summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was no easy feat, but it was manageable. Until it wasn’t. When John Logan breaks a crucial promise, he’s forced to confront what’s been standing in front of him all along.
based on this request! i hope i did it justice <3
content: so.much.angst. like, so much. unrequited love, reader is a stem major. the characters are more accurate to their book counterparts occasionally, namely tucker. oops. some things may be ooc but it is for the sake of the plot. logan is unknowingly an asshole.
note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.
He’s looking at her.
His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.
Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.
You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.
Instead, you’re watching him.
Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.
His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.
His eyes always find the same person.
You wonder if anyone else notices.
Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.
Ten years.
Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.
You had been determined to leave.
And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.
You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.
Different roads, same destination.
For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.
And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.
You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.
You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.
But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.
Maybe that was your mistake.
Across the room, Hannah laughs.
The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.
Of course he does.
Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.
And she is so kind.
She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.
It’s impossible to blame him for looking.
The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.
His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.
Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.
Logan smiles.
And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.
Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.
He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.
You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.
At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.
Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.
“What’s wrong?”
You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.
So you do the next best thing.
“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”
The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.
Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.
"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."
You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.
"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.
"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.
"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.
You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.
"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"
You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.
You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.
And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.
"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."
He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t,” you murmur.
“Then explain it to me.”
"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."
Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.
The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.
"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."
"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”
Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.
"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."
You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.
You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.
"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”
"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"
"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."
"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"
You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.
"Deal," you agree.
The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.
Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.
He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.
Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.
It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.
Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.
Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.
“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.
Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.
Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.
But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.
It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.
Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.
But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.
As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.
Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.
When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.
Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.
Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.
But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.
But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.
"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."
"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."
You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.
In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.
Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.
He forgot.
The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.
"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.
You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"
Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.
A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.
"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."
The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.
Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.
When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.
You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.
The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.
And Logan.
The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.
Then, the room goes quiet.
Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.
"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"
He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.
But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.
Your eyes lock onto Logan.
He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.
Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.
But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.
The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.
He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.
You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.
That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.
You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.
"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”
You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.
Sorry?
The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.
You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.
Slowly, you turn back around.
Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.
But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.
Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"
"Shut up," you say quietly.
The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.
"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."
He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“
“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”
You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.
"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"
Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."
"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"
You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.
"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"
A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"
"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."
"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”
"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“
You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.
But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.
Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.
It’s symbolic, you think.
"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.
"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."
You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.
Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.
He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.
Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”
“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”
“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”
“I lost track of time. Hannah—”
“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”
“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”
“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”
“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”
He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.
“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”
“Tuck—”
“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“
Summary: “I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.” How Baelor would handle having a dreamer wife, even as she tries to hide it from him.
Tags: dreamer!reader, arranged marriages, falling in love, brief mentions of dysfunctional families, brief nsfw
A/N: this is how i cope with my insomnia
The marriage had been arranged, but your feelings for him were not.
You dream of him your first few nights in the Redkeep. A welcome change from your usual dreams. Not violent, not loud or bloody. You are walking behind him, the sun haloing the cropped dark hair atop his head. He turns his head towards you, just an inch, revealing mismatched eyes and a twice broken nose, and that is when you wake.
It is the few times you have had peace to yourself. You do not question it, you cherish it.
When you do meet the prince, it feels as though the air rushes out of the room. You realize then that the crown prince, Hand of the King, has been the same man in your dreams. You do not really know what it means.
You had expected him to be as arrogant and boorish as anyone in the proximity of power. Yet what met you was gentleness and kindness, a presence that levelled the room with that same mismatched gaze that has fixed you in your dreams.
You stare at him a little too much during feasts, or when you chanced upon him in the training yard, and when you had accompanied your father in the small council chamber, those eyes fixing men in their seats or persuading them with that voice of his that you finally chanced to hear. All this staring caught his eye, and Baelor, naturally curious, found a way to start a conversation.
You are quiet, yet observant, he notes. He’s heard the other lord’s remarks about you: your beauty accompanied by your eerily serene expression. So he pays closer attention, every reaction, no matter how miniscule and files it away. He sees when you decide to listen, when you decide to appear as if you aren’t listening but actually has a keen ear in the conversation. He sees it in your eyes that sweeps over a new room, as if turning every crevice, every important person in your palm. But even more so the way you stare at him, as if a little struck, as if you have seen him before.
You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep.
The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.
He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees.
“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy.
“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.
“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.
“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”
“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”
When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.
Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument.
You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.
“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.
“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”
You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”
His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly.
The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.
You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.
He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.
You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.
“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.
“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.
Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up.
He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.
“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”
“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.
“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.
“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.
“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers. “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.
He watches you. “Do you have them often?”
You nod. “Since I was a child.”
“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”
“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”
Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.
–
Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth.
In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.
He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.
“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.
“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.
“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back.
He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.
You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.
Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.
“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”
From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same.
You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.
In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.
The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him.
Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he announces his choice to retire early with his lady wife.
Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then.
The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.
“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”
“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed.
“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”
“Did you find them?”
“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”
He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.
He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”
You nod and he cradles your head, pressing a kiss there. The maester had been sent for in the middle of the night, discreetly. The next day, the bells had been rung every hour of the day to welcome the news.
BANE OF DUTY ✧ duke!baelor targaryen x bene gesserit!reader
synopsis: when you are sent off to become the concubine of house targaryen, your first exchange with your future duke goes nowhere near expected.
warnings: reader is essentially young lady jessica and baelor is leto, slightly anxious reader, technically legal human trafficking ?? canon bene gesserit and dune philosophy lol
word count: 1.2k (was supposed to be a longer fic but it just ended up being a very short oneshot so whatever)
a/n: my dunerotted brain needed this fic so bad omg, this has been sitting in my draft for ages because i thought it would be more elaborate but here we are !! anyway i’d be very glad to discuss this little au in my inbox if anyone wants to <3
You are husband and wife in everything but title and law.
The first time you meet him, you are trembling to the very marrow of your bones. Your muscles are pulled taut, and your spine is a sharp, rigid, immobile line. The dark veil obscuring your vision had been more than mere silk that day, it had been your armor, your only protection against the piercing gaze of the Duke— your Duke now.
You could feel the stutter in your pulse, the betrayal in the air. Your Bene Gesserit sisters standing in a half-moon formation behind you, communicating in the silent language of their fingers.
"… one of our finest pupils." Those were the last words you registered, spoken by the Reverened Mother in that casual detached manner. She was standing a few paces ahead of you, describing you like cattle, handing you off like some prized broodmare. A vessel trained for obedience and breeding.
You should have been feeling honored. You should have felt grateful for having been chosen as an asset in the Missionaria Protectiva— the Great Weave. For the opportunity to be a part of something far greater than yourself. For helping bring about an enlightened mind, one capable of breeching the very bridge between time and space, the Kwisatzch Haderach.
Instead all you felt was a dull, sharp throb blooming behind your eyes, and a cold dread seeping into your bones.
The air you were inhaling felt more burnt than one would have anticipated; the volcanic core of the planet manifesting into an everpresent smell of char and smog in the oxygen. Tiny droplets of sea sprinkles still clung to your black shroud from when you stepped into the open air of Dragonstone, offering a strange form of saline baptism.
The Reverened Mother’s hawk-like gaze turned to you quietly, awaiting the pleasantries and greetings you were supposed to exchange with the Duke. Her gaze was so burning it should have willed you into obedience without a single word uttered. But in that moment something in you simply refused to yield.
You could feel your amygdala being excessively active, meanwhile you were desperately trying to will your nerves into a false sense of calm. I must not fear. Her neck shifted ever so slightly, a bird like movement, as if silently questioning you on why you were not following protocol. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the litte death that brings—
"Lady Y/N." His words cut off any train of thought you might have had, the litany fading somewhere into the background of your mind. His voice was gentler than you had expected, he sounded much less a commanding leader than a diplomat.
The three headed dragons caught the light from where it was engraved into the cool metal of the sigil ring sitting on his finger. A Targaryen heirloom, passed down all the way from Old Valyria to the Conqueror and now to him. The Red Duke.
You dared to raise your eyes, catching a glimpse of the curiosity in his mismatched gaze. He was assessing you, you could tell that much, mentally peeling away the layers of fabric covering your form, as if by sheer willpower he could dismantle you and bend you to his whim.
You wondered what he wished to find beneath the dark shroud.
A truthsayer? An advisor? A wife?
Your lip had trembled then, falling open but shutting closed just as quickly. You were struck with the harrowing realization that you had no idea what to speak. Foolish. You could practically hear the better half of your Sisters sniggering beneath their veils while the other half gave you pitying looks.
Suddenly one of our finest pupils rang falls in your ears. Bitter. What good was years of relentless prana-bindu training when you turned into a flustered, simpering girl in front of a Duke of the Great House?
"If it pleases the Lady so," he began, clasping his hands behind his dark doublet and inclining his head forward. "would she be so kind as to remove her veil?"
The words lingered in the air for a moment; and once again you were caught off guard by the sheer invitation in them. Not command— but compromise.
Perhaps in all your misfortune, at least you weren't being wed off to some brutish barbarian.
And how could you have refused your future Duke anyway?
You nodded faintly, failing to notice the measured breath of air he inhaled, as if willing himself for whatever lies beneath.
A strange insecurity, violently began to unfurl within your chest, rapidly spreading through your limbs like an ugly beast, to the very tips of your fingers, threatening to paralyze them. But it was all too late. The charred air of the Acceptance Hall was already hitting your face, the veil lifting from your head, fully exposing the tissue of your skin to the outside world.
You had swallowed softly, assesing all the men standing before you: the Duke and his men; mentats, soldiers, swordmasters. All of them piercing you with their eyes. And beside them, what you could only assume was the Duke’s youngest brother, Maekar, a rigid pillar of duty, scowling with that characteristic snow-white Targaryen hair.
Though ever inch of your body— save for your face, had been covered that day, you felt as naked as the day you were born.
"My Duke." Your voice emerged quieter than intended, and you suddenly realized how girlish you must have sounded. The Duke needs a concubine not a protege. You pressed your lips into a thine line before anchoring yourself to the fabric of your skirts.
Before you could register what was happening— he had taken the entire audience by surprise when he stepped forward. Perhaps if your gaze hadn't been so fixated on the crimson and black of his doublet you might have noticed how his men reached towards their weapon-clad belts, his brother making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat.
You instinctively straightened, freezing into place. Somewhere beside you, the Reverened Mother watched the entirety of your interaction with predatory attentiveness.
His presence was overwhelming, consuming your senses all at once. You noted the unmistakable scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to him. And before your brain could asses the threat of his position— he reached out. His warm, calloused hand, closing over your own. The electricity of the touch had been secondary to the sheer, terrifying heat of him
It radiated from his palm, soaking through your skin, travelling up your arm and settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach.
Blood of the Dragon.
He had offered you the faintest smile, something only the two of you could see. A shared secret, a forbidden union. It had been void of pity or any performative joy expected of political contracts.
It had simply been reassuring. As if he wished to assure you that this unfamiliar new world— his home—would endeavor to do its very best to look after you.
You should have pulled back, retracted your hand and did something… anything else but just stood there… but speech had decided to abandon you entirely.
You could feel the thrum of your sisters' fingertips, silently pulsing against their thighs and signalling to you. Break the bond. Remember the objective.
Yet all you managed to do was tighten your hold around his fingers, anchoring yourself.
He squeezed once.
And from that moment onward, you no longer belonged solely to the Sisterhood, not by law anyway. Somewhere in your heart, you knew, that had been the first step towards the fracturing of your loyalty.
➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
➷ word count: 5464
pt. 2 here!!
➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.
It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.
And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero.
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.
So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net.
Their libero isn’t fast enough.
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball.
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.
If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldn’t be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”
“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”
“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”
“I don’t–”
“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”
“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”
“Sure,” Dean drawls out.
“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”
“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true.
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.
“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”
“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
“Sorry, who?”
Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”
“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”
“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”
“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.
“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”
And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”
“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”
“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”
“Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”
“John Tucker?”
“The guy I ran into?”
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”
“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”
Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”
Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.
“What– dude, stop– give it back–”
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
“Are you fucking–”
“Shhhh, thank me later.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
“No way.”
“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”
“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”
“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”
“I hate you,” you groan.
“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”
“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”
“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’
“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”
You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”
“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”
You groan, “They already posted it?”
“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him.
“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”
“Okay, whatever.”
Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”
You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”
“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”
“You guys are disgusting.”
“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”
“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”
It was too late, though.
You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”
“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”
“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”
“Oh my–”
You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
“My victim.”
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”
“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”
“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”
“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.
He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.
“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”
“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.
But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k
tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited
You should have been asleep.
Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.
You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly.
You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.
Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead.
Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt.
The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this.
The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly.
You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.
He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.
“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.
You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.
A beat of silence passed.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”
That finally dragged your attention toward him.
You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly.
You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.
“I’m sorry.”
"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly.
"I was not loud."
"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."
"That is offensive."
“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.
Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.
“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”
You snorted softly.
“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”
He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.
Then another.
Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”
You ignored him on purpose.
It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it.
Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked.
He sighed dramatically.
“Baby.”
“Logan.”
His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.
Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.
He knew it too.
“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”
“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.
His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”
The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.
You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His entire face changed.
It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.
With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.
This version belonged only to you.
Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”
“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”
“Logan.”
But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.
“You are the worst,” you informed him.
“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.
Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.
Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett.
Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you.
Especially hockey culture.
You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly.
You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"
"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates.
Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny.
Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.
This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.
I missed you.
Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress.
Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.
You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”
“For you? Yeah.”
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.
One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.
The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.
Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.
The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.
Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.
The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.
Garrett stepped inside.
For one horrible second, nobody moved.
His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.
The silence turned suffocating.
You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.
Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.
You in Logan’s jersey.
Logan sitting on your bed.
His practice bag on your floor.
Your flushed face.
The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.
You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"
"G—"
"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you.
Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough.
Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."
Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players.
"G, listen, man—"
"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face.
"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"
"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"
The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to.
It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore.
Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."
You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast.
Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."
You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed.
Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat.
"You care about her?"
Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."
The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent.
And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.
You could see it happen in real time.
His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.
“What happens after a bad game?”
“Garrett—”
“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”
Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”
“Garrett!”
The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.
Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.
Beside you, Logan had gone very still.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.
One more sentence.
That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything.
“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening.
“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?”
The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.
That look.
Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.
“Fuck you, Garrett!”
“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.
“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father.
Your chest hurt.
You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.
Enough to understand.
“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”
“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”
Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”
“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.
Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.
Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.
“Get out!”
The shout echoed off the walls.
Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.
The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.
Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again.
Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”
He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.
The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.
Or this one.
The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.
“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”
“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.
Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.
Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.
Logan’s eyes widened instantly.
The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.
For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.
The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.
The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.
Shock because he understood what you were doing.
Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”
“Baby—”
“No!”
Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too.
The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.
Logan stared at it for half a second.
Then at you.
You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”
Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think.
It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.
At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor.
Latina!reader x Jack Abbot who didn’t get the whole tortilla thing at first and within six months, he’s always asking reader to go see their mom because he knows he’ll get sent home with a fat stack of homemade tortillas
latina!reader x jack abbot
You guys are all going to hate me because I’m like… the tortilla thing?… Trust, I am Salvadoran and my family loves tortillas but I’m wondering if by the tortilla thing you mean the obsession with them or making them. Bc I’m overthinking it, I decided to include both! The main dish here is also inspired by a typical Salvi breakfast :)
warnings … i mention how someone is eating. idk how triggering that would be. but… in case y’all hate descriptions of eating with hands? idk. also mentions of future family building.
wc … 1.1k
I imagine Jack asking you, Latina reader, why you always have a stack of tortillas in the fridge even if you don't eat them at every meal. He also asks why they have to be a specific kind from a specific store across the city.
“You wouldn’t get it,” you’d tell him when you first started dating. He’d ask you to explain so that he could get it, and you’d end up telling him that they tasted a bit like your mom's, and they were the most delicious in the entire city – especially when they were warm.
He enjoyed the story and agreed that they were tasty, but wasn’t head over heels for them. If you were eating arroz con pollo, carne asada, frijoles con queso y crema, pozole, or some other kind of soup, he would decline your offer of a tortilla.
You’d try to act like that didn’t offend you, even though you wanted to scoff and say, “If you declined that offer in front of my mom, you’d be kicked from the table.”
It went on like this until one day, when you decided to make him a big breakfast – even if it was five p.m. You made fried plantains, refried beans, eggs over medium, sour cream, cheese (queso fresco), a slice of avocado on the side, and a fat pile of warm tortillas in the center of the table.
Jack was extremely surprised and immediately dug in. He did this with a fork, and you had to stop him to inform him that this meal wasn’t really supposed to be eaten with utensils.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Grab a tortilla, rip it apart, and then scoop up the food. It’s like your utensil.”
“What if I don’t want a tortilla?”
You rolled your eyes and grabbed one from the cute tortilla warmer your mom bought you when you moved out of your childhood home. You demonstrated on your plate: you ripped the tortilla, used one corner to scoop up the frijoles, broke open the egg yolk, then dipped it in the sour cream. You handed him a corner of your tortilla and urged him to follow.
He did, even if in such a cautious way that it almost made you cackle, and pushed the food into his mouth. After a minute, he said, “Fuck me, that’s good. These tortillas taste different, though. Did you make them?”
You shook your head. “God, no. My mom. She was in town to visit one of my tias. She brought over some tortillas she made this morning, and I thought it was perfect timing considering the plantains were ripe.”
“Do you think it’s the right time to meet her? I need her to teach me how to make these.”
You introduced Jack to your parents a week later, and your mom immediately started showing him how to make tortillas. They weren’t too good in the beginning.
Well… they were quite terrible. You’d tell him otherwise, but they weren’t ever in a circle, even with the press your mom kept in the pantry when she was too tired to shape them herself.
It would be so funny watching him slap the dough between his hands in his bright purple apron with lace trim. He would diligently watch your mom before copying her. Your mom would look at them, then say, “Me la dejas ahi. Yo la arreglo.”
His Spanish would be mediocre – still trying to learn through Duolingo, even though you told him to delete it – so he’d ask you what she was saying.
“She’s saying to leave it there, and she’ll fix it.”
“¿Salió fea?” he’d ask her, his voice tainted with a bit of sadness. (Did it come out ugly?)
Your mom would laugh and pat his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Así salen cuando estas aprendiendo.” (That's how they come out when you’re learning.)
“That’s how they turn out when you’re learning.”
He’d shrug and then say, “Well then, I’ll keep coming back until I’ve perfected them.”
This turned into a weekly visit to your parents' house, where Jack and your mom would spend a few hours making tortillas. Jack had gotten better over time, and by a year of being official, he had even perfected your mom’s recipe.
He still went over every weekend, though, which deeply confused you. He would also go even when you couldn’t.
There’d probably be a time when you’d be at work, and he’d send you a picture of him and your mom with a plate of food in front of them, a bunch of tortillas at their side.
Jack: Una carne asada con tortillas. (A carne asada with tortillas)
Jack: Made by me. Not the carne asada. The tortillas.
Jack: Will save some for you. Your mom is sending me home with a bunch of food.
You’d laugh and immediately FaceTime him.
“You’re stealing my mom!” you’d tell him.
“I’m learning how to cook for you and our future children.”
“Jack, ya estas pensando en bebes?” you’d gasp out dramatically. (Jack, you’re already thinking about babies?)
“Ya tiene los nombres escogidos, también,” your mom would say in the background. (He already has the names picked out, too.)
“You’re a crazy man. But a good one, too. Thank you for making tortillas for me, baby.”
He’d shrug. “Your mom said she’d teach me how to make pupusas next.”
“¿Y por qué pupusas?” (And why pupusas?)
“Lo llevé a comer conmigo el otro día. Me dijo que quería aprender. ¿Y quién soy yo para decir no?” (I took him out to eat with me the other day. He told me he wanted to learn, and who am I to say no?)
