admission is quiet. "I'm sorry." You stare at him.
"…Charts?" A humorless laugh escapes him.
"Yeah. I stayed for charts." Your eyes close for a moment. Not in anger. Just exhaustion.
"…Idiot." Jack lets out something between a sob and a laugh.
"I know. I know." You manage the weakest squeeze of his hand.
"…Still…" Another shallow breath. "…Love you." The words are slurred by pain medication.
Sleepy. Honest. Jack's eyes overflow all over again.
"I love you too." He bends carefully, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead. "So much." Your gaze drifts over him lazily.
"…You…" A pause. "…Need…"
"What do I need?"
"…Sleep." Despite everything… He smiles.
"Bossing me around already?" A tiny nod.
"…Doctor's…" You pause to gather enough air. "…Orders." He laughs softly, shaking his head.
"Yes, ma'am." The nurse quietly checks your IV, giving the two of you as much privacy as a hospital room can offer. Your eyes begin to drift shut again. Jack feels your fingers loosening in his hand. Fear flashes across his face.
"Hey." Immediately, your eyes crack back open.
"…M'here."
"I know." He strokes your hair again. "You can sleep now."
"You sure?"
"So sure. I'm not leaving." He brings your hand to his lips. "I'll be right here when you wake up." Your expression softens.
"…Promise?" This time… There isn't a second of hesitation.
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