“Alright. If you keep this up, our babies are going to be chunky monkeys.”
“I want them to be chunky,” he’d reply, and it’d earn the biggest cackle from you.
Jack would certainly love to go to your parents' house because he’d get the biggest bags of food to take home. Sure, he’d end up becoming a better cook than you, but your mom would still send him back to your place with a mountain of tortillas, frijoles, cheese, and special sour cream she found while grocery shopping.
Jack would probably be crowned an honorary Latino by the time you got married.
Summary: One motel room. One exhausted emergency physician. And - one deeply offended orange cat.
Part 3 of the A Good Reason To Keep Going series
(Part 1 here)
Characters: Dr. Michael (Robby) Robinavitch... and a cat
A/N: No I'm definitely not updating that fic daily. I genuinely don't think I could handle daily updates for two series lol. It'll just get another chapter every now and then whenever the mood strikes me :)
--- --- ---
It had been a long day. That kind that settled deep into Robby's bones and just stayed there.
Miles of road. Heat trapped under his jacket.One near miss with a truck that drifted into his lane. (Robby could still feel the adrenaline hours later. He wasn’t scared about losing his own life - but he wouldn’t let Mr. Abbot became some kind of roadkill.)
The motel he’d planned to stay at had turned him away the second the clerk saw the backpack.
“No pets. Sorry pal.”
Robby had stared at the guy for a second. “Are you actually serious?”
The clerk had nodded.
“You know - he’s cleaner than most people.”
“Still no pets.”
So he had gotten back on the bike and kept riding another hour with a grumpy cat scratching at the backpack. And he could feel the first sting of a beginning headache.
By the time he finally found another motel it was late. Really late. The headache was throbbing behind his eyes. Overall, he was in a pretty terrible mood.
Mr. Abbot had immediately jumped out of the backpack the second Robby had unzipped it, tail twitching with irritation.
“Yeah, yeah” Robby murmured. “Don’t hate me. It was a long day for both of us, okay?”
The cat ignored him completely and sat in the corner, cleaning his paws.
Robby fed him, filled the water bowl, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed, rubbing both hands over his face. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Jack:
You alive? You didn’t text me today.
Robby huffed quietly through his nose and typed back without much thought:
Robby:
Barely. Long day.
Jack:
Eat something. Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be better.
A buzz. Another message.
Jack:
Don’t do anything stupid.
Robby only sent the thumbs-up emoji back. And, after a moment, he also sent a picture - Mr. Abbot glaring at him from the motel chair like he hated his guts.
Jack:
My son! He has the Abbot stare :)
Robby shook his head and dropped the phone onto the mattress before laying back fully clothed. He meant to get up again in a minute. He should brush his teeth. Probably take a shower. Get undressed.
Instead exhaustion dragged him under almost instantly.
When he woke again it was still dark outside.
His neck hurt. One arm had gone numb beneath him.
He blinked slowly, disoriented for a second. Then he frowned.
The room felt… wrong. He couldn’t quite name it but it was… too quiet.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, automatically looking for orange fur somewhere nearby. But there was nothing on the bed. And nothing on the chair.
“Cat?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
No answer.
Robby sat up fully now, scanning the room. His pulse kicked a little harder.
“Mr. Abbot?”
Still nothing.
Robby got up and searched every inch of the room. And then he spotted him - under the bed, curled as far back against the wall as possible.
Robby frowned immediately. “Hey.”
That cat looked at him, but didn’t come out. He didn’t even blink slowly like usual. He just stared at Robby.
“... okay.”
Robby crouched slightly, his joints protesting. “You good, buddy?”
Mr. Abbot’s ears flicked once. Nothing else. That was… strange.
Robby reached for the treats on the nightstand, shaking the bag lightly. Usually that worked instantly but now - nothing. Instead the cat tucked himself further back under the bed.
Now Robby was fully awake. “... seriously?”
He straightened slowly, confusion turning into unease. Was the cat sick? Hurt? Had he eaten something? Did he suffer heatstroke in the backpack? Did he really hate him now?
Then - a smell hit him. Faint, but unmistakable.
Robby froze.
“Oh no.”
He turned toward the bathroom - and saw it immediately.
On the tiles beside the toilet.
Robby stared at it in horror for half a second before realization slammed into him. He had forgotten to open the damn bathroom window before falling asleep.
“Oh my god.”
Mortification flooded him instantly.
“Buddy…!”
He dragged a hand over his face, already moving for paper towels. “Oh, shit. I mean - damn. No, no, that’s my fault.”
Robby stepped back into the bedroom, rummaging through his bag for a pair of gloves. Mr. Abbot continued staring at him with deep personal disappointment.
Robby snapped on the gloves and cleaned the mess up as fast as humanly possible, muttering apologies the entire time.
“I’m sorry, okay? Jesus. That’s on me. You poor bastard.”
The second the bathroom was clean he hurried over and shoved the small window open. Cool early morning air drifted inside.
Mr. Abbot appeared almost immediately. He shot out from under the bed, trotted straight past Robby without even looking at him and launched himself through the window into the darkness outside.
Robby froze.
“No.”
Silence.
Robby stared at the window for one terrible second before panic punched straight through his chest.
“No no no no no.”
He stumbled back into the room. “Fuck.”
His exhausted brain spiraled instantly.
Of course the cat left. You trapped him in a motel room for hours and made him shit on the bathroom floor. Good job, Michael. Real impressive pet ownership. Sums up your whole personality, huh? No wonder no one can actually put up with you. No wonder you barely have any friends.
“Jesus Christ.”
What if he kept running? What if he got hit by a car? What if-
There was a soft thump behind him.
Robby spun around so fast he nearly lost balance. Mr. Abbot sat in the middle of the bathroom floor, his tail twitching slightly. He was obviously still sulking - but he came back.
Robby just stared at him. And the cat stared back with an expression that clearly said Robby was an idiot.
Then, after a second, Mr. Abbot walked past him with exaggerated indifference, jumped onto the bed and turned his back on him completely.
Robby let out a long breath. “Okay.”
His heart was still hammering.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, looking over at the cat’s offended little back.
“You know, I already said I’m sorry.”
Robby rubbed both hands over his face again, exhausted beyond belief now.
“I’m buying you better treats tomorrow. I promise.”
One orange ear flicked backwards.
It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
It had taken almost twenty minutes for Robby’s heartbeat to settle back down. Mr. Abbot was still on the bed with his back turned toward him in pointed offense, tail wrapped tightly around his body like he wanted to make absolutely clear that forgiveness was not currently available.
Robby sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor a while before finally reaching for his phone.
The screen brightness nearly blinded him in the dark room.
3:46 a.m.
He opened the chat with Jack and typed.
I forgot to open the bathroom window and the cat had to shit on the floor.
He stared at the message for a second, a fresh new wave of guilt sweeping over him. Then he added:
I think he hates me now.
Robby dropped the phone beside him and rubbed both hands over his face. Mr. Abbot still refused to even look at him.
“Yeah, I know” Robby muttered. “Fair.”
Robby undressed slowly and sank back down onto the mattress. Then his phone buzzed. Robby managed a half smile. Of course Jack was awake.
You did what.
Robby huffed quietly. His finger lingered over the screen, but another message appeared before he could even begin typing.
Robby.
Then another message:
An Abbot doesn’t shit on the floor, man.
Despite everything, Robby barked out a tired laugh. One orange ear flicked backward on the bed at the sound.
I KNOW
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
That poor bastard didn’t deserve that.
Robby snorted softly, exhaustion pulling at him from every angle. “He called you a bastard” you muttered toward the cat, who still ignored you.
I told him repeatedly that I am sorry.
A moment later:
Did he accept the apology?
Robby looked over toward the bed, then let out a deep sigh. Mr. Abbot remained firmly turned away from him. He hesitated before he started typing.
He jumped straight out of the window.
The typing bubble appeared - and disappeared instantly. There was a long pause before Jack answered.
WHAT
Robby grimaced slightly.
Then:
How long was he gone, Michael?
Robby rubbed a hand over his face.
A couple of minutes. Maybe he had to do his business again. Don’t know.
Then he sent another message:
It felt longer.
The typing bubble came and went twice before a message finally appeared.
You panicked.
It wasn’t phrased like a question. Robby stared at it for a second, a heavy feeling settling somewhere in his stomach.
Maybe a little.
The answer came immediately.
Seems like you are emotionally attached to that little fucker
Robby snorted quietly.
Shut up.
Jack ignored that completely. As usual.
Did he come back on his own or did you drag him back home? Is he a hostage now?
Robby glanced toward the orange shape on the bed again.
He came back on his own.
The next messages came directly after another:
Well, then he forgave you.
Honestly after what you put him through tonight I respect the restraint
If you would have made me shit on the floor we wouldn’t be friends anymore
And I would have shit on your bed fyi
Robby laughed - really laughed - this time. The tension in his chest had eased enough now that he could finally feel how exhausted he really was.
You’re taking his side way too fast
Yeah, we’re in the same PTSD support group.
Another message followed right after:
Just open the damn window next time, okay?
Robby shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Aye aye Captain. Stop being so bossy.
The word you’re looking for is competent
Good night, Jack
Good night Michael. Good night Mr. Abbot
Robby smiled at that last message and locked the phone. Then he lay back carefully on the bed again. He closed his eyes again, trying to relax enough so he would fall asleep again. Maybe he could catch a couple of hours before they needed to hit the road again.
For a while Mr. Abbot stayed exactly where he was. Clearly still offended. Still making a point.
But then, eventually, sometime later, Robby felt the mattress shift. A warm weight settled carefully against his hip. Clearly not fully forgiven - but close enough.
synopsis – when meds start disappearing from the er and your best friend langdon becomes responsible for it, your name gets dragged down with his. and your boyfriend, jack, decides to take care of it before it reaches any higher.
c/w – drugs and mention of drug use !! medical inaccuracies !!
a/n - first time writing since last month so sorry if this sucks! also this is my first time writing for the pitt so again sorry if this sucks
angst
—can we talk?
you looked back over your shoulder, caught off guard by the tone more than the interruption itself. jack was behind you, standing there with his jaw tight, shoulders straightened, eyes fixed on you like whatever he had to say couldn't wait another second. mel noticed too. the shift in the air was immediate.
—uh... yeah, —you say slowly, studying him, —let us just finish this...
—now.
you blinked, thrown off, but jack didn't show a flicker of hesitation. if anything, he looked like he had already decided how this goes. mel was looking between you two, but your eyes were still locked on jack, trying to read him and find something familiar in his expression.
—i'm asking you as your superior.
the words hit harder than they should. not because of the authority but because he used it with you. you swallowed, trying to hide a reaction. you finally turned to mel, she was looking at you, just as confused as you were. you showed her a little smile, not your usual one, just enough to smooth things over and hit her with an i'll be back in a second.
—come with me, —jack said, and started walking leaving you behind. you gave mel one last glance, surprised by the fact that he didn't even wait for you. you did a little run to catch him.
—can you tell me what's going on?
jack ignored you and opened one if the er rooms, pushing the door open. he stepped aside to let you pass and, even though you hesitated, searching his face for anything, he still won't meet your eyes. jack followed immediately behind you and closed the door behind his back.
the room was empty, except for you and jack and all the medical supplies. but there was something else. a cart with a tray containing a couple of syringes, small labeled vials, and a jar for urination.
—sit, —jack said, pointing at the stretcher with his head.
you hesitated. you weren't liking his tone, much less the fact that he was ignoring you, —not until you tell me what all of this is about.
jack reached for the glove box and pulled two out. he slid one glove on,—your friend langdon left, —your eyes opened wide. without looking up, jack slid the other glove, flexing his fingers once, adjusting the latex, —well, he didn't actually left. robby kicked him. wanna know why?
—what do you mean kicked him? —you asked, a hint of panic slipping through.
jack looks at you for a second too long before answering.
—because your friend langdon has been stealing medsfrom the er.
you shook your head, —langdon wouldn't...
—but he did. and you were too close to him.
—what's that supposed to mean?
he didn't answer right away. jack walked past you toward the cart instead, checking for something on the tray, —it means that when i was hearing about it, your name kept coming up.
your stomach dropped, the accusation finally coming to the surface.
—you covered shifts together, shared patients, shared logins a couple of times. sit, —he said again.
—that's how we work here, everyone does it.
jack nodded, —i know.
—then why are you saying it like it means something?
his jaw tightened, —because robby thinks it means something.
you let out a short laugh, dry and bitter as you slowly nodded. of course it was robby. you could practically picture it. robby standing in front of jack, arms crossed, building patterns out of coincidence because he never liked things that escaped his control. or maybe he never liked this thing you and jack had going on. maybe robby never liked you.
—right, —you muttered, —of course he does.
—he found discrepancies tied to controlled meds. not one. multiple.
—and now he's tying me to it because i'm friends with langdon. yeah, this is perfect. he's been waiting for a reason to come after me since day one.
jack shook his head, —i just need to run some test on you and all of this would be forgotten.
a wave of anger rose fast, you thought this was only about langdon stealing drugs and you helping him, but this took a completely different way, —you think i'm using?
his head moved to look at you, —no.
—but you need to test me.
—if robby pushes this higher, they're are going to...
—that's not whay i asked.
jack exhaled, jaw clenching, —i don't want to believe that, but...
you stepped back from him, shaking your head slowly, a soft wow was the only thing you could let out. jack rubbed his face out of frustration, mumbling a come on, don't do this. you huffed a laugh in response.
suddenly you started replying every interaction from the past days that could've make him doubt about you. the coffee you spilled because your hands shook slightly, the way you snapped at santos for repeating a question. it all felt human but now they looked like evidences.
—it won't take long, baby, and then all of this would be cleared out.
you scrunched your face when jack hit you with the baby. the sudden tenderness felt wrong, —don't call me that right now. not when you're accusing me of being an addict.
jack shook his head again, —please, —he said, —just sit down.
you stood for another second, staring at him. part of you wanted to walk out even though it would make you look guilty. the other part of you wanted to scream at him how unforgivable this felt. instead, you just reached for the sleeve of your scrub top as you shoved it up your arm. then you sat on the edge of the stretcher, refusing to look at him as you exposed the inside of your arm.
jack moved toward you and grabbed your arm gently, his fingers stretching the skin where your forearm met your upper arm, angling your arm toward the light as he looked carefully along the inside of it. looking for puncture marks. he was physically checking your body for signs of drug use. he who knew every inch of you, now examining your skin for evidences. your face scrunched again, now trying not to cry.
his eyes lifted to your face, —hey, —jack said quietly.
you looked away, —don't. let's finish with this, please.
jack nodded. he released your arm and moved to the other one, his thumb paused near the inside of your elbow. nothing. of course nothing. you swallowed, blinking fast as your vision began to blur. jack noticed and let your arm go. no marks, he murmured, professionally, more to himself than to you. you noticed a hint of relief there.
he stepped back toward the tray. you pulled down one of his sleeves while he took his time opening the blood draw supplies. when he came back to you with the needle and an alcohol swab, he paused before touching you again.
—left arm okay?
you nodded once without looking at him.
jack cleaned the inside of your arm, trying to be comforting, yet he no longer knew what would help the situation and what would make it worse. he tied the tourniquet around your arm and tapped gently along your vein.
—small pinch, —he murmured.
you almost laughed. those words pulled a memory too quickly. late nights during your residency when jack started letting you practice blood draws on him after you missed the vein twice on a trauma patient and looked so horrified. after that you nearly convinced yourself you weren't made for emergency medicine until jack found you hiding in an empty supply room. he walked in, dropped into a chair and rolled up his sleeve. alright, vampire, redeem yourself.
you winced when jack pushed the needle in.
the positioning was almost identical, but reversed. now you were the one with your arm exposed while he stood between your knees. you remembered the way he used to look at you during those nights, the way you fell in love with him, and now his eyes kept moving between the vial filling with your blood and your face, trying to hold together two completely different versions of you.
he slid the needle out, immediately pressing a gauze against the inside of your arm.
—i need you to... —he coughed, taking the small container, —i need a urine sample too. there's a bathroom connected through that door, —jack explained.
the blood draw had already felt like being stabbed. this was twisting the knife. it felt even more humiliating, more invasive. your face went still, no expression while the pain turned into anger.
jack saw it happen in real time.
—you don't... —he started.
—yeah, i know where the bathroom is, —you cut, —i work here, thank you.
you took the container form his hand and walked pass him, stepping into the small bathroom attached to the room. you shut the door harder than necessary and leaned against the counter. you stared at your reflection, but the only thing you could pay attention to was the bandage peaking out of your scrub sleeve and what it meant.
when you were done, you walked out. jack looked up immediately when he heard the door but this time, he wasn't alone.
robby was there, standing near the door with his arms crossed. his eyes dropped to the cup in your hand and then moved back to your face, humiliation crashing over you once again, this time so hard you almost dropped the container.
—the'll run a quick toxicology test on both, the blood and the urine... it should be done in couple of minutes.
—what is he doing here? —you asked.
—we found langdon's meds in his locker, —robby explained, —and you know how this works.
—no, —you shot back, —i know how you work.
—then you should know this stopped being personal the moment narcotics started disappearing.
—yeah, —a dry laugh escaped your mouth, —it's not like you've been on my ass since my first day.
robby laughed the same way you did, taking a step toward you. he was about to say something, probably a comment with that soft tone he liked to use when he wanted his words to cut as deep as possible without ever raising his voice, but jack intervened just in time.
—while we wait for the results, robby wants to see your locker, —jack said quickly, as if saying fast would make it less intrusive.
—my locker, —you repeated in disbelief.
—as i was telling you, langdon had narcotics stored in his. we're checking anyone directly connected to him, —robby continued.
—anyone? or just me?
—we do this and it ends here, —jack said to you but looking at robby.
yeah, it definitely ends here, you thought.
robby stepped to aside and walked behind you.
jack arrived later and by then, all your stuff was spread across the floor. your notebooks, your bag, some protein bars, your pair of spare sneakers, pens and receipts everywhere. even the picture you had hanging on the door had fallen during the search, the one after a thirty hour shift with you and jack outside the ambulance. he had one of his arms thrown around your shoulders, kissing your temple while you held up a coffee toward the camera like a survival trophy.
—she's clean, —jack announced, waving the toxicology report to robby, —blood and urine, everything came back negative.
robby took the paper from jack without speaking at first, scanning the results. your eyes lifted and met jack's. he was already looking at you. he was looking at you like he'd always trust you, there was no doubt in his expression now. but it didn't matter, because he'd needed to see those results. the realization hit harder than the locker search, than the blood draw and the humiliation of sitting on that stretched while the man you loved checked your arms for signs of addiction: jack didn't trust you. at least not enough to defend you when you were being pointed at as a drug addict.
robby lowered the report and nodded, —okay, that's what we needed.
—what's gonna happen to langdon?
robby exhaled, he hadn't really thought about it, should he report him? should he give him another chance? —he went home for now, after that... i don't know.
you nodded. robby pressed his lips together and left, smacking the paper against jack's chest. congratulations, your girlfriend's not a junkie. you stared at the floor before kneeling down to start gathering your things. your notebook first, then the pens scattered beneath the bench, the crushed protein bars and the receipts near your sneakers.
jack stepped forward but you mumbled an i don't need your fucking help, and he stopped on his track. jack watched you pick up everything and shoved it into your locker, careless, as if you wanted this done as soon as possible. you picked everything except one thing. you didn't miss it, you left it exactly where it had fallen.
he remembered the shift, the sunrise, the way you'd laughed when he kissed your temple because as dana took the photo, she kept threatening to report both of you for disgusting resident behavior.
you closed the locker, harder than necessary, and walked past jack.
he called your name, alongside with a baby. jack followed you down the hallway. the er buzzed around you the second you pushed through the doors again and you felt completely detached from it. people looked at you, maybe because your eyes were red, maybe because they already noticed langdon's absence and they were asking to themselves if you knew something about it.
you kept walking, straight to the nurses' station. dana looked up the moment she saw you, her entire expression changing.
—what can i... where can i help?
dana pushed her chair back and stood up, —what happened to you?
your face crumpled before you could stop it.
—oh, sweeheart...
her arms wrapped around you before you even realized you were crying, pulling you tightly against her, one hand pressing protectively against the back of your head while the other one rubbed up and down your back. jack approached from behind, eyes fixed on you, and dana understood immediately that this had something to do with him. she lifted one hand from your back and waved it to him. leave. jack looked like he wanted to argue with her, then dana's expression hardened even more and someone yelled dr. abbot, trauma 2.
you hid your face against dana because you just remembered when it first started.
you were looking at the patient board with langdon, knowing you'd both have to stay after hours. we should do drugs, he joked. it'd definitely make this easier, you answered. that day you laughed it off, it was just dark er humor, but a few days later, langdon brought it up again.
you remembered the first time langdon actually offered you something.
you'd both been sitting in the break room. langdon watched you curse under your breath before reaching into his pocket.
—here, —he said, sliding half a pill across the table.
—what is that?
—it'll keep you awake.
you should've said no immediately but instead you just played with it, too exhausted to think about consequences beyond making it through the next few hours.
—you actually take this?
—sometimes.
and langdon looked functional. he charted faster than anyone, worked better in trauma than any other resident, joked around with nurses like nothing was wrong... so you took it, and the worst part was that it worked, and after that, saying yes became easier.
you would spot him by his locker and feel something in your chest loosen with relief because most of the times he'd already have something waiting. a pill to tuck into the pocket of your scrub, a quick you want half? mumbled under his breath... then he started showing up with different pills, sometimes crushed, sometimes asking if you needed something stronger because you looked exhausted.
and living with jack make things difficult because he was one of the best doctors you'd ever met. observant in ways most people weren't, the kind of physician that could diagnose from tiny details everyone else overlooked.
so you knew that if you weren't careful, he'd started to notice things.
you thanked he usually wasn't around at three in the morning because he'd have seen you pacing around the apartment because your brain refused to slow down after your shift ended, would've seen the way when you'd disappear into the bathroom after another nosebleed.
—you should just inject it, —frank suggested. you were both in his car, he was driving you home. you had your tilted forward with a tissue pressed beneath your nose.
—what?
—it'll stop wrecking your nose.
but you couldn't risk it, not when jack knew your body the way he did.
his lips were familiar with the inside of your thighs and the side of your neck, he'd draw little patterns on the inside of your arm while you both watched a movie on the couch, hold your hand whenever he could... every major vein zone of your body, jack knew it intimately. one track mark and it would all collapse. it was positive in some way, because you stayed away from needles and you could tell yourself that things weren't that bad.
as your tears soaked dana's scrubs, all you could think about was what could've happened if you hadn't almost given a patient the wrong dosage four days ago.
langdon reacted fast, grabbing your wrist at the last second, but he looked terrified and you did too. after that, he decided you needed a break. he'd close his locker whenever you were around, he stopped offering you... and you were furious at langdon because your body noticed the absence. the exhaustion came back all at once, you spilled your coffee because your hands shook , you snapped at santos for repeating a question... all of that because you couldn't bear it.
if none of that had happened, the toxicology exam would've come back positive. the thought of it sat in your chest while dana held you together in the middle of the er and you couldn't stop replaying the way jack had looked at you after the results came back, relieved, guilty for ever questioning you in the first place.
and jack stood there hating himself for suspecting you while the truth had only missed him by four days.
i don't know, it's interesting how people keep saying that robby needs to be given grace for his treatment of his coworkers (especially javadi or mohan or al-hashimi) because of his severe mental health crisis. i don't disagree but he's already been given a massive amount of grace.
and kinda a double-standard to me. sepideh talks about this with dr. jilani - a woman could never, EVER, lash out the way dr. robby has been this season, at least not without being painted as hysterical and incompetent.
both things can be true: dr. robby is having a SEVERE mental health crisis AND the way he treats the women around him is unacceptable and inexcusable.
Summary: On your wedding day, a forgotten tie leads to a quiet, emotional moment that reminds Jack he doesn’t have to leave any part of himself behind to move forward with you.
A/N: I wanted to write something related to Jack's grief, but in a way that shows true meaning. Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
You were a bundle of nerves today.
It was expected, after all, you were getting married.
To Jack Abbot.
A great man. The kind of man you read about in books. The one you never thought you’d get to call yours forever.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right.
It had been there all morning, sitting just under the surface. Even while you got your hair done, while your makeup artist fussed over your brush, while your friends laughed around you.
It was there.
A nagging feeling.
Like you were forgetting something important.
You went over the checklist in your head again.
The flower bouquets were done, sitting in water.
The cake was to be delivered during cocktail hour.
Everything seemed to be on schedule.
So why did it feel like something wasn’t?
It wasn’t until you were in your dress, staring at yourself in the mirror, that you finally remembered what you were missing.
Jack’s tie.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh, my god.”
You had added a last-minute special touch for the day, and you forgot to give it back.
“I need to see Jack.” You said suddenly, already moving as fast as you could.
“What–why?” your best friend asked, watching you dart across the bridal suite.
“I forgot to give him his tie.”
You were rummaging through your suitcase; your hands moving too fast, heart racing now that you knew exactly what had been wrong.
“Where the hell is it?”
“I found it.”
You stood up quickly, a little breathless, gripping the tie in your hands like it might disappear again if you loosened your hold.
Dana stepped forward. “I’ll take it to him.”
Your grip tightened instantly, pulling it back towards your chest. “No.”
The word came out harsher than you meant.
Your tone softens slightly, but didn’t let go. “I’ll give it to him.”
Dana hesitated. “Honey… It’s bad luck to see him before the wedding.”
“I just–” you started, then stopped.
You couldn't explain it. Not without explaining why it mattered so much to you to gave it to him.
Your fingers curled tiger around the fabric.
“I need to give it to him,” you let out quietly, but it carried more weight.
Your friends exchanged looks
“It’s just a tie,” someone said gently. “One of us–”
“No,” you said, a little too quickly, trying to make them understand without words that this wasn't you being a bridezilla but just someone desperate. “It’s not just—”
You looked down at the tie for a second, thumb brushing over the small photo attached to the back of the fabric where no one else could see.
Only Jack.
You had sewn it in yourself a few nights ago, while he was at work.
A small piece of memory.
A piece of her.
For him.
Your throat tightened.
“I just… I need to be the one to give it to him,” you said, softer now, but your voice was starting to crack despite your effort to hold it together. “Please.”
The room went quiet around you. No one wanted to be the one who made the bride cry on her wedding day.
Dana’s expression shifted first, understanding even if she didn't know the full story.
“Okay,” she said slowly.
You looked up, hopeful but unsure.
“We’re not breaking tradition,” she added, already thinking. “But maybe we can work around it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“We’ve got this,” your friend added, already forming a plan.
A few minutes later, you stood on one side of a narrow hallway, your pulse thudding in your ears, fingers clenched as you leaned back against the wall, waiting.
Jack was about to be on the other side.
You couldn't see him, but you could hear him.
His uneven footsteps. Too fast.
They stopped abruptly right before the wall ended.
“...What’s going on?” he asked, something was thrown off in it. Tight. As if he couldn't speak. “You needed to see me?”
You swallowed, but your throat felt dry.
“Yeah.”
He moved closer, you could hear it in the shift of his boots, the faint brush of fabric.
His hand reached around the corner.
The second your fingers touched, he interlocked them tightly.
“Hey-hey,” Jack said quickly, voice dropping, urgent. “Talk to me. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” you said, but it came out softer than you meant.
His grip tightened.
“Are you sure?” he pressed. “Because you don’t pull me out like this unless something’s wrong. Are you having second thoughts? Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?”
Each question came faster than the last, like he couldn’t stop them once they started.
Your chest tightened.
“Jack—”
“I mean it,” he cut in, voice cracking under the pressure of it all. “If you don’t want to do this, we don't have to. We can just walk out of here right now. Together or not, it’s up to you.”
“Jack.”
You squeezed his hand.
“I want to marry you.”
That eased his mind, but didn't stop him from questioning your actions.
“What is it then, love?” he asked, still holding on tight. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Your thumb brushed over his knuckles, grounding yourself before you spoke.
“I forgot to give you something.”
“…You dragged me out here because you forgot something?” he asked, a disbelieving edge creeping in.
A weak breath of a laugh slipped out of you. “Yeah.”
“It couldn't have waited?”
“Nope,” You released his hand, and slowly weaved the tie into it. ” Your tie.”
Jack let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, half relief, half disbelief.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “I thought—” he cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face on the other side. “I thought you wanted to cancel the wedding.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, softer now.
“No, don’t—” he exhaled again, steadier. “God, I thought I lost it. I was about to take Robby’s.”
He adjusted his grip on the fabric, fingers brushing over it absently.
“You didn’t have to come all the way out here for this.”
“I needed to.”
That shifted something in him.
You could feel it, the way he stilled
Not fully relaxed, but no longer panicked.
You swallowed, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. I have a backup one.”
The fabric moved as he unfolded it.
A soft rustle.
Then complete silence.
No movement.
No words.
It was like the air dropped out of the hallway.
Your breath caught.
“Jack?” you whispered.
A sharp inhale that skipped on its way in.
Your hand found his again, and this time you could feel the tremor.
“…What—” his voice came out rough, scraping on the way up. He tried again. “What did you—”
He couldn’t finish.
Your eyes burned.
“I didn’t want anyone to see,” you said, your voice already shaking. “I just… I thought you might want her with you today.”
The silence was heavy.
His hand clenched around your so tight it almost hurt.
A sound left him, a small strangled breath like he was trying to swallow but forgot how.
“Jesus…” he breathed.
You could hear the fabric shift again, slower this time, careful, like it mattered too much to be wrinkled.
“I—” he tried, but his voice broke completely this time, and you lost it.
Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.
“I know it’s not the same,” you rushed out, words tripping over each other now. “I know I can’t…I’m not trying to replace anything. I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to leave her behind just because of me.”
“Hey.”
It came out sharp but not angry.
Jack finally understood, and now he needed you too.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time, but his voice was wrecked.
You stopped.
On the other side of the wall, you could hear him trying to breathe through the feelings, but failing.
His thumb dragged hard over your knuckles, like he needed to feel something solid.
“You didn’t replace anything,” he said, swallowing hard.
Another breath.
“You included her.”
That cracked something open in your chest.
A quiet sob slipped out before you could stop it, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth.
“…Baby,” he said, and there was nothing held back in it now. Just pure feeling.
“I didn’t know if it would hurt you,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“You didn’t,” he said immediately, even though his voice shook. “You didn’t hurt me.”
His grip tightened around your hand, almost desperate now, like he needed to hold onto you to stay together.
“This is—” he broke off, breath hitching hard. “God… this is everything.”
Your tears came harder, your chest tightening as you pressed closer to the wall, like it might bring you closer to him.
“You… you let me keep her,” he said, voice cracking. “You didn’t make me feel like I had to leave her behind to have this. To have you.”
A soft sob slipped out of you.
“I would never take that from you,” you whispered. “She’s part of you. I love all of you.”
“This is why I love you,” he said, voice thick, uneven. “You think about things like this. You think about me even when I don’t know how.”
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you too,” he said, softer now, but no less raw. You could feel him trying to steady his breathing, trying to pull himself back together piece by piece.
“You really know how to scare a guy right before his wedding,” he added, voice still rough.
A shaky laugh slipped out of you.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said quickly. “Don’t ever be.”
Your lips trembled into a smile, even through the tears.
based on this request
wc: 4.3k
pairing: husband!jack abbot x fem!reader
summary: jack and you navigate your grueling cancer battle, struggling to separate love from medicine. finally, after a remission, you're happy to return to the er, to your life.
c.warning: heavy angst with happy ending; discussions of serious illnes (cancer); discussions of death; mentions of nausea, throwing up and other sympthoms like weakness and pain; reader is very sick throughout this story, so if you're not comfortable with that it's best you skip this one; reader wears wigs at a certain point; jack is the best husband ever and he's so supportive and i love him so much omg; reader is a trauma surgeon; (for an extra dose of angst i (don't) recomend listening to soon you'll get better by taylor swift while reading this)
a/n: i'm so sorry this took so long to publish, but to be honest i had some trouble writting this. i wanted to make sure that i portrayed it as respectfully as i possibly could because i didn't want to make it like it was using cancer as an aesthetic or a silly trope for my fic. i hope i did well. anyway, hope you enjoy it!
before you were a patient, before you were a case study in the oncology wing, you were a force of nature.
you and jack abbot hadn’t just fallen in love; you had been forged together in the high-pressure furnace that wasthe pitt. it started with a shared trauma intervention and it grew in the quiet, stolen moments in the breakroom at 3:00 am, sharing lukewarm coffee and the kind of heavy silence that only people who regularly cheat death can understand.
jack used to say that your hands were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. he admied their precission, he loved the way you moved through the world with a surgeon’s certainty, a woman who knew exactly where to cut and exactly how much pressure to apply to keep a heart beating.
your love story was written in the margins of charts and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors in the er, like a steady pulse that neither of you ever expected to falter.
now, that pulse is the only thing you have left to cling to.
you are lying on the sofa at home, the gray pittsburgh afternoon pressing against the windows. for the first time in your adult life, your hands are shaking and it’s not the caffeine-induced tremor of a long shift; it’s the profound, bone-deep weakness of a body that is currently a battlefield.
jack enters the room quietly. the frantic, purposeful stride he carries around the ed is gone, replaced by a soft, hesitant grace. he’s carrying a bowl of soup he spent two hours simmering, though he knows, and you know, that you likely won’t manage more than three spoonfuls.
"hey," he whispers, sitting on the edge of the cushions. he reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. his touch is the only thing that feels familiar in a world that has turned unrecognizable.
"i miss the pitt, jack," you say, your voice a raspy shadow of itself. "it’s ridiculous but i miss all the noise.” you huff out a laugh that turns into a dry cough. “hell, i even miss the terrible coffee. i miss knowing who i am when i wake up."
jack’s chest hitches, a micro-expression of pain he tries to hide behind a supportive smile. he sets the bowl down and pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you as if he can shield you from the very cells betraying you.
"you're still you," he murmurs into the soft fuzz of your scalp where your hair used to be. "the pitt is just a building, sweetheart. you’re the life that was inside it."
you don’t say anything. you pretend to believe in his optimistic tone, to interiorize his warm and soft promises that you’ll get better. but pretending is getting harder with every passing day.
the worst part of being a doctor with cancer is the lack of mystery.
when the oncologist sat you both down to discuss the stage three diagnosis, you didn't hear her gentle speech about how this was going to be a frightening medical journey, but it didn’t need to be a death sentence. as she spoke, showing you the results of your tests, all you could picture in your mind was a series of percentages, a list of side effects you had managed in your own patients, and the grim reality of a five-year survival rate. that day, you watched the pet scan and saw the glowing clusters of malignancy not as nothing more than a biological failure of the lymphatic system.
jack had sat beside you, his hand gripping yours so hard his knuckles were white. he was a man who lived for the "golden hour," the sixty minutes where he could fix almost anything with a chest tube and a shot of epinephrine. but there is no golden hour in oncology. there is only the long, grueling siege.
after weakly waving goodbye to your doctor, you had stepped out of her office and immediately broke down. you didn’t care that there were more people in the waiting room and that they were probably pitying you.
god, she looks so miserable.
hope she gets well, soon.
poor soul.
you had let out a broken sob and, in any other circumstance, you might’ve even felt embarrassed for crying like a baby in front of a bunch of strangers. but right now? right now you barely have strength to keep your knees from buckling.
as the tears only grew thicker and the pressure on your chest got heavier, you had felt the weight of jack’s arms over your shoulders as he pulled you into a tight hug. none of you could utter a word, the weight of your new reality suffocating any thought.
“it’s okay, baby,” he’d muttered the lie softly against the crown of your head, voice thick with tears. “we’ll work this out. together.”
“i’m scared, jack,” you’d confessed, biting your lips to stop the trembling. “i don’t want to-”
“shh, baby. let’s not think about that now, please.” his grip had turned tighter around your shoulders, more urgent. “let’s get you home, okay?”
“i don’t want to go home,” you’d said. and jack understood immediately.
that’s how you two had ended up in the dive bar where he took you for your first date almost four years ago. he’d ordered your favorite drink, asking the bartender to make it strong, and all you could do was watch from the booth at the back of the old, humid bar. you’d followed him with your eyes as he walked to your table, holding a soda in one hand and a cocktail glass with a pink paper umbrella on the side.
“thank you,” you’d muttered.
for a while, you’d sat there talking about everything and anything, avoiding the white envelope currently sitting inside your bag. he’d told you about his latest tennis game with shen, you’d talked about your latest girls’ night with your best friends. it was good to pretend everything was normal, that you hadn’t just received a diagnosis that had flipped your entire world upside down.
but then the silence had fallen around you. you’d been playing with the small pink umbrella, twirling it, eyes glued to a wet spot on the dirty floor of the bar. and then the words had come out of your mouth, floating from your mouth before you could even finish processing the though.
"i can't go back to the ed," you had whispered, not daring to look at jack.
"of course you can," jack had said, shaking his head. "we’ll get through the induction phase, and—"
"no, jack. look at me." you had snapped, flicking the umbrella to the floor. you’d pointed at yourself; at your washed out skin and your hair—hair that would be gone in a month. "i’m a trauma surgeon. i can't operate if i’m neutropenic. i can't stand for ten hours if my red cell count is tanking. i’m not a doctor anymore. i’m… i’m a liability."
the look on jack’s face in that moment haunts you more than the diagnosis. it had been the look of a man watching his world tilt on its axis. because jack abbot didn't just love you; he admired you. and to see you relinquish your identity, your essence, was like watching a star go dark.
after a while, the infusion center becomes your new department.
you spend your tuesdays in a recliner, hooked up to a cocktail of drugs that taste like pennies in your mouth and feel like iced water in your veins. jack is always there. he works his shifts in blocks, trading his weekends and his sanity so he can sit in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside you.
sometimes, he brings his tablet and pretends to read medical journals, but you see him watching the iv pump. you see him calculating the infusion rate in his head. you see him looking at your grey-ish, translucent skin with a desperate, silent prayer in his eyes.
"you're doing it again," you mutter, leaning your head back against the pillow.
"doing what?" jack asks, his eyes snapping to yours.
"thinking like a doctor."
jack sighs, setting the tablet aside. he moves closer, taking your hand and rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.
"i don't know how to stop. i spent fifteen years learning how to spot the moment someone starts to slip. i can't just turn it off because it's you. especially because it's you."
and you can’t get mad at him because you understand. if it were him on this chair, god, you’d be reading every article out there, calling every doctor in the world, trying to figure out a loophole, a escape. so, instead of complaining, you turn your hand around, interlocking your hands together.
“grab my book, please.” you point at the battered copy of your favorite book that’s resting on the auxiliary table next to your bed. “read me a few pages?”
jack pulls your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “of course, beautiful.”
closing your eyes, you lean back against the pillow again and enjoy the soft cadence of jack’s voice as he goes over the same lines you’ve read over and over again throughout the years.
the dreaded talk happens on a random wednesday night, after the third cycle of chemo has left you so weak you can't even lift a glass of water. the nausea is a physical weight, a gray veil that hangs over everything.
jack is kneeling on the floor beside the bed, holding a cool washcloth to your forehead. the room is dark, lit only by the soft glow of your bedside lamp
"jack?" you whisper.
"i’m right here, sweetheart."
"we need to talk.'"
and he freezes. the cloth stays still against your skin. he knows what that tone implies, and he doesn’t like it. not one bit.
“we have to discuss the what if.”
"there is no 'what if.' the doctor said the markers are moving in the right direction."
"jack…" you rasp out, your eyes fixed on the ceiling. "i know the stats. if the chemo doesn't hold... if it spreads to the bone marrow... i don't want a vent. i don't want you calling a code on me in the pitt."
the sound that comes out of jack’s throat is something between a sob and a growl. he drops the cloth and buries his face in the mattress, his shoulders shaking.
"i can't talk about this, honey. please, i…" he chokes out. "i spend every day fighting for strangers. i spend every day refusing to let people go. you think i can just sign a paper and watch you fade away? i would break every bone in your chest to keep your heart beating, love. i need you to understand that."
"i do, jack. of course i understand. and that’s why i’m telling you now," you say, reaching out with a shaking hand to stroke his hair. "because i love you enough to tell you when to stop. if i can't be a surgeon, if i can't be the woman who loves you, if i’m just a body being kept alive by machines... i need you to let me go, jack. give me that one last act of mercy."
jack lifts his head. his face is a wreck of grief and love. he looks at you, really looks at you, and he sees the exhaustion in your bones. he sees the toll the fight is taking.
but he also sees the woman he fell in love with, the bright, smiley woman who would crack a joke in the middle of a harsh shift to lighten up the mood for every one; the woman who gave her heart and soul for her job, protecting her patients and doing even the impossible to keep them safe and healthy.
"okay," he whispers, his voice broken. "but you have to promise me one thing."
"anything, jack."
"please, don't give up yet. fight for the version of us that grows old together, complaining about the new residents, driving away in the summer and decorating the house for christmas. just... stay with me for as long as you can, yes?"
"i’m not going anywhere yet, jack," you promise, pulling him up onto the bed.
he crawls next to you, cradling your fragile body close to his. and only when he’s certain that you’re soundly asleep does he allow himself to break down. his silent cries muffled against your shared pillow, his trembling hand fisting the thin fabric of your sleeping shirt. he murmurs your name, like a prayer to a deity he’s not entirely sure is listening to him right now. still, he prays, he begs.
“please…”
a full year passes and the prognosis is still poor. things aren’t getting worse, but they’re also not getting any better. your sickness is a force destroying your body and jack’s life. you can feel it as much as you can see it.
you see it in the dark circles, the wrinkles that have gotten more and more noticeable with every passing week. jack’s look is rougher, sharper. but he remains as soft and gentle with you as ever. and it’s frustrating.
you don’t want to be treated like a piece in a museum, like something that must not be touched, only stared at. you can’t even remember the last time you were intimate with him; and you don’t even mean having sex. the meds have obliterated your libido, so there’s no talk about that. but now, every time jack reaches out to touch you, it’s a calculated, medical stroke instead.
when he asks about your day you know he wants to know first about the symptoms; if you’ve managed to eat something without vomiting it three minutes later, if the pain had gotten too bad. and, even though a part of you knows he does it because he cares, because he loves you, you want the old jack to come back.
it’s on a saturday night that you feel a rare moment of actual hunger. the nausea has finally receded, replaced by a sudden, human craving for something that isn’t bone broth and nutritional shakes.
“jack,” you call out, your voice a little raspy. “i think i want that greasy pizza from the place in the corner. extra garlic.”
jack enters the living room, but he isn’t wearing the warm, playful smile you’ve spent years loving. he doesn’t look at your face but at the pulse oximeter on your finger.
“it’s too risky,” he says, voice clinical. “i’ve already prepped the high-protein meal replacement. you need the electrolytes more than the sodium.”
you feel a flicker of irritation. “it’s just pizza, jack. i haven’t wanted to really eat in three days. i want a slice of pizza, not a whole bottle of chocolate syrup.”
“i’m not risking a neutropenic fever for a slice of pepperoni,” he counters. he steps closer, reaching out to check the temperature of your skin with the back of his hand. “you’re looking more sluggish than this morning. did you take the meds on schedule?”
“jack, stop.” you bat his hand away, the movement weak but sharp.
he finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. he sees a set of variables he needs to manage to prevent a code he knows he won’t be able to handle.
“i’m doing my job,” he says. “i’m trying to ensure you stay stable enough for your next cycle.”
“your job?” you frown. “i’m not a patient, jack!”
“i’m taking care of you!” jack’s voice raises, the detachment finally cracking to reveal his fear. “i’m keeping you alive! do yo have any idea what it’s like to watch your vitals and know that if i miss one single thing, if i let one thing slide because i want you to be happy, i could lose you?”
“you’re already losing me, jack!” you shout back, eyes stinging with tears. “you may be saving my body, but you’re killing me inside. you haven’t asked me how i feel, only where it hurts. jack, i can’t even remember the last time you kissed me.”
“i…”
the silence that follows is heavy. jack stands there, his hands still hovering in the air. his shoulders drop and he sinks into the edge of the coffee table, burying his face deep into his hands. a ragged, broken sound escapes him, a sob he’s been holding back since the day of the biopsy.
“i’m so scared,” he whispers, his voice muffled by his palms. “i’m so fucking scared that if i stop being a doctor for even a minute, the cancer will win. i feel like if i keep my head in all the tests and the charts, i’ll outsmart it. i can’t out-love it, sweetheart.”
you reach out, sliding your hand into his hair. it’s the first time you’ve touched him for comfort in days. “i don’t need another doctor, jack. i have a whole floor of them back at the clinic. i need the man that used to make me laugh until my ribs hurt.”
jack looks up then, eyes red and swimming with tears. he reaches out, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “i’m so sorry, sweetheart. i forgot that the most important part of the save is making sure the’s something left to save.”
he pulls back,wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, a ghost of a smile finally appearing. “i’ll get the pizza. extra garlic.”
“thank you, jack,” you whisper, leaning into him.
he holds you then, this time as the man who loves you instead of as a doctor checking for symptoms or signs that things are getting better.
from then on, every time jack catches himself slipping back into his doctor self around you, he’s quick to snap out of it. still, he worries. of course he does because he loves you. but he worries as your husband, not as your doctor.
four more months pass by. you get to spend a somewhat normal halloween with jack. you decorate the porch and prepare a giant bowl of candy for the kids in the neighbourhood. you dress up as one of your favorite movie characters, using your newest wig. meanwhile, jack dresses as count dracula, sporting the tackiest, funniest fangs ever. when you see him for the first time coming out of your bathroom you can’t help but bark a laugh so loud it literally hurts, but you don’t care right now because he just looks so ridiculously hot it’s not even fair.
“you like it?” he asks, suddenly feeling self conscious.
you pull him close by the neck of his cape, kissing him softly on the lips.
“i love it, jack,” you murmur against his lips.
all afternoon, he helps you with the kids; suddenly popping from behind the door, hissing in a poor attempt at scaring the kids. you find yourself enjoying every second of it, actually having fun for the first time in a very long time. you open the door with a bright smile for every kid, offering them handfuls of candy and wishing them a happy halloween.
however, as the hours pass by, your body stars feeling the exhaustion and the crash of the adrenaling slowly plummeting. your muscles start hurting and you star having trouble breathing. jack notices i immediately, gifting you a sad smile as you lean your forehead against the cool wood of your front door after waving goodbye to the most adorable kid dressed up as a minion.
“i think we’ve both had enough halloween for tonight, sweetheart.” he pulls you into a hug, dopping a kiss on your forehead. “i’ve lost count of how many times i’ve pierced my lip with these damn fangs tonight.”
you laugh weakly, thankful for the lightness is his tone.
“let’s go to sleep, yeah?”
“yeah,” you murmur.
he walks you to the bedroom, patiently waiting for you to go up the stairs with careful, slow steps. he helps you out of your costume, hangs the wig along with the others and walks with you to the bathroom.
you shower in silence, enjoying his presence, the way his hands massage the tension and exhaustion off your bones. he’s so careful, so delicate and loving, that before you can help it, you find yourself crying in his arms. jack just stands there, holding you tight under the warm spray of water, hushing you and whispering all sorts of sweet nothings.
and all the time you can only think about how lucky you are to have him to share this nightmare with.
the next morning you’re sitting at the kitchen table, trying to sketch out a surgical diagram just to see if your hands are still steady enough while jack is hovering over a pot of herbal tea.
when your phone rings, you both jump.
you lean over the table, seeing your doctor’s name on it. jack nods, inviting you to pick it up. immediately, you put the phone of speaker.
“good morning, doctor diaz,” you say, voice still a bit heavy with sleep.
“good morning. i’m sorry for calling on a sunday. but i thought this was kind of urgent, so you might want to hear it as soon as possible.”
you can see how jack’s shoulders tense at that. you push the empty chair beside you towards him in a silent invitation and he immediately takes it. without a second though, his hand finds yours over the table and takes it, interlocking your fingers together.
“is it bad?” you ask, nibbling your lip. jack squeezes your hand slightly.
there’s a beat of silence on the other side of the line, until your doctor speaks again. and when she does, you hear the smile in her words.
“absolutely not! i called to celebrate.”
“wh-what?”
“the results from the last pet scans came completely clear. there’s been a complete metabolic remission.”
right now, you’re so thankful you're sitting, because you’re not sure your legs would have been able to hold you up after her next words.
“it’s gone. you’re clean.”
clean.
you’re clean.
“are… are you sure?” jack asks, voice trembling.
“one hundred percent, mr. abbot. i assure you i checked the results and chartings multiple times to make sure i wasn’t giving you any false hope.”
“you’re clean,” he whispers then, turning towards you. but you’re elsewhere, your eyes lost in the horizon.
“congratulations, mrs. abbot.”
jack isn’t entirety sure you heard her, so he answers, “thank you so much, doctor. thank you.”
he stays on the line a few more minutes talking about the new process you are about to begin, the path to return to your past life before cancer took control over it.
when he hangs up, he raises to his feet and starts pacing. there’s so much going on inside his head right now. he’s frantic. meanwhile, you’re still in shock. your hands are shaking but you don’t feel it. just like you don’t feel the tears streaming down your face.
“baby, hey. look at me.”
jack crouches in front of you, cupping your face in an attempt to bring you back to him. you blink once, twice, forcing more tears down your cheeks that jack catches with his thumbs.
“clean,” is all you whisper.
“yes, sweetheart.” he nods, eyes glossy. “you did it.”
your lips start slowly pulling into a wobbly smile. “we did it.”
jack nods enthusiastically. you stand up slowly, your legs still a little shaky, and he meets you halfway. he picks you up, spinning you around in the small kitchen, laughing and sobbing all at once.
"we did it," he bellows into the quiet apartment. "we did it!"
now, walking back into the er ten months later feels like a dream.
you are wearing your plum scrubs again. they’re a little loose, and your hair is a short halo around your head, but you feel like a giant. never had you imagine walking out into the er with such energy and force.
you walk through the double doors and, for a moment, the world goes quiet. dana is at the nurse's station, probably getting everything ready for the shift change; she looks up, her jaw dropping. robby is coming out of trauma 2, and he freezes.
then, the noise returns. a cheer goes up from the staff; the kind of genuine, rowdy celebration that usually only happens when a hopeless save walks out of the hospital.
you receive your friends and coworkers’ hugs and congratulations, smiling brightly at them and letting them know exactly how much you missed them and being here.
but you’re looking for one person in particular.
and you find him in bay 4. he’s leaning over a patient, his back to the door, his hands moving with that familiar, frantic efficiency. he’s mid-sentence, ordering an x-ray, when he senses the shift in the room, the way the residents he's been teaching are now looking at the door behind him.
jack turns around.
the lead attending mask vanishes entirely. he stands there, looking at you like you’re a miracle he personally conjured out of the dark.
"hey, doc," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "you're late for your shift."
"i had a few complications, dr. abbot," you reply, stepping into the bay, your heart syncopating with the rhythm of the hospital after so long. "but i think i’m ready to get back to work."
jack doesn't care about the residents or hr or any of the repercussions. he walks over and pulls you into a tight hug that smells of antiseptic, salt, and home. he kisses you right there in the middle of the room, smiling thought it.
Okay this may be fucked up but Latinos do nicknames, right? I can imagine Latina!reader’s family nicknaming Abbot ‘El Robot’ or ‘El Terminator’ or something wacky like that😭😭
i think the stereotypical latino nicknames latino thing will always be slightly fucked up cause wdym ur baby cousin has been 'mantecada' since birth cause he was round like a muffin 😭
but yk what i think if jack were to have a nickname it would be something like that or 'el transformer.' one of the tíos gave it to him and then the younger family members probably gave him their own special nickname based off their favorite transformer. the difference between this set of nicknames and typical Latino ones (that are mean affff) is that they gave it to him cause they’ve never met someone with an amputated leg, just a random ass tío or cousin who got his thumb cut off from working in construction. that, and they think he’s cool because of it.
Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!patient!reader
Category: grumpy x sunshine, fluff (??), angst (??)
Summary: A history of bad luck when it comes to injuries leaves you visiting the hospital more than you'd like. At least PTMC has a grumpy doctor to get you through these troubling times.
Warnings: medical inaccuracies (don't come for me - the NHS website was my best friend when writing this) extensive injury detail, blood, gore, vomit, reader gets into a lot of situations, Robby is grumpy as hell, reader is sunshine personified, they fall in love, talks of death, doctor-patient relationship, power imbalance that goes with that, reader is very lonely, let me know if I missed anything
Word count: 10.6k (I got carried away)
A/N: I love this grumpy doctor so much.
The Pitt had its regulars, just like any other emergency department. There were people like Louie, who was always a delight to talk to no matter how much the staff worried about him. There were people like Myrna, who caused more trouble than anything but often made for an entertaining time. And there were people like you, just riddled with an unfortunate case of bad luck. People who, for some reason, the universe hated.
It all started when your clumsy roommate had dropped a knife into your foot.
You had been sitting in the waiting room for three hours and forty-six minutes before you were called back to see a doctor. The lovely woman who had made you fill out your sign-in form had assured you that since you had managed to stop the bleeding pretty well by yourself that you weren't extremely high up on the list of priorities. That had seemed fair so you just shrugged at her and took a seat. Luckily for you, one of the resident doctors was eager to show one of the student doctors how to check for nerve damage so you were called on way more quickly than initially predicted.
Doctor McKay and student doctor Javadi had helped you settle yourself into a wheelchair and rolled you back into the department through the glass doors that separated the waiting room from the rest of the place. They were both very nice, Doctor McKay was soft spoken and student doctor Javadi was clearly quite nervous. You felt like you were in very capable hands.
Once they had you situated on one of the beds, you allowed yourself to take in the hustle and bustle of the place. It was noisy. People constantly talking, if not shouting, machines beeping, shoes slapping against the floor. It was overwhelming. You took deep, calming breaths and attempted to focus on the pain in your foot instead.
McKay gestured for Javadi to put on a pair of gloves as she unwrapped the towel that you had wound around your foot. "Can you tell us how this happened?"
"My roommate dropped a knife on my foot." You winced, taking a good look at the gash on your foot. Pretty gnarly stuff. "She was chopping tomatoes and her hand slipped."
"Ouch." Javadi's eyes widened so much they pretty much took up her entire face.
"Yeah." You sighed, before brightening slightly. "I don't mind. She's a good cook so I'm sure she'll beg for my forgiveness with something nice to eat."
McKay smiled at you gently, like she admired your optimism. "The wound isn't too deep, probably will just need a couple of stitches but I'm going to walk Javadi through some checks for nerve damage first. Is that okay?"
"Oh, of course. Knock yourselves out." You leaned back on the hospital bed like it was a sun lounger and you were relaxing on the beach.
McKay nodded her thanks before turning to the student doctor. "How do we assess for nerve damage in feet?"
Javadi didn't hesitate for more than a fraction of a second. "Ipswich Touch Test."
"Good. What questions do we ask first?"
"Oh." Javadi looked at you. "Any numbness, tingling or burning?"
"Nope." You shook your head, giving her an encouraging smile.
"That's a good sign." McKay interjected. "But we'll do the test anyway. Javadi?"
The young doctor looked more calm as she stepped towards the end of the bed where your foot rested. "I'm going to press on your toes lightly for a couple of seconds and I need you to tell me if you can feel it."
"Sure thing." You nodded at her.
She was just about to begin when somebody appeared in the entrance to the bay. A man. Tall, dark hair, middle aged and rubbing sanitiser into his hands.
"Hello, I'm Doctor Robinavitch but everybody calls me Doctor Robby." He glanced briefly at your foot before turning to McKay. "Everything good?"
McKay nodded. "About to start an Ipswich Touch Test."
Doctor Robby's gaze landed on Javadi. "Mind if I observe?"
Javadi's whole body jolted. "Oh, of course not."
Doctor Robby nodded before lowering himself onto a stool next to the bed. His eyes slowly slid over to meet yours. "Can you tell me about what happened?"
"Roommate dropped a knife. My foot got in the way of the knife. Boom. Collision." You recounted the story again for him, eyes snapping to Javadi when you felt her press against one of your toes. "Felt that."
She nodded, focused on the task at hand.
Doctor Robby also nodded next to you. "Good. That's good."
You smiled, feeling like you were being graded on an exam. "Can I ask why I have three doctors crowded around my bed?"
Robby's eyes searched your face momentarily, like he was looking for something which he ultimately found. "You have quite an extensive medical history. It flagged up on our system and, as the chief attending physician here, I have to come check."
"Oh, that." You rolled your eyes. "No need to worry about me, Doctor Robby. I just have bad luck."
"Bad luck?" He chuckled.
"Four concussions, eight broken bones, three dislocations and a couple sprains." You listed them all off, counting on your fingers. "Just bad luck I swear."
"That's a lot of bad luck." Javadi mumbled, pressing against another one of your toes.
"Felt that." You chimed before continuing. "Unfortunately, the universe hates some people. And I am one of those people."
Robby couldn't help the disbelieving laugh that rumbled at your positive attitude. He exchanged a quick glance with McKay, who was extremely good at reading people, but found absolutely zero doubt in her eyes. Huh, she believed your bad luck story.
"Felt that!" Your voice broke the quiet again as Javadi pressed another toe. "Seriously, I'm fine. After the third concussion, you kind of get used to the idea of the universe hating you."
McKay snorted lightly. "I like your ability to stay so optimistic."
"Probably all the concussions." You offered. "I just moved to Pittsburgh a couple months ago. So you'll probably be seeing a lot more of me in the future. Sorry in advance."
And you were right. After determining that you didn't have any nerve damage and stitching you up, McKay and Robby made the decision that you were okay to be discharged. They were somewhat surprised when they had found out that you would be driving yourself home and that you had driven yourself to PTMC in the first place. But after a long shift, you had escaped both of their minds completely. Until you appeared almost two months later.
Somehow it was worse being sat on a hospital bed to wait inside the emergency department than it was being sat out in the waiting room. It didn't help that they had placed you out in the hallway so you could watch everybody rushing by. While it was fun to people watch, it did have you almost itching with anxiety every time a doctor came near you but didn't stop to help out. But you were patient, letting your legs swing as you watched the world go by.
Robby was crawling with his own anxiety, edging toward the end of a long shift, as he stalked through the hallways of the Pitt, rubbing at his face frustrated. He couldn't wait for his day to be over. As he passed patients, he only sent them brief glances to make sure they weren't dead before carrying on. That was until his eyes landed on someone he recognised. He did a double take as he saw you, slowing to an eventual stop at your bedside.
"Hi, Doctor Robby." You grinned at him, legs swinging even more enthusiastically.
"Hi..." He trailed off, surprised to see you.
You offered him your name, not offended that he seemed to have forgotten it. Surely he saw dozens of people each day. Names were only a minor thing. "Knife in the foot two months ago. Long medical history. Four concussions."
Your voice hit a new level of happy with each thing you listed and Robby couldn't help the wry smile that adorned his face.
"No, no. I remember." He assured you, taking a few steps closer. "What brings you in this time?"
"Squirrel bit me." You shrugged, raising your hand to show him the tiny puncture wounds on your hand.
"A squirrel bit you...?" Robby repeated it slowly, like he'd misheard you.
"Yeah, that's a new one for me. I thought it was fine but then I Googled it, saw the word 'rabies' and came straight here." You giggled at yourself. "Told you that you'd be seeing lots more of me."
"Right." He huffed. "Just didn't realise so soon."
"Universe hates me, what can I say." Your legs stopped swinging suddenly. "What are the odds of this killing me? Because I'd hate to die by squirrel. That's a sucky way to go."
"Very low, don't worry." He chuckled. "Come on, I'll find you a room and we'll patch up this... squirrel bite."
"Y'know, it doesn't make me feel better when you say it like that." You hopped down from the bed and started following him to the central desk.
"Say it like what?" He looked over his shoulder at you, to see you close behind him.
"Say it like you know it's embarrassing but are trying to hide it so you don't make me feel bad. Just laugh. It's okay." You smiled brightly at him as the two of you stopped in front of the hub, surrounded by nurses.
Robby looked up at the big screen and you copied him, trying to see if you could decipher what any of it meant. You couldn't.
"Hey, Robby. Whatcha need?" A nurse suddenly appeared in front of you, the badge on the front of her scrubs informing you that her name was 'Dana' and that she was the charge nurse of the unit.
"Free space for our friend here." Robby gestured at you next to him.
Dana's eyebrow arched at the word 'friend' as she looked at you. "North four is free."
"Thank you." Robby grumbled before he led you in the direction of the free room. His long legs carried him quickly and he was impressed when you managed to keep up with what people had referred to as his 'doctor's pace'. Every time he looked at you to see if you were keeping up, he found you smiling enthusiastically at him. Surprisingly upbeat for someone who was worried they had rabies.
When the two of you got to the free bay, Robby instructed you to sit on the edge of the bed as he logged into the computer next to it. He had a quick look over your file, slipping the glasses from his pocket and onto his nose.
"I see your last tetanus shot was in November."
You nodded. "Sounds about right."
He sent you a quick glance to find that you were still smiling.
Unprompted, you explained. "With my bad luck I try to stay on top of my vaccines as much as possible."
"Good idea." Robby sent you something of a smile before logging out of the computer again. "Okay, so I'm going to irrigate the wound - which means clean it - and then we'll figure out next steps from there."
"I know what irrigation is, Doctor Robby." You laughed quietly. "I've spent enough time in ERs that I could probably work a shift here."
A beat of silence.
"That's a joke. Obviously." An awkward smile crossed your face. "Although I am the appointed person for first aid at my office."
Robby looked at you over the top of his glasses as he put on a pair of gloves. "Really? You have to take a course for that?"
"Yep." You nodded once. "Was real fun actually."
He sat down on the little stool next to the bed and scooted himself towards you, then gently took your injured hand in his. "Okay, this doesn't look too bad. The puncture wounds are small so you won't need stitches or glue."
"That's good. The stitches I got in my foot last time were a pain in the ass."
"I don't remember you coming in to have those removed. Did you?" Robby sent you a disapproving look, turning your hand over a couple of times to inspect every inch of it.
"Yeah, but it was late one evening. I asked about Doctor McKay or Javadi but I was told you'd all gone home. Night shift was on duty." You shrugged.
Robby nodded, curious to know who had treated you. "Oh, yeah? Who did you see?"
"Doctor Shen. Nice guy. Very funny and chilled. Likes his iced coffee." Your eyes crinkled at the corners as you said it, like you were amused. "I felt so special getting treated by another attending physician."
Robby waved down a nurse and asked them to bring him some saline. "We all make bets on how many pumps of syrup Shen will have in his coffee each shift."
You laughed, loudly. "Well, it's good to know healthcare workers get to have some fun at least."
"Hey, what are you talking about? We get to have the most fun. It's not everyday you get to treat a squirrel bite." Robby sent you another one of those not-quite-a-smile smiles, but this one seemed more genuine. "I do need to ask some questions though. To determine if we need to treat you for potential rabies and other diseases."
"Great." You deadpanned, face falling flat. "I love potentially having rabies."
"Like I said, the chances are extremely low. But we do have to be sure." He paused as the nurse reappeared with the saline, taking it from them with a polite thanks. "Would you say that the squirrel was behaving unusually?"
You winced as he flushed the saline over the puncture wounds on your hand. "I don't know what is considered normal behaviour for squirrels."
He sighed but nodded. "Was it erratic before it bit you?"
"It just kind of appeared out of nowhere." Your hand jerked as pain shot through it. "One minute I was just walking through the park and the next bam! Squirrel on me and biting my hand."
Robby suppressed a smile at the memory of you using the word 'boom' to describe being stabbed in the foot with a knife during your last visit to the ED. "So it was unprovoked?"
"Doctor Robby, I didn't harass a squirrel until it bit me. I'm not evil."
"I'm not saying you're evil." He squirted another lot of saline over your hand to clean it some more. "I'm saying that if it bit you unprovoked then that raises some red flags."
"Rabies."
"Not necessarily."
"But you're implying rabies."
"No."
"Then what?"
He hesitated, looking away from your hand to make direct eye contact with you. "We will have to treat you to prevent rabies."
A shocked laugh escaped you. "You just said 'no' to rabies!"
He shrugged and lowered your hand onto your lap. "I said that you most likely don't have it. But we have to cover all bases."
"You're sneaky, Doctor Robby. I don't know if I like that." You squinted at him playfully.
He huffed. "There's something we can give you to prevent rabies. Then we'll bandage you up and get you out of here."
"Okay!" You chirped and went back to watching him treat your hand.
There was something about your optimism that was quite intoxicating to Robby. It was almost contagious. If he was less tired, then he might've absorbed it a bit more. The next few steps of your treatment went quickly, with neither of you saying much other than Robby explaining to you what was happening, and before you knew it you were being discharged.
"Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to attend to my dumbass squirrel bite." You tapped nervously at the edges of the bandages wrapped around your hand.
"You don't have to thank me. It was no trouble." Robby waved you off.
"No, I mean it. How many patients in here can say they get personally seen to by the guy in charge?"
Not many.
"Until next time, Doctor Robby." You sent him a little salute and turned to leave.
He shook his head, finding it kind of funny. "I would prefer it if you didn't come back."
You clutched your chest like you were hurt. "Are you saying you don't enjoy my company, Doctor?"
He shook his head again. "I'm saying I would rather you didn't get injured again."
"It's not my choice. I told you: bad luck. See you soon!"
And then you were gone.
Four months, two weeks and six days passed before you were back in the ED.
Robby was only just starting his shift, walking through the waiting room as he arrived, when he found you sitting in a chair with a defrosted bag of peas pressed against your forehead.
He stopped in his tracks, removed the earbuds from his ears and planted his hands on his hips as he looked down at you. "You've got to be kidding me."
You grinned up at him, like the world was all sunshine and rainbows. "Hi, Doctor Robby."
He crouched down in front of you and gently pried the bag of peas from your hand to get a look at whatever was hiding behind it. He found an ugly lump protruding from your forehead. "What happened this time?"
"Hockey puck to the head." Your voice was shockingly defeated as you said it. "Go penguins."
His eyes shot to yours, to find that you were still smiling at him. Crinkles around the eyes and everything. "How long have you been here?"
"Since about nine last night." You scratched at your neck. "I'm suspecting it's just another concussion. But better to be safe than sorry."
Robby stood up straight again with a groan and a crack of his knees. "Okay, come with me."
"Right now?" You glanced at the bag slung over his shoulder.
"Yes. You can sit with Dana, our charge nurse, while I get set up. Then I'll check you over."
You grabbed your own bag and stood from the chair, scrunching your eyes shut and stumbling when the room started spinning. Robby reached out a hand to steady you but you quickly regained your own balance.
"I'm good. I'm good." You gave him a half-hearted thumbs up and started following him through to the ED. You didn't have it in you to complain when he chucked your bag of no-longer-frozen peas into a trash can. The ED was the quietest you'd ever seen it as you walked through the double doors. But you figured it was probably just before the morning rush, which meant there would be a sudden influx of patients at any minute. You anticipated that once Robby had you sat with Nurse Dana, that you'd probably be there waiting for a while. But when you got to the central desk, there was no Dana to be seen. Only a couple of other nurses that you vaguely recognised from your last two visits.
Robby didn't look too happy with that discovery. "Where's Dana?"
"Good morning to you too, Robby." One of the nurses said to him, exchanging a look with the other nurse next to her.
"Right, sorry. Good morning." He rubbed at his temple with two of his fingers. "Dana?"
"Off with Abbot and Shen somewhere."
"Okay, uh-" He looked at you like he didn't know what to do.
"I'm perfectly capable of sitting here without supervision." You offered. You could feel the two nurses staring at the lump on your forehead, causing you to rub at the edges of it self-consciously with one of your fingers.
Robby grabbed your wrist and lowered your hand with a grimace. "Don't- don't touch it."
"My point still stands. I can sit here until someone is free to see me. Or I could be like any other normal patient and wait in the waiting room."
Robby's voice was serious as he replied. "This is your third visit here in the span of six months. You no longer qualify as a normal patient."
"Ouch." You replied flatly, very aware of the two nurses watching you and Robby interact. "Anyway, I told you that it's probably just another concussion."
"It worries me that you don't see the issue with the phrase 'another concussion'." Robby huffed and pointed at a chair behind the desk. "Sit there. I'll be back in two minutes. Perlah, Princess, one of you watch her."
You did as you were told, albeit a little grumpily, and sank into the chair as Robby walked off and disappeared. The lack of sleep was starting to get to you and it didn't help that your head was practically throbbing with pain. But you tried to power through it as you turned to the two nurses and sent them a friendly smile.
"Hi."
The two of them exchanged another look and smirked. "Hi."
The way they moved in tandem suggested that they came as a pair. How nice to work with your best friend, you thought.
"So, you come here often?" One of them asked, clearly holding back a laugh.
Only a second of silence passed before the three of you burst into fits of giggles. But you abruptly stopped when it sent a lightning strike of pain through your head.
"Ow, ow." Your face screwed up and you clutched at your forehead, flinching when you poked the lump. "Motherfu-"
You were cut off by the appearance of Nurse Dana. "What's going on?"
Your mouth shut with a click of your teeth.
A nurse responded before you could. "Robby brought her in. Wants you to watch her."
Dana looked at you, scrutinised you, before a small smile overtook her face. "I know you. Your Robby's friend from a few months ago."
"Uh, just a regular patient that I think he feels sorry for." You ignored the way that the word 'friend' set off an ache in your chest that you had buried long ago.
Dana hummed lowly, though you suspected that she actually disagreed with your statement, before telling Perlah and Princess to get back to work and shooing them away. Then she settled into a chair beside you and got to work on something on her computer.
Fifty-six minutes went by before Robby re-appeared at the central desk. He found you sat next to Dana, staring at the ceiling.
"Hi, sorry."
You looked up at him, a lazy smile pulling the corners of your mouth up. "That was a long two minutes, Doctor Robinavitch."
"I know. I'm sorry. I had to deal with something from the night shift." He looked at Dana. "She been behaving?"
Dana looked at him curiously. "She's been sitting there silently the whole time, if that's what you're asking. Don't worry, I checked on her every couple of minutes to make sure she wasn't dead or passed out."
He just nodded, not entirely sure why he'd even asked the question in the first place. "Okay, good. That's good."
You cut in. "I'm sat right here, y'know?"
He looked at you again. "Sorry, didn't know if you could hear me over the fifth concussion."
Your jaw dropped in surprise. "Uncalled for."
He shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie and his lips pressed together in a half-smile. "But true."
Dana's eyes flickered between the two of you, like she was putting puzzle pieces together. "South three is free, if you need it."
"Thank you, Dana." Then he looked at you. "Come on."
You grabbed your bag and hauled yourself up from the chair, ignoring the pounding in your head as you sent the charge nurse a kind smile. "Thank you for babysitting me, Nurse Dana."
"Just 'Dana' is fine. And you're welcome."
You nodded at her, smiled again, and then started to follow Robby to the exam room. This one was more private than the last one he'd had you in. This one actually had a door, which you appreciated since the noise of the ED wasn't helping your headache.
"Sit on the bed." Robby instructed as he closed the door and the curtain, giving the room some privacy.
As usual, you did as you were told and watched as Robby logged into the computer.
"So... hockey puck to the head. Tell me about it."
You grumbled lowly under your breath for a moment before starting your recount of the story. "Well, I thought I'd engage in some Pittsburgh spirit and go to a Penguins game."
"You a hockey fan?" He didn't know why he was cutting in to ask an irrelevant question. But as he watched your posture ease, he realised it was probably a good thing that he did.
"Oh, sure. Love the sport." You grinned before carrying on. "Anyway, the second period starts and smack! There's a hockey puck making a dent in my forehead. Which has now turned into the most tragic lump ever. Seriously, why'd it have to hit me in the worst place?"
"Bad luck."
"Hardy har." You bit back, though you liked him contributing to the joke of your bad luck. Even if it wasn't quite a joke. "And now here I am with a probable fifth concussion."
Robby signed out of the computer with a click and turned to you. "You at least get to keep the offending hockey puck?"
"No." You pouted. "Some guy next to me stole it while I was busy trying to determine if I'd died. Turned out it was just the light reflecting off of someone's bedazzled jersey."
That made Robby laugh. Fully and heartily. He slapped a hand across his mouth to stop it but the sound rumbling in his chest was unmistakable.
"Oh, yeah. Laugh at my pain. Go on. What an excellent doctor you are. Really." You huffed and rolled your eyes despite the way you beamed at the sound of his laughter.
"I'm sorry. You're just funny."
You side-eyed him. "I'm funny or my injuries are funny? There's a difference."
"Both." He shrugged. "It's never something normal with you."
"I used up all of my normal injuries as a kid. Like the classic of breaking my leg by falling out of a tree had happened twice by the time I was nine."
"Jesus."
"Now the universe has to come up with creative ways to get me injured." You scratched your neck. "It's probably a good thing that I only work in an office and don't do something more dangerous."
"More dangerous?" Robby inquired. "Like what?"
"Like, I don't know, operate a forklift or something."
He laughed again. "Yes, please never operate a forklift. I'd hate to see you in here due to some forklift-related injury."
"Aw, man. Now I'm sad I can't operate a forklift."
"I mean, you can. If you really want."
"What? Just so I can come in here decapitated by a forklift and have you say 'I told you so'? No thanks, Doctor Robby." You crossed your arms in front of your chest.
"I think me saying 'I told you so' would be the least of your worries if you'd been decapitated."
"I'm sure I could sense your disappointment even in death." You sighed, like the idea bothered you. "Okay, so let's get this examination started."
"So eager to be diagnosed with a concussion for a fifth time." He took three steady steps towards you and angled your head just how he needed it.
"Who knows? Maybe it'll be more exciting this time. Like a fractured skull."
He looked at you disapprovingly. "Not something to be excited about."
"Concussions get boring after a while."
"You're the only person who has ever thought that." He flashed a light in your eyes and apologised when you winced. "Sorry."
"It's okay." You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth. "I've had four concussions. Maybe five now. I can think whatever I want about them."
He got you to track his finger. "Maybe you should be thankful that it's never more serious."
"Yeah, I suppose. It does get a little tiring after a while. All the injuries, I mean."
Robby was struck by how genuinely sad you sounded in that moment. He'd never seen you anything less than sickeningly upbeat. He didn't like it.
He straightened up before taking a seat in front of you. "Unfortunately, some people are just more accident prone than others. If it helps, you're probably the happiest person I've met with such an extensive medical history."
You lit up slightly. "Really?"
"Really." He nodded firmly. "Okay, I'm saying this is a concussion. Another one, I'm sorry. But I'm going to send you up for a head CT anyway, just in case. I'll get you bumped to the top of the list. I'm sure it'll be clear but I'll advise you to stay for a while longer for observation anyway. To be safe."
"Okay, thank you."
"Is there anyone you'd like me to call in the meantime? To come and keep you company?"
"No, no one." You shook your head and regretted, eyes squeezing closed at the pain.
"You sure? You might be here a while. Friends? Family? Partner?"
You sent him a sympathetic smile, like he was missing something obvious. "Doctor Robby, I'm always here alone. I was at that hockey game alone. I got on the bus here. By myself. There is no one to call."
He said nothing. What was he supposed to say? But you could see the silent question in his eyes so you explained it to him without him even having to ask.
"When you have luck as bad as mine, you find that people prefer not to get caught up in it." You smiled sadly and shrugged your shoulders. You had made peace with it a long time ago.
"I can get one of the nurses to sit with you, if you want?"
You laughed sarcastically and pinched the bridge of your nose. "Ah, jeez. No thanks. I don't need pity company. I get enough pity from you."
"You think I pity you?"
"I know you pity me." Your voice was sincere, like you had it all figured out. "Come on, it's not exactly difficult to figure out. Always treating me yourself even though I come in with first, maybe second, year resident level cases. I know you have much more important things to be doing. Sitting me with Dana earlier after bringing me through here yourself and not making me wait outside like everybody else. Bumping me up on the CT list. Come on, Doctor Robby."
Maybe you did have it all figured out.
He stared at you for a moment. "You're right. I have done all of those things. But not out of pity."
You looked at him like he was lying. "What then?"
"I think... that there are some nice people in the world. And sometimes some not-nice things happen to them. And it's bad when these not-nice things happen to these nice people since they're the least deserving of all. I think you're one of those people. So, anything I can do to make your experience here in my ED even just a little less terrible... it's going to get done." He reached out and patted your hands where they were clenched together in your lap. "Okay?"
You nodded, ignoring the sting in your eyes. "Okay."
"Good. Now-" He stood up and walked over to the computer to put his orders in. "I won't send a nurse to give you 'pity company' as you called it. But I will come to check on you as much as I can once you get your CT done. And I'll also be the one who comes to tell you the results, yeah?"
"Yeah."
He nodded once before opening the door. "I'll get someone to come to take you upstairs."
And then Robby left in a flurry of deep breaths and swirling emotions that he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.
True to his word, Robby bumped you to the top of the CT wait list and was also the one to tell you your results. Which were clear, just as he'd predicted. This just solidified the fact that you had another concussion to add to your list of never-ending injuries. Woo-fucking-hoo. But you were left no time to dwell on it too much as Robby made sure that you got placed in a bed next to a nice guy named Louie. He promised that the two of you would get along, and he was right. Louie was very easy to talk to and, from what you could understand, was also a regular at PTMC. Robby had been sneaky there, you noted, putting you with another regular. Robby also stuck to what he'd promised and came to check on you at every moment he could, even bringing you a sandwich and a juice box when he figured that you'd probably be hungry. He could never stay too long, one emergency or another always pulling him away after a few minutes. But you didn't mind. Mostly you were just thankful that he was dedicating any of his spare time to you.
You ignored the heat that crawled to the surface of your skin when Louie decided to make a comment on it.
"It seems the good doctor has taken a liking to you."
After a few hours Robby cleared you to be discharged, warning you to come back immediately if the pain in your head suddenly got worse or if you started feeling dizzy or nauseous. He made sure to drill into you that calling for an ambulance would be a better idea than getting on the bus again. You assured him that you understood him loud and clear. No buses. Or driving. Certainly no driving.
And then your third visit to PTMC was over and Robby was left wondering when he'd seen you again next. There didn't seem to be a matter of 'if' anymore. He now believed your theory of bad luck and knew he'd be seeing you sometime in the future.
This time it only took one month, one week and one day.
The gurney crashed into the Pitt, wheels squeaking, as one of the paramedics pushing it called for some help. Robby asked to hear what the case was as he snapped on a pair of gloves and marched over, gesturing for McKay to follow him.
"Suspected food poisoning. Her roommate says she's been vomiting for four days and found her passed out in their kitchen about an hour ago."
Robby stopped still when he saw who was lying on the bed. You. Unconscious, trembling and covered in a thick layer of sweat. Not a good sign.
McKay also paused. "Hey, isn't that-"
"Yes." Robby cut her off. "Okay, I need fluids-"
The instructions continued to pour out of him, not even bothering to test his residents or students, as they got you wheeled into a trauma room. He ignored the twist of upset in his stomach at the sight of you, urging his doctor brain into gear to carry him through it. Which worked. Soon enough, you were hooked up to an IV and fluids were being pumped into you. Everybody worked around you quietly. Well, more quietly than usual. It wasn't exactly a secret that you'd been added to the list of the Pitt's regular patients. Or that Robby had taken a liking to you. If somebody didn't already know, it was obvious by the way Robby was looking at you now with clear worry in his eyes.
The concern in everybody's minds was quickly wiped away when your eyes suddenly shot open, you lurched upwards in the bed and proceeded to projectile vomit.
All over the front of Robby's scrubs.
Then you passed out again, flopping back against the hospital bed.
"If she's been vomiting for four days, how does she still have anything in her?" Javadi asked timidly as she eyed the mess that Robby was coated in.
Nobody answered her as they all stared at Robby, waiting to see how he'd react.
He didn't take his eyes off of you as he spoke. "Keep working. I'll be back."
And then he left to go and change his scrubs. Luckily your spew of puke had managed to avoid his cargo pants and shoes, only hitting his scrub top. It hadn't even soaked through to the long sleeved shirt he was wearing underneath. That was something to be happy about. Decades in the ED meant that Robby had grown accustomed to the smell and sight of bodily fluids. He often found himself covered in blood, most days actually, and was occasionally sprayed with urine. Vomit was no different. The acidic smell of it barely penetrated his nose these days. That was one perk of his long career: no longer bothered by people throwing up. Hurrah.
He was silent as he got changed, exchanging one scrub top for another and feeling somewhat sorry for the person who was going to have to deal with his soiled shirt. Truthfully, all he could focus on was getting back to see how you were doing. He'd told you before that he wanted you to get the best care possible. And how was he supposed to keep that promise if he wasn't there to oversee it getting done? He knew you were in very capable hands in his absence but the idea of not watching as every little step of treatment took place left an uneasy feeling in his stomach.
He also hadn't failed to notice that your roommate hadn't come with you to the hospital, despite being the one who had found you and called the ambulance. Robby couldn't stand the thought of you alone in there. Even if you were unconscious and surrounded by doctors and nurses. You wouldn't have a friend by your side. At least he could provide something of a friendly face for you.
Robby forced himself not to run back to the trauma room, maintaining a steady pace as he walked through the doors. "How's she looking?"
McKay was the one to answer him. "Heart rate and BP are stable. Think we're just looking at a case of severe dehydration here."
Robby nodded, letting out a long exhale. "Okay. Okay, good. We can deal with that."
So that was exactly what they did: deal with it. Everybody worked carefully, being extra cautious not to make any mistakes with Robby's watchful gaze on them. He clearly wasn't in the mood for any screw ups, and McKay and Javadi felt similarly. Though neither of them had treated you since that first incident, they both remembered how kind you had been. Kind and easygoing patients were hard to come by these days.
With no more signs of future vomiting, it didn't take too long before they all agreed that you were in a good enough place to be wheeled out of the trauma room and placed into a bay for rest and more fluids.
The rest of Robby's shift ticked by at a mind-numbingly slow place and, before he knew it, it was time to clock out. He had periodically checked in on you for the few hours of his shift that you had been there, only to find you still unconscious every time. Which wasn't a bad sign. He just didn't feel good about it. He'd made the decision, about an hour before his shift ended, that he'd sit at your bedside for a while. Just to keep you company, even though you weren't awake. When Dana had figured out his plan, she had sent him a smile to suggest that she knew exactly what was going on in his head. Which was absurd since even Robby didn't entirely know what was going on in his head.
Dana hadn't even tried to discourage him from the idea. She only reminded him that he had a day off tomorrow and that, if you woke up anytime soon, you'd probably appreciate the sight of a familiar face. Something about her approval solidified the plan in Robby's head. If Dana thought it was a good idea then it was probably a good idea.
So once he'd handed over to the night shift and collected his bag from his locker, Robby situated himself on a chair next to your bedside.
When you awoke a few hours later, you were surprised to find yourself not at home. You squinted, trying to adjust to the light. Where were you? One quick glance around told you exactly where. Somehow back in the emergency room. Damn, what had happened this time? You looked to the side, shocked to find a slumped figure in the chair next to your bedside. Who the hell was that? You didn't have anybody to sit at your bedside when you were in the hospital. A couple of blinks to send away the blur in your eyes revealed exactly who it was. Doctor Robby. Asleep.
"What the hell?" You blurted, ignoring the burn in your throat, taking in the sight of the bag tucked between his legs and the way his hoodie was zippered right to the top. His features were a lot softer when he was asleep, you noticed.
The sound of your voice stirred him. And you watched as his relaxed expression immediately hardened again as soon as he was conscious. Wow. Just being awake made him stressed.
His eyes quickly landed on you and he sat forward in his chair, a sleepy smile curling the edges of his mouth. "Hey, you're awake."
You blinked at him. "What time is it?"
"Uh-" He checked his watch. "Just after one."
"In the morning?!" You screeched, heart fluttering in your chest in panic.
"Yes. Why? Is that a problem?" He looked at you concerned. Surely you didn't have anywhere to be in the middle of the night.
"Why are you here?" You snapped, frowning deeply. "Your shift must've ended hours ago."
"Hey, hey." He reached out a hand to settle you, letting it rest on your forearm. "It's okay."
"It is very much not okay, Doctor Robinavitch. I think this goes a tad beyond the special treatment you usually give me." You scoffed but placed your hand over his anyway. "I mean, what are you doing here?"
His thumb rubbed gentle circles into the skin of your arm. "I figured it'd be confusing if you woke up here with no recollection of what happened. Thought you could do with seeing someone you recognised."
Ugh, here he went again with saying something nice that had you tearing up.
"Oh. Well." You sniffed. "Thank you then."
He nodded once. "You're welcome."
"What did happen?"
"Your roommate said you were passed out in the kitchen after vomiting for four days. Said something about food poisoning."
Recognition dawned on your face. "A new diner opened up a couple blocks from my apartment. I wouldn't recommend it."
"Yeah, probably best not to." He laughed softly at your attempt to lighten the conversation. "You came in here dehydrated. Trembling, sweating-"
"Wow, how attractive." You groaned. "Tell me, did I look better or worse than when I had that big lump on my head?"
"About the same." Robby offered. "Until you vomited all over me."
Your eyes widened. "You're joking."
"Sadly not."
"Oh, for the love of-" You cut yourself off as you buried your face in your hands.
Robby chuckled. "It's okay."
"No, it's not." You sounded genuinely distraught. "You should've just let me die."
"Not funny."
"I'm not kidding. Death would be more enjoyable than the embarrassment of knowing that I barfed all over you. God, I'm so sorry."
"Like I said, it's okay." He let his hand rest on the bed next to you, to show that he was there, really there, if you needed him.
You suddenly looked at him, an openness in your eyes that he'd never seen before. And then you said something that floored him.
"Thank you for always taking such good care of me."
It wasn't anything that Robby hadn't heard before. People thanked him all the time for his care. But there was something about the way you said it, that implied you were thanking him for more than his medical treatment. Which he guessed was true. He knew he treated you differently to his other patients, he'd pretty much confessed as much the last time he'd seen you. He just wondered whether you were able to see how deeply it ran for him.
"You're very welcome."
Robby didn't pull away when you reached out and grasped his hand tightly in yours. He didn't move when the curtain suddenly snapped open and Shen was standing there with an iPad in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. Robby didn't even flinch when Shen's eyes shot to your intertwined hands and he slurped on his coffee in amusement. In fact, he sent Shen a glare practically daring him to utter a word about it. Shen stayed silent though Robby knew it was only a matter of time before he went to blab about it with the next person he saw.
"Doctor Shen!" You chimed, voice croaky but cheerful. "Still loving those iced coffees I see."
Shen smiled and pointed at you. "I removed your stitches. In your foot."
"That's me." You grinned, looking at Robby. "Look at me, I'm memorable."
You certainly were, Robby thought.
Shen was hasty as he checked over you, very aware of how closely Robby was watching him. He didn't do much other than check your vitals. He knew you were fine. Because if you weren't then Robby wouldn't have been sitting silently at your side.
Once he was done, he stood at the end of your bed. "Looks good to me. I'll be back later to check on you again."
"Thanks." You sounded seriously appreciative.
Shen turned to Robby. "Think about heading home. Or I'll send Abbot after you."
"Yeah, yeah." Robby waved him off and was glad to see him go when the curtain snapped closed again.
"Who's Abbot?" You asked, wondering when you'd developed the audacity to ask questions. "Wait, that's none of my business."
He shook his head. "No, it's okay. Abbot's the other night shift attending."
"Right..." You trailed off, predicting that there was something more.
"He's also an old friend."
"Ah, there we go." You nodded in understanding. "And as your friend he's going to be concerned that you're sat here at one in the morning after a long shift rather than being at home asleep."
"Actually, I think he'd be happy that I'm doing something with my spare time."
You snorted. "Oh, so I'm like a hobby. Great."
"That's not what I meant." He squeezed your hand gently. "I wouldn't be at home asleep right now if I knew you'd be here, waking up alone."
Words like that made you long for a connection with another human being that you hadn't had in a very long time.
"Careful now, Doctor Robby. I might start thinking you like me or something." Your voice was shaky as you said it. "Thank you for being here."
"You don't need to thank me every time."
You shrugged. "How many pumps of syrup are we betting on Doctor Shen having in his coffee tonight?"
Robby laughed, forgetting he'd ever even told you that. "Three butter pecan and four white chocolate."
Your nose scrunched. "I'm saying six vanilla and two caramel."
"That sounds very sweet." Robby's stomach rolled at the mere thought of it, he was much more of a black coffee man.
"Don't knock it 'til you try it." You hummed, eyelids growing heavy again.
He watched you struggle to keep your eyes open for a moment. "Go back to sleep. Your body's exhausted."
"I'll go to sleep if you promise to go home." You rubbed at your face. "I'm sure I'll still be here in the morning when you come back."
"I'm off tomorrow."
"Oh." You lowered your eyes in embarrassment. Why had you just assumed he'd be back?
"But I can come back to visit you."
"Nope, absolutely not." You shook your head rapidly. "It's your day off. How fucking sad would it be if you spent your day off here, in your workplace?"
"I wouldn't be working."
"Not the point. Go do something fun with your day. What do you do for fun? Rock climbing or something?"
"Rock climbing...?" Robby repeated slowly. "Do I look like I rock climb to you?"
"I don't know, it was the first thing that I came up with." You huffed, shoulders slumping.
"You're a curious thing." He murmured lowly before standing up. "Okay, fine. I will go home now and do something fun with my day tomorrow."
"Promise?"
He nodded once. Firmly. "Promise."
"Great!" Your voice was still chipper despite your tired state. "Thank you again for keeping me alive and for keeping me company now. I'll see you next time I get injured."
He chuckled. "Sure. Try not to get food poisoning again please."
"I'll try." You yawned. "Bye, Doctor Robby."
"Goodnight." He watched you for a moment as you settled back into the bed and closed your eyes, only a few seconds passing before you were breathing rhythmically. You were asleep. He left the bay quietly and walked out of the ED, avoiding eye contact with every person who sent him a quizzical look. Robby went to bed that night satisfied that you were going to be okay and with his soul resting a little lighter than usual.
True to your word, you were back in the ED only a short while later. Three weeks and five days to be exact. It was a sprained wrist this time.
You'd been waiting for around forty minutes when your name was called. You frowned to yourself before walking over to the sign-in desk. You leaned in closer to the glass and sent the lady behind the desk a confused look.
"Um, you just called my name. But it must be a mistake. I've been here less than an hour."
She looked at you and shrugged. "They've called you back there, hon. I just send you through."
She hit a button and the doors buzzed.
"Head on through the doors."
"Okay, thank you." You said quickly before rushing for the doors so she didn't have to keep her hand on the button.
It shouldn't have been surprising when you made your way through the doors and found your favourite doctor on the other side. Robby stood there with his arms folded across his chest and an unimpressed look on his face.
"Hi, Doctor Robby." You said, shyly.
His usual frown deepened. "Don't 'hi' me. It's been less than a month."
"Are you saying you're not happy to see me?"
His eyes flicked to the way you were cradling your hand against your chest. "What happened?"
You puffed out a breath. "Carpet's loose in my office. Tripped. Fell. Kablam."
"Kablam?" He somehow looked more displeased.
"Okay, I admit that's a weak onomatopoeia but my wrist hurts and I'm cranky."
"You're cranky? Miss Sunshine is cranky? The world must be ending." He threw his hands up in the air incredulously.
You scoffed. "Who got your panties in a twist?"
Robby pressed his lips into a thin line before turning around and gesturing for you to follow him. You knew he was never pleased to see you, the circumstances were always unfortunate obviously, but he seemed more annoyed than usual. So you followed him quietly to an exam room, holding your hand tightly to your chest. It really fucking hurt and you were pissed about the circumstances in which it had happened. Among other things.
Robby continued to say nothing as you got to the room, just silently gestured for you to sit on the edge of the bed as he closed the door. But it was killing you. So you snapped.
"Okay, why are you mad at me? I only just got here."
His eyes met yours, a flash of anger crossing them. "Three weeks. It's been three fucking weeks since you were last here."
"Three weeks and five days actually. Which, when you think about it, is basically four weeks. Which is a month."
"That's not the point." He held out a hand to make you quiet.
But you carried on. "Next time I get injured I'll make sure to head to Presbyterian. I'm so sorry to be a burden on you. Not like you're a doctor or anything. Oh, wait-"
"Stop. Stop." He took four sharp steps towards you. "Enough."
Your mouth snapped shut, though the look you gave him said a lot - you weren't happy.
"I'm not mad at you."
"Could've fooled me." You mumbled, ignoring the frustrated glare that Robby sent you.
"I'm mad that you're somehow injured again."
"It's not like it's my fault. Bad luck, Doctor Robinavitch. How many times do I have to tell you?" You sighed. "And this definitely wasn't my fault. I have been complaining about that loose carpet in my office for months - months - saying it was a safety hazard. And today I went and proved it!"
The way Robby looked at you continued to be bored. "Sue your office."
"Believe me, I plan on it." You sent him a small smile. "I was planning on at least a three month gap before my next visit here too, y'know?"
That got a half-hearted laugh out of him. "Three months, huh?"
"The universe had other plans." You shrugged.
He nodded, poking his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Show me your arm."
You held it out for him to look, holding it up with your other hand. Robby took a quick glance at it, pressed lightly against your skin and apologised lowly when you winced.
Feeling bad for being angry at you, Robby attempted to break the ice. "So why are you cranky?"
You blinked at him slowly a couple of times. "Other than the injured wrist? My roommate moved out."
He didn't expect that. "Oh."
"Yeah, apparently it was too much finding me halfway to death on our kitchen floor." You sounded defeated. "It's fine. Whole apartment to myself again. Yay."
"I'm sorry." He sighed and stopped looking at your wrist. "Looks like a sprain."
"Great." Your voice was totally flat, almost completely devoid of emotion.
It made Robby uneasy seeing you like this. He'd never know you to be anything less than sunshine personified. Other than that time you'd been unconscious obviously.
"I'll get someone to put a splint on you and then you can be discharged."
A flicker of surprise crossed your features, confused that Robby wasn't doing it himself. But it passed quickly and you were nodding.
"Okay. Thanks."
He nodded, ignored the ache in his chest, and left the room. He didn't see you again before you left, choosing to avoid you in favour of other, more serious, cases.
Regret situated itself right behind Robby's sternum and lived there for five months before it finally went away. He finally managed to let go of the regret when he realised how long it had been since you last visited. He wondered whether you hadn't been injured that whole time or if you had done what you said you would and chosen to go to Presbyterian instead. Either way, it shouldn't have mattered to him. It definitely didn't matter to him. Not at all.
That all changed two weeks and six days after he finally let the regret go.
"MVA incoming. Seven minutes." Dana told Robby one afternoon after getting a phone call.
"Bad?" He asked, prepping himself by pulling on a pair of gloves.
She shrugged. "They didn't say."
The seven minutes moved quickly as he waited on the paramedics to come through the doors.
One gurney rolled through the entrance. "Broken nose and lacerations to the legs and arms."
Robby looked down at the guy on the gurney, seeing that he was still conscious. But before he could say anything more, the medic kept talking.
"We've got a second victim coming in. She's critical."
Robby raised an eyebrow and gestured for them to wheel the gurney through to a bay, this guy wasn't serious. "What happened?"
The medic looked down at the guy with the broken nose. "He ran a red light and T-boned another car. Driver's side."
Before he could say anymore, a second gurney flew into the ED. The person on the stretcher was unconscious and covered in blood, wounds covering them head to toe. But despite all of that, Robby recognised you instantly.
A ringing started in his ears. Vision blurred at the edges.
It took four seconds too long for his doctor brain to kick in. But once it started, he was unstoppable.
Every medical professional in trauma room one worked together like a well-oiled machine that afternoon, all of them eager to keep you alive. None of them wanted to experience what Robby would have been like if they lost you.
Major blood loss.
Crushed left leg.
Severe lacerations.
Internal bleeding.
Broken ribs.
Punctured lung.
Ruptured spleen.
Head trauma.
Despite all of that, they pulled off the seemingly impossible and kept you stable enough to be sent up to the OR. Everybody thought it best not to argue with Robby when he insisted on going up with you. The entirety of your time in surgery was a haze for Robby. He just stood and watched but he wouldn't have been able to recount anything that was done. His eyes just flickered between your face and your vitals.
After that, every spare moment of his time was spent at your bedside in the ICU. That guilt he'd finally managed to let go of returned. But this time, it was worse. If you died, he wouldn't ever be able to forgive himself for how he'd acted the last time you had seen each other.
It took three days for you to wake up. Three of the most painful days of Michael Robinavitch's life.
He was down in the ED when he got the call.
"She's awake."
That was all he needed before he got in the elevator to head up to the ICU. The elevator moved too slowly for his taste, and about halfway to the ICU floor he started wishing he had just taken the stairs instead.
The nurse sat at the desk at the entrance to the ICU didn't even have to ask him why he was there. Everybody in the unit knew exactly why.
He sent Robby a smile. "She's a fighter."
"Yes, she is." Robby didn't stop his fast stride as he made his way to your bed. He didn't even bother announcing his presence as he wrenched the curtain open.
You looked at him immediately, eyes red. Maybe from crying, maybe from exhaustion, maybe both. Your left leg was wrapped up in a cast and the rest of your body was covered in scrapes and cuts. You were hooked up to several machines monitoring you as well as an IV. You looked like shit. Robby had never been happier to see you.
"Hi." He closed the curtain behind him and sat in the chair next to you, careful not to move too quickly. As if he might spook you.
You watched him move, not speaking until he was settled. "Hi."
"How are you feeling?"
Your nose scrunched. "How do you think I'm feeling?"
Robby shook his head. "Yeah, I'm sorry, that was a stupid question."
You said nothing for a moment. "They told me that I should thank you. That you and the rest of the emergency department brought me back from the brink of death."
Robby wanted to be humble and deny it. But it was true. He was sure the combined willpower of everybody in that trauma room was the only reason you had lived.
"You were..." He trailed off, paused, started again. "Your condition was bad. We stabilised you enough for surgery."
You nodded slowly. "Right. Thank you."
"How much do you remember? Of the accident, I mean?"
"Some of it. I think I got knocked out on impact. But I remember paramedics and firefighters talking to me. I remember the inside of the ambulance. But nothing after that." You inhaled sharply. "What happened to the guy who hit me?"
Robby didn't want to tell you. He didn't want you to know that the guy who had almost killed you was absolutely fine. But he knew he couldn't lie to you. "Broken nose. But other than that, not much else."
You laughed shakily, tears brimming your eyes. "Wow, the universe really does hate me."
"Don't say that."
"Why? It's true."
How was Robby supposed to argue with you? He'd seen it himself over the last few months. Maybe the universe really did hate you with the amount of injuries you got that were completely out of your control. He couldn't argue with you. So he just reached out and took your hand, and sat with you in companionable silence for a while.
Your time in the ICU was unpleasant. People were constantly running to your bedside and fawning over you at every irregular beep of one of the monitors attached to you. Robby visited you as much as he could, but neither of you ever said much. He wasn't much of a talker and you'd lost that spark you'd had every time you had seen him previously. He didn't like it. He wasn't sure whether it had been lost in the crash or if it was gone the last time he saw you. Robby got so worried about you that he even spoke to Caleb to see if he could get someone from psych to see you.
But one day, when Robby went to visit you, he found you gone. This time he had been dead set on pulling a conversation out of you. But when he got to the ICU, he was informed by the nurse at the desk that you had been discharged an hour previously.
"Oh." Robby said, feeling his heart crumbling in his chest. "Okay, thanks for telling me."
And then he left, and ignored the hurt he felt at you leaving without saying goodbye.
Seven months went by without you visiting PTMC. Robby figured that you had found another hospital to frequent. He tried to move on. But he found it more difficult than he thought he would. He hated leaving things unfinished. And everything with you was unfinished.
The last place Robby expected to see you was his favourite second hand bookstore on his day off.
He rounded one of the stacks, a battered copy of Catch-22 grasped in his hands, and stopped. There you were. Browsing the sci-fi section. You looked better. Not a sign of your tragic car accident on you and some of that spark back in you. He debated his options. Did he say hello and freak you out? Or did he turn around and leave like he'd never seen you?
He didn't get the opportunity to decide. Suddenly you turned and looked at him, like you'd sensed his eyes on you. You lit up, a bright smile breaking over your face and bathing Robby in that sunshine feeling he got whenever you looked at him like that.
You abandoned your perusing of books and walked toward him. "Doctor Robby, hi!"
"Hi." He replied, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to say now.
"How are you? It's been so long."
Seven months, he thought. Seven long fucking months.
"I'm good. How are you? Any more injuries?" His gaze flickered over you like he was checking.
"Nothing serious recently. Only a few minor bumps and bruises." You grinned. "I'm sure it'll only be a matter of time before I'm back in your emergency room."
A weird sense of relief rushed through Robby. Both at the knowledge that you hadn't gotten hurt recently and also that you hadn't chosen to start going to another hospital over his.
"That's good. I'm happy to hear it." He paused. "You seem... more yourself."
"Yeah..." You lowered your eyes sheepishly. "I'm sorry about how miserable I was the last time you saw me. I think the accident got to me a little."
"You don't-" He huffed a laugh. "You don't have to apologise for not being happy after being in a car accident."
"Yeah, but you're so nice to me. Always taking care of me when you don't have to and sitting at my bedside. And then I left without even saying goodbye. I'm sorry about that. I felt like a burden."
A burden? That's what you thought of yourself?
It was then at that moment that Robby decided he needed to show you that everything he did for you was so much more than him just being a good doctor.
Come on, Robinavitch. Don't be a coward.
It wasn't like he was asking you out in the middle of the ED. No, this was fine.
He blurted out the question before he could convince himself not to. "Would you like to get a drink with me sometime? Or dinner maybe?"
You stared at him for a moment, like you were waiting for him to say more. A punchline maybe. Then you pointed at yourself. "Me?"
He chuckled. "Yeah, you."
"Oh!" You smiled, bright as always. "Yes. Yes, I would love to."
"Great." He smiled back at you, not as bright but as bright as he could manage.
"Are you sure though? I've been told that my bad luck rubs off on people." Your tone was joking, but Robby could sense an underlying genuineness there.
"That's a risk I'm willing to take."
"Even after I vomited on you?"
"Yes, even after you vomited on me."
"Wow... you must really like me, Doctor Robby." You swayed from side to side, a playful smile on your lips.
"You can drop the 'Doctor'. Just 'Robby' is fine." He insisted. "Also you don't know the half of it."
You brightened exponentially at that. Perhaps your luck was finally changing.
A/N: This occupied my brain for several days so please let me know if you enjoyed!
The realization does not come in some dramatic, cinematic moment, no swelling music or sudden gasp into a mirror, but instead in the quiet, mundane stillness of your bathroom at six in the morning, the kind of early where the world feels paused and the city outside your window has not yet decided to wake up, and you are standing there barefoot on cold tile, staring at a thin plastic stick in your hand like it might suddenly change its mind if you look at it long enough.
You had not meant to take the test today, not really, telling yourself over the past few days that you were just late because of stress, because of the long shifts, because of the way your body sometimes ran on chaos and caffeine instead of anything predictable, but something had nudged at you this morning, something quiet and persistent, and now here you are, heart thudding too loudly in your chest as two unmistakable lines stare back at you.
Pregnant.
The word does not feel real at first, does not settle into your bones the way it should, and you find yourself sitting down slowly on the edge of the bathtub, the test still clutched in your hand as your mind tries to catch up with what your body apparently already knows, and for a moment you simply breathe, long and slow, as the weight of it begins to press in. There is no panic, not exactly, but there is a sharp, dizzying awareness that your life has just shifted on its axis in a way that cannot be undone, and then, almost immediately after, there is Robby.
Of course there is. Your lips press together as you let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, because if there is one thing you know with absolute certainty, it is that this is not something you will face alone, not with him, not ever, and that thought steadies you in a way nothing else could. Still, the idea of telling him sends a flicker of nerves through you, not because you fear his reaction, but because it matters so much, because this moment will live somewhere permanent between the two of you, and you want it to be… right.
You glance down at the test again, then set it carefully on the counter as you push yourself to your feet, already running through possibilities in your head, all the ways you could say it, all the ways you could make it special, and yet nothing feels quite like you.
By the time you leave your apartment, the sun is just beginning to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of gold and pink, and you find yourself driving to the hospital with your hand resting absently over your stomach, as if that small, unconscious gesture might somehow bridge the gap between knowing and believing.
The shift passes in a blur, though you manage it well enough, slipping into your rhythm, your routine, but there is an undercurrent to everything now, a quiet awareness that hums beneath every conversation, every patient interaction, every passing glance at the clock, because you are waiting. Waiting for the moment you see him.
It is late afternoon when it finally happens, the familiar sound of his voice cutting through the noise of the floor before you even spot him, and your head lifts instinctively, eyes searching until they land on him across the room, and there is something about the sight of him that hits you differently now, something deeper, heavier, fuller.
Robby looks tired, you notice immediately, the kind of tired that settles into his shoulders and pulls at the corners of his eyes, but when he catches sight of you, there is that shift, that softening that is just for you, and it warms something in your chest as he makes his way over.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, familiar, as he steps into your space, his hand brushing lightly against your arm in a way that feels grounding, instinctive.
“Hey,” you echo, and for a moment you just look at him, really look at him, and it almost feels like you are holding a secret too big for your own skin.
His brow furrows slightly, picking up on it immediately because of course he does, because he always does. “What’s that look for?”
You shake your head lightly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you step closer, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, and for a second you just breathe him in.
“Nothing,” you murmur, though the word is soft, almost teasing, and it earns you a narrow-eyed look.
“Yeah, no, that’s not nothing,” he says, voice tinged with suspicion but softened by affection, and you can see the faintest hint of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.
“How’s your temper right now?” You ask softly.
“Tempers?” Robby’s eyebrows furrowed. “Fine?”
You tilt your head, studying him for a beat longer, letting the moment stretch just enough, and then you lean in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his lips, the kind that catches him off guard just slightly, his hand coming up to your waist as he leans into it. When you pull back, you do not go far, your lips still close enough to his that your words brush against them when you speak.
“Good,” you say softly.
He blinks, clearly thrown. “Good… what?”
Your smile deepens just a fraction, something almost mischievous flickering in your eyes as you hold his gaze for one more heartbeat, letting the moment hang.
“Because I’m pregnant.”
The words land between you with a quiet finality, simple and unadorned, and for a split second, nothing happens. Robby just stares at you. There is a flicker of something in his expression, something unguarded and raw, like his brain is trying to process what you just said and has not quite caught up yet, and you can almost see the exact moment it does.
“…what?” he breathes, the word barely more than air.
You do not answer him again, not right away, because you can feel your own nerves starting to creep in now that it is out there, now that it is real between the two of you, and instead you simply press one more quick, soft kiss to his lips, your hand sliding briefly along his jaw.
“I’ll meet you after your shift,” you say lightly, as if you did not just alter the course of both of your lives in a single sentence.
And then you step back. And walk away. You do not look back as you go, though you can feel his gaze burning into you, can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tries to catch up, and it is only when you turn the corner that you let out a breath you did not realize you were holding, your hand once again drifting to your stomach.
Behind you, Robby still has not moved. Still standing exactly where you left him, staring after you like the ground has shifted beneath his feet, one hand lifting slowly to drag through his hair as a disbelieving, breathless laugh escapes him.
“Holy shit.”
******
If there is one thing you learn within the first ten minutes of your next shift, it is that telling Robby you are pregnant has fundamentally altered something in his brain.
Not subtly. Not gradually. Immediately.
It starts small enough, almost easy to ignore at first, the way his eyes track you more closely than usual as you move through the floor, the way he appears at your side during your first case without being asked, his presence steady and quiet but unmistakably deliberate, and you tell yourself it is just him processing, just him adjusting, just him being… Robby. Until it isn’t.
“Give me that,” he says about twenty minutes in, already reaching for the chart in your hand before you can respond, his tone calm but firm in a way that makes you blink.
“I’ve got it,” you reply evenly, not pulling it away but not relinquishing it either, your grip steady as you meet his eyes.
“I know you do,” he says, just as evenly, though there is something underneath it now, something tighter, more controlled, “but I’m taking this one.”
You hold his gaze for a beat longer, searching his expression, and what you find there is not doubt in you, not a lack of trust in your ability, but something else entirely, something that makes your chest tighten in a way you do not quite understand yet.
Still, you let him take it. Just this once. Except it is not just once. It happens again in the next case, and the one after that, subtle shifts that anyone else might miss but that you feel acutely, the way he positions himself slightly between you and a combative patient, the way he steps in before you can when things get tense, the way his hand finds your back, your arm, your shoulder, grounding and guiding all at once, as if he needs constant reassurance that you are right there. At first, it is almost… endearing. Almost. Until it starts to grate.
“Robby,” you say quietly an hour later, catching him as he once again intercepts a task you were fully capable of handling, your voice low enough that it does not carry but firm enough that it makes him pause, “I’m fine.”
“I know,” he says again, like a reflex now, but he does not step back.
You exhale slowly, patience thinning just slightly. “Then stop acting like I’m not.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and for a moment you think you might have gotten through, that he might ease off, but then he nods once, short and clipped, and says, “Just let me handle this one.”
Something in you bristles at that, something sharp and instinctive, but you swallow it down, because you are at work, because this is not the place, because you know him, and you know this is not coming from a place of control. It is coming from somewhere else. That understanding, however, does not make it any less frustrating.
By the time your shift ends, the tension has built into something you can no longer ignore, a tight coil in your chest that follows you out into the parking lot, the evening air cool against your skin as you make your way to your car, your steps a little sharper than usual. You hear him before you see him.
“Hey.”
You stop, but you do not turn immediately, closing your eyes for half a second as you gather yourself, and then you pivot to face him, arms crossing over your chest.
“What was that today?” you ask, skipping any pretense of casual conversation, because there is no point.
Robby slows as he approaches, clearly caught off guard by the directness of it, his brows drawing together slightly. “What?”
“You know what,” you reply, your voice still controlled but edged now, frustration bleeding through despite your best efforts, “every case, every patient, you stepping in like I can’t do my job.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” he says immediately, the response quick, almost defensive.
“It is exactly what you were doing,” you counter, taking a step closer, your eyes locked on his, “I’ve been doing this just fine without you hovering over my shoulder.”
“I wasn’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair as he exhales sharply, clearly searching for the right words, and that is when you see it again.
Not frustration. Not anger. Fear. It is subtle, buried under layers of control and composure, but it is there, flickering behind his eyes in a way that makes your own anger falter just slightly.
“I just…” he begins again, slower this time, his voice quieter, more measured, “I need to know you’re okay.”
You stare at him, something in your chest shifting, but you hold your ground. “I am okay.”
“I know,” he says, and there is that word again, but this time it sounds different, heavier, like it is not quite enough on its own, “but it’s not just you anymore.”
The words land softly, but they hit harder than anything else he has said, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.
“I don’t know how to just… turn that off,” he admits after a beat, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours, raw and honest in a way that makes your breath catch, “you told me that, and then I came in today and every worst-case scenario I’ve ever seen just—” he stops himself, jaw tightening, like he does not want to finish that thought out loud.
Your arms loosen where they are crossed over your chest, your anger slipping through your fingers as something else takes its place, something softer, something that aches in a way you were not expecting.
“I’m not fragile, Robby,” you say, though your voice has lost its edge now, gentler, quieter.
“I know you’re not,” he replies immediately, stepping closer, his hands hovering like he wants to touch you but is not sure if he should, “you’re the strongest person I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to care about this.”
About you. About the baby. He does not say it outright, but it is there, threaded through every word, every look, every breath. And something in you cracks.
It is not dramatic, not sudden, but it is there, a shift deep in your chest as the full weight of it settles in, the reality that he is not trying to control you, not trying to undermine you, but trying, maybe a little clumsily, maybe a little too intensely, to protect something that already means everything to him. To both of you. Your throat tightens before you can stop it, your eyes stinging as the emotion sneaks up on you, fast and overwhelming, and you let out a shaky breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.
“Wow,” you murmur, blinking rapidly as you look away for a second, caught off guard by your own reaction, “okay, that’s new.”
Robby’s expression shifts instantly, concern flooding in as he steps fully into your space now, his hands finally settling on your arms. “Hey—what happened?”
You shake your head, a breathless, disbelieving sound escaping you as you swipe at your eyes, the tears already spilling over despite your efforts.
“Nothing, I just—” you let out another small laugh, the absurdity of it hitting you all at once, “you’re being really sweet and now I’m crying in the parking lot like an idiot.”
His brows lift slightly, the tension easing just a fraction as something softer replaces it, something almost amused despite the concern still lingering in his gaze. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Tell that to my face right now,” you mutter, gesturing vaguely to the tears you are very much failing to hide.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, one hand coming up to gently brush under your eye, catching the tear before it falls. “Pretty sure this is my fault.”
“Yeah, it is,” you agree without hesitation, though there is no bite to it, only a fragile sort of warmth that settles between you.
He studies you for a moment longer, something thoughtful passing through his expression, and then he sighs softly, shaking his head like he is making a decision.
“Alright,” he says, his tone shifting into something a little more resolute, “come on.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Come home with me,” he clarifies, his hand sliding down to take yours, his grip firm but gentle, “you’ve had a long shift, you’re crying in a parking lot, and I’m apparently hovering like a psychopath, so we’re done here.”
A small, watery laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re not a psychopath.”
“Debatable,” he mutters, tugging lightly on your hand, and you let him, your resistance gone somewhere between the honesty in his voice and the way he is still holding you like you might slip through his fingers if he lets go.
“Robby—” you start, though you are not entirely sure what you were going to say.
He glances back at you, his expression softening in that way that always undoes you just a little. “Just… let me take care of you tonight, okay?”
The words are simple, but there is something behind them, something steady and unwavering, and you feel that crack in your chest widen just enough to let it in.
You nod. And this time, when he leads you toward his car, you go willingly, your hand tightening slightly in his as the reality of everything settles around you, not heavy, not overwhelming, but… shared. And for the first time since that quiet morning in your bathroom, it feels completely, undeniably real.
******
By the time you reach thirty-two weeks, pregnancy is no longer something soft and abstract, no longer a quiet secret tucked beneath your ribs or a distant reality you can fold neatly into your day, but instead something immediate and consuming, something that lives in your bones and your joints and every aching muscle in your body, a constant, undeniable presence that reminds you with every step, every shift, every breath that you are carrying more than just yourself now.
You are tired in a way that sleep does not fix. Your back aches in a deep, persistent way that stretches from your shoulders down to the base of your spine, your feet throb by the end of every shift no matter how good your shoes are, and there is a heaviness low in your body that makes even the simplest movements feel deliberate, measured, as if your body has started negotiating with gravity and is slowly losing.
Still, you work. Of course you do. Because you are you, because stopping has never come naturally, because even now you refuse to be sidelined, and though your pace has slowed and your patience wears thinner at times, you are still there, still moving, still showing up in a way that makes more than a few people quietly shake their heads in something that looks a lot like respect.
Robby, however, is not one of those people. He watches. Always.
Not in the suffocating, overbearing way he did in those first few days after you told him, not hovering over every case or intercepting every task, but something more refined now, something quieter and far more intentional, his attention settling on you in the spaces between, in the way he tracks the set of your shoulders, the way he notices when you shift your weight too often, when you press your hand to your lower back just a second longer than usual.
It is not constant interference anymore. It is constant awareness. And it is somehow worse.
“Sit down.”
You do not even look up from the chart in your hand as the words land beside you, your jaw tightening slightly as you continue writing. “No.”
There is a pause.
Then, “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, finally lifting your gaze to meet Robby standing beside you, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his expression calm but carrying that familiar edge of quiet insistence.
“I’m in the middle of something,” you reply evenly, though there is a thread of weariness beneath it now, something that betrays you just a little.
“I can see that,” he says, not missing it, not missing anything, “you’ve also been on your feet for the last four hours.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he counters, just as evenly, and there is no bite in it, no argument for the sake of being right, only a simple statement that lands heavier than you want it to.
You hold his gaze for a moment longer, ready to push back, ready to dig your heels in out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else, but then your back twinges sharply, a quick, unwelcome reminder that your body is, in fact, not entirely on your side right now, and your shoulders sag just slightly in response. Robby notices immediately. Of course he does.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, softer now, stepping closer, his voice lowering so it does not carry beyond the two of you, “that’s what I thought.”
You open your mouth to argue anyway, because it is instinct at this point, but before you can get the words out, he moves behind you, his hands settling gently at your hips, firm but careful, like he is always acutely aware of exactly how much pressure to use.
“Robby—”
“Just a second,” he says quietly, and there is something in his tone that makes you pause, something steady and grounding, and before you can question it further, his hands shift slightly, sliding under the curve of your stomach, and then he lifts. Not much.
Not enough to startle or strain, but just enough to take the weight, just enough to ease that constant, dragging pull that has been sitting low in your body for weeks now, and the relief is immediate, unexpected, almost overwhelming in its simplicity. Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it, your eyes closing instinctively as your entire body softens, tension you did not even realize you were holding loosening all at once as you lean back into him.
He adjusts slightly behind you, one arm braced, the other steady, holding you there like it is the most natural thing in the world, his chest warm against your back, his breath brushing lightly against your hair.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You let out a quiet, almost helpless laugh, your head tipping back just enough to rest against his shoulder. “Don’t you fucking move.”
He huffs softly behind you, something that might be a quiet smile pressing into your hair. “Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”
For a moment, the noise of the floor fades, the chaos and movement and urgency slipping into the background as you stand there in the middle of it, held up quite literally by him, and it is such a small thing, such a simple act, but it settles something deep in your chest in a way you were not expecting.
“You should’ve told me it felt like this,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, threaded with something that sounds suspiciously like guilt.
You hum softly, your eyes still closed. “You’ve been busy trying to bubble wrap me.”
“Still am,” he mutters, though there is no real defensiveness behind it, only a quiet admission.
You smile faintly, your hand drifting back to rest over his where it supports you. “I noticed.”
There is a pause, a shift in the air between you, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, more serious.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he says, the words low and deliberate, like he has been holding onto them for a while, “not to me.”
Your chest tightens just slightly at that, because you know what he is really saying, what he has been saying in a hundred different ways over the past few weeks, and for once, you do not argue. You just lean into him a little more.
“I know,” you whisper.
And for now, that is enough.
******
By the time your shift ends, the exhaustion has settled deep into your bones, the kind that makes your movements slower, heavier, your patience thinner, and though you try to brush it off, to maintain your usual rhythm, there is no hiding it from him. There never is. You barely make it through your front door before you are kicking off your shoes with a quiet groan, your bag dropped unceremoniously by the couch as you press a hand into your lower back, eyes squeezing shut against the dull ache that has taken up permanent residence there.
“Sit,” Robby says from behind you, already moving past you toward the kitchen, his tone leaving very little room for negotiation.
You glance over your shoulder, too tired to argue this time, and let yourself sink onto the couch with a soft exhale, your body practically melting into the cushions as the weight finally comes off your feet. There is the sound of him moving around the kitchen, the quiet clink of dishes, the low hum of something being heated, and it is oddly comforting, grounding in a way that settles your frayed edges as you rest your hands over your stomach, absentmindedly tracing the curve of it.
“Hey,” he calls a moment later, his voice softer now, “you need anything?”
You shake your head slightly, even though he cannot see you. “Just you.”
There is a pause.
Then, softer, closer now, “You’ve got me.”
You do not realize you have drifted until the sound of him setting something down pulls you back, your eyes opening slowly as he crouches in front of you, his gaze scanning your face with quiet concern.
“You fell asleep,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Five minutes,” you mutter, your voice thick, though you do not bother denying it.
He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, his touch gentle, familiar. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’m pregnant,” you correct softly, though there is no real disagreement in it.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, his hand lingering just a moment longer before he pushes himself to his feet. “That too.”
“It’s all your fault.” You groan.
“I believe you participated in the act of making this child too,” Robby laughed.
You glanced up at him before reaching out and smoothing his beard down in a sweet caress.
Later, the apartment is quiet. The lights are low, the city outside muted to a distant hum, and you are half-asleep, curled slightly on your side in his bed, one hand tucked under your pillow, the other resting protectively over your stomach as you drift somewhere between waking and dreaming. Robby is beside you, one arm slung loosely over your lower waist, his breathing slow and steady against your back, and for a while, everything feels still. Safe.
Something shifts. It is subtle at first, a strange, unfamiliar sensation low in your body that pulls you from sleep slowly, your brow furrowing as you shift slightly against the sheets, trying to place it. And then it happens again. Stronger this time. Your eyes snap open.
“…Robby,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep as your hand tightens instinctively over your stomach, your body going very still as awareness crashes in all at once.
He stirs behind you, his arm tightening slightly around your waist. “Mm?”
You swallow, your heart suddenly racing as you shift again, feeling it unmistakably now. Warm. Spreading.
“Oh my—” you breathe, the words catching as your pulse spikes, your entire body jolting upright as you look down, the realization hitting you full force, “Robby.”
He’s awake instantly.
“What?” he asks, already pushing himself up, his voice sharp with alertness as his hand comes to your shoulder, turning you toward him, “what’s wrong?”
You look at him, wide-eyed, your breath coming a little faster now as your hand grips his arm.
“My water just broke.”
The words hang in the air between you, heavy and electric, and for a split second, he just stares at you. Processing. Then everything moves at once.
“Okay,” he says quickly, too quickly, already pushing the covers back, his movements suddenly urgent but controlled, “okay, alright—”
You watch him, a strange mix of nerves and disbelief bubbling up in your chest even as adrenaline starts to kick in, your hand still clinging to his as he moves.
“Robby—”
“I’ve got you,” he cuts in immediately, his voice firm now, steadying, his hand tightening around yours as he meets your gaze, grounding you in a way only he can, “we’re okay.”
Your heart pounds, your body caught somewhere between fear and something else entirely, something bigger, something that feels like the edge of a moment you cannot quite wrap your mind around yet. Because this is it. And as Robby helps you to your feet, his hand steady at your side, his presence unwavering, you realize with a sudden, breathless clarity, You are not doing this alone. Not for a single second.
******
The drive to the hospital feels both impossibly fast and unbearably slow, the kind of warped stretch of time where everything sharpens and blurs all at once, and you are dimly aware of the city lights streaking past the windows, of your hand gripping the door handle a little too tightly, of the way Robby keeps glancing at you every few seconds like if he looks away for too long something might change.
Another contraction hits halfway there. It is not like the movies, not some immediate, all-consuming pain that drops you to your knees, but it is stronger than before, deeper, pulling tight across your abdomen and low in your back in a way that steals your breath for a moment, your fingers tightening instinctively as you lean your head back against the seat.
“Okay,” Robby says immediately, his voice shifting into that tone you know so well, the one that is calm and controlled and entirely focused, “talk to me.”
You exhale slowly through your nose, riding it out, your free hand pressing into your stomach. “It’s… stronger.”
He nods once, quick, already adjusting his speed just slightly, not reckless but urgent, every movement precise. “Timing?”
You let out a breath that turns into something dangerously close to a laugh. “I was asleep, Robby, I didn’t start a stopwatch.”
“Fair,” he mutters, though there is a faint huff of relief in it, like grounding himself in something normal matters right now, and then his hand reaches over, finding yours over your stomach without hesitation, squeezing once, firm and steady.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter this time, but no less certain.
And somehow, despite everything, you believe him. By the time you reach the hospital, things are moving. Fast. Not in a chaotic way, not out of control, but with a kind of controlled urgency that hums through the halls as Robby walks you in, his hand at your back, his presence unmistakable as heads turn, as the night shift team clocks in on you both, clocks the situation immediately, as someone calls ahead without even needing to ask.
It is strange, stepping into your workplace like this, shifting roles in an instant, from the one who moves through the chaos to the one at the center of it, and for a moment it feels disorienting, like the ground beneath you has shifted just slightly off-balance. Robby does not let you drift. He stays anchored to you, one hand always on you somewhere, your arm, your back, your hand, his voice cutting through everything else as he answers questions, as he gives information, as he transitions seamlessly between doctor and partner in a way that is almost seamless, almost effortless, except you know him well enough to see the edges of it.
To see the way his jaw tightens just slightly. The way his eyes flick over you again and again, checking, assessing, grounding himself in the fact that you are right there.
“Vitals are stable,” someone says, and you feel hands on you, guiding, moving, the familiar becoming unfamiliar in the strangest way.
“Of course they are,” Robby replies, almost automatically, though his hand tightens around yours just a fraction more, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin in a rhythm that feels intentional, grounding.
Another contraction hits. Harder this time. Your breath stutters, your body tensing instinctively as the pressure builds, stronger and more insistent, and you feel your grip on his hand tighten sharply.
“Hey,” he murmurs immediately, stepping closer, his free hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, forcing your focus back to him, “look at me.”
You do. Because you always do.
“Breathe,” he says softly, his voice low and steady, anchoring you as the wave crests, “in through your nose, slow, and out.”
You follow him, because it is easier than thinking, easier than letting yourself get swept up in the intensity of it, your breath syncing with his as he stays right there, unwavering, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he rides it out with you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, quieter now, softer, “you’re doing so good.”
The praise lands somewhere deep in your chest, unexpected and grounding all at once, and when the contraction finally eases, your body sagging just slightly as the tension releases, you let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anything.
“Yeah,” he echoes, his hand still steady against your face, his eyes locked on yours, “okay.”
Time stops meaning anything after that. It stretches and folds in strange ways, marked only by contractions and brief moments of rest in between, each wave pulling you deeper into something you cannot quite describe, something raw and consuming and entirely beyond your control, and through it all, Robby is there. He does not leave your side. Not once.
He moves with you, adjusts with you, his presence constant and unwavering as he balances everything, his medical mind sharp and precise as he tracks your progress, as he speaks quietly with the staff, as he ensures that everything is exactly as it should be, but always, always returning to you.
“Drink this,” he says at one point, pressing a cup gently to your lips, his hand steady as you take a few small sips, your throat dry, your body aching in ways you did not know were possible.
You nod faintly, too focused on the next wave building low in your body to say anything more, and he sees it immediately.
“Alright,” he murmurs, setting the cup aside, his hand finding yours again just in time as the contraction hits, sharper now, stronger, pulling a strained sound from your throat as your fingers tighten around his.
“I know,” he says softly, his voice right there, steady and sure even as yours falters, “I know, stay with me.”
Your head tips forward, your forehead pressing briefly against his shoulder as you breathe through it, your entire world narrowing down to the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand, the rhythm of your breath.
“I can’t—” you start, the words slipping out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered.
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in immediately, not harsh, not dismissive, but firm in a way that leaves no room for doubt, his hand tightening around yours, anchoring you, “you are, you already are.”
You shake your head weakly, overwhelmed, the intensity of it crashing over you in waves that feel too big, too much, and for a moment you feel like you might get lost in it.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, his hand coming back to your face, grounding you, pulling you back to him, “look at me.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his, and there is something there that steadies you instantly, something unwavering and fierce and entirely focused on you.
“Stay with me,” he repeats quietly.
And you do.
******
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. You cannot tell anymore. Everything blurs together into a cycle of pain and breath and his voice, always his voice, guiding you through it, grounding you when you feel like you might slip, holding you steady when everything else feels like it is spinning.
“You’re close,” he tells you at some point, his tone shifting, something like awe threading through it now, something that makes your chest tighten even as your body strains, “you’re so close.”
“I don’t feel close,” you manage weakly, your voice strained, your body trembling with the effort of it all.
He huffs out the faintest hint of a laugh, his forehead pressing briefly against yours. “I know, but you are, I promise.”
Another contraction builds. Stronger than anything before it. Your grip on his hand tightens painfully, your body bearing down instinctively as the pressure becomes something else entirely, something that demands everything you have.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice right there, unwavering even as the moment peaks, “that’s it, just like that—”
You let out a strained sound, somewhere between a cry and a breath, your entire body focused on pushing through it, on following his voice, his guidance, his steady presence.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, louder now, firmer, his other hand bracing you, supporting you, “you’re doing it, stay with me—”
And then everything shifts. There is a sudden, overwhelming release, a sharp inhale that tears from your lungs as the pressure breaks, your body sagging forward as the world seems to tilt for just a second, your ears ringing faintly as everything catches up.
For a moment, there is nothing. And then….
A cry. Sharp. Strong. Real.
Your eyes snap open, your breath catching as the sound cuts through everything, through the exhaustion, through the haze, through the disbelief, and you look at Robby immediately, your heart pounding. His expression is something you have never seen before.
Something open. Something undone. Something so full it almost doesn’t fit on his face.
“You did it,” he breathes, the words rough, almost disbelieving as his gaze flicks from you to the baby and back again, his hand still wrapped tightly around yours like he cannot quite let go, “you did it.”
Your throat tightens, emotion rising fast and overwhelming as you let out a shaky breath, your entire body trembling now not from effort but from something else entirely.
“Is—” you start, your voice barely holding, “is—”
“They’re perfect,” he says immediately, his voice steady again, but softer now, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache, “he’s perfect.”
Tears spill over before you can stop them, your vision blurring as relief and disbelief and something so much bigger crash over you all at once, your hand tightening in his. Robby leans down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his breath uneven now for the first time since this started.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, softer than before, like a promise he intends to keep long after this moment fades.
And this time, it is not just about getting through it. It is about what comes after. And as the sound of your baby’s cry fills the room, you realize with a breathless, overwhelming certainty, You never had to do any of it alone. Not for a single second.
******
The room is quieter now, though not silent, because silence no longer exists in the same way it used to, replaced instead by softer sounds, the steady hum of machines, the distant movement of staff in the hallway, and most importantly, the small, uneven breaths of the tiny life now resting against your chest, warm and impossibly real.
You feel different. Not just physically, though your body is heavy and sore in a way that settles deep into your bones, every muscle reminding you of what it just did, but something deeper than that, something harder to name, like the very center of you has shifted and expanded all at once, making room for something you did not fully understand until this moment. Your hand trembles slightly as it rests over the baby’s back, your fingers barely moving, almost afraid that too much pressure might somehow break the fragile perfection beneath your palm, and yet at the same time you cannot seem to stop touching him, grounding yourself in the reality that your baby boy is here. That this is real.
“He’s got your stubbornness already,” a quiet voice murmurs beside you, low and warm and achingly familiar, and you turn your head just slightly to find Robby sitting close, closer than he has been allowed to be for most of the last hour, his posture angled toward you like he cannot quite bring himself to create any distance.
You huff out the faintest, tired laugh, your eyes flicking back down to the baby as he shifts slightly, a small, soft sound escaping them that makes your entire chest tighten. “That’s not a trait I’m eager to pass on.”
He hums quietly, his hand coming up to brush lightly over the baby’s back where yours rests, his touch careful, reverent, like he is still calibrating the reality of it. “Might come in handy.”
Your lips twitch faintly at that, though your eyes sting just slightly, the emotion still sitting too close to the surface, and for a moment neither of you speaks, both of you simply… looking. Taking it in. You do not realize how quiet he has gone until you glance up at him again, and when you do, something in your chest shifts.
Robby is not looking at the baby. He is looking at you. Not casually, not absentmindedly, but with a focus so intense it almost takes your breath away, his eyes tracing your face like he is memorizing it, like he is trying to commit this exact moment to memory in a way that will never fade.
“What?” you murmur softly, your voice still rough around the edges, the word barely more than a breath.
He shakes his head slightly, like he does not quite trust himself to speak right away, his hand sliding from the baby to your wrist, his fingers curling gently there, grounding himself.
“You…” he starts, then pauses again, his jaw tightening just slightly as something flickers across his expression, something raw and unguarded and entirely unlike the composed control he holds everywhere else, “you were incredible.”
The words are simple. But they land like something heavier. You let out a small, breathless laugh, shaking your head faintly as you glance back down at the baby, your fingers adjusting instinctively to keep them close.
“I cried in a parking lot like three months ago because you held my stomach for five seconds.”
He huffs softly, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth, but it fades quickly, replaced by something steadier, deeper, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin where he still holds your wrist. “That doesn’t change anything.”
You swallow, your throat tightening as you look back up at him, really look at him now, at the exhaustion lining his face, at the faint crease between his brows that has not quite smoothed out, at the way his eyes are still just a little too bright.
“You didn’t leave,” you say softly, the realization settling more fully now that everything else has quieted, that there is space to feel it, to acknowledge it.
He blinks, like the statement catches him off guard, like it had never even occurred to him that it might be noteworthy. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I know,” you whisper, and that is the thing, the part that makes your chest ache in a way that feels almost too big to hold, “I know, I just… you didn’t.”
Through every contraction, every moment you thought you might break, every second where the world narrowed down to pain and breath and survival, he had been there, steady and unwavering, never once stepping back, never once letting you drift too far from him. You feel your eyes sting again, emotion rising up fast and sudden, and you let out a shaky breath as you shake your head slightly, overwhelmed in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
“Hey,” he murmurs immediately, shifting closer, his free hand coming up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye as if he can physically catch the tears before they fall, “none of that.”
You laugh weakly, the sound catching in your throat as a tear slips free anyway.
“I just—” you trail off, your voice faltering, because there are too many things, too many feelings, too many words that do not quite line up the way you need them to.
He does not push. He never does. Instead, he leans in just slightly, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his hand still steady at your face, grounding you in a way that feels instinctive now, familiar in the best possible way.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice softer than you have ever heard it, stripped of everything except the truth of it, “I know.”
And somehow, that makes it worse. Or better. You are not entirely sure. Because your chest tightens painfully, your hand tightening instinctively over the baby as a soft, broken sound escapes you, and before you can think better of it, before you can overanalyze or pull yourself back, you lean into him.
Really lean. Your forehead pressing harder against his, your free hand reaching for him, gripping at the front of his shirt like you need something solid to hold onto as everything else shifts and settles around you. For a second, he stills. Then his arms come around you. Careful. Deliberate. One arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other bracing gently at your back, mindful of the baby between you, but pulling you close all the same, anchoring you against him in a way that feels both protective and grounding all at once.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs again, the words quieter now, softer, but no less certain, his cheek brushing lightly against your temple as he holds you there.
You breathe him in, the familiar scent of him cutting through everything else, steadying you in a way nothing else could, and for a moment you just stay there, the three of you caught in this small, quiet pocket of time that feels separate from everything else. Eventually, you shift slightly, enough to look back down at the baby, your hand moving instinctively to adjust the blanket around them, your fingers brushing lightly over their tiny arm, their impossibly small fingers curling instinctively in response. Your breath catches.
“He’s really here,” you whisper, the words almost disbelieving, like you are still trying to catch up to it.
Robby’s hand settles over yours, covering it completely, warm and steady.
“Yeah,” he says softly, his voice laced with something that sounds a lot like awe, “he is.”
You glance up at him again, something quiet and certain settling into your chest now, something that feels different from everything before it, deeper, steadier.
“We did this,” you say, your voice stronger this time, more certain.
He meets your gaze, something shifting in his expression, something that mirrors what you feel in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly.
“Yeah,” he echoes, his thumb brushing lightly over your hand, his grip tightening just enough to remind you he is still right there, “we did.”
There is a pause. A quiet one. And then, almost without thinking, you lean in. Your lips brushing his. Soft and gentle. Not urgent, not desperate, but something else entirely, something grounded and real and filled with everything you cannot quite put into words, your hand still resting over the baby between you as you kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Like he always does. Like he needs that half a heartbeat to catch up to you. And then he melts into it. Careful of you, careful of the baby, but there all the same, his hand tightening slightly at your back as he kisses you back just as softly, just as deliberately, like he understands exactly what this moment is.
When you pull back, it is not far. It never is. His forehead rests against yours again, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment neither of you speaks. There is no need to. Because everything that matters is already there. In the way he holds you. In the way your hand covers the baby. In the way the three of you exist in this small, quiet space, the world outside momentarily forgotten.
And as you close your eyes, your body finally beginning to relax, the exhaustion pulling at you now that everything has settled, you feel his hand tighten just slightly around yours, his presence steady and unwavering at your side. Exactly where he has always been. Exactly where he always will be.
Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,
Word Count: 14.3k
A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams
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9:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.
There’s something different in his posture here—less sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.
“Baran… is this you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away.
“It began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,” she says evenly. “They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.” A small pause. “No one’s ever noticed before. They just think I’m thoughtful.”
Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. “Are you driving?”
“I couldn’t,” she answers. “Not until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.” Her voice stays clinical and practiced. “Between that and the Keppra, I’ve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicing—everything.”
He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. “How long between the seizure you had today and the last one?”
“It’s been well over a year.” She hesitates slightly. “But I had two today.” Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.
“I don’t know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.” A breath. “I haven’t had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.”
Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.
“What are your options now?” he asks.
Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. “Up my Keppra,” she says. “Or try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.”
“And if that doesn’t work…” She swallows. “Temporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.”
Robby nods slowly, “You need to disclose this.” There’s no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.
“I know,” she replies. “I have a plan.”
The door cracks open behind them.
“Hey, Robby.” Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. “Ducky and Dana are looking for you. They’re in Peds.”
Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. “Sounds like you’re needed in Peds,” she says. “And I have patients to see.”
There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.
For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heard— and everything still waiting for him.
Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. “Robby—” Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. “Pregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Find Abbot or one of the night shift residents.”
By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things he’s carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Peds… toward you.
PEDES — NIGHT
Pediatrics feels like a different world. Quieter. Softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.
The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.
Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.
You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.
Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”
You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. Not logically. Not something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.
A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.
It’s gone as quickly as it comes.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.
You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”
She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks, “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”
Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”
“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”
Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”
You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.
“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”
He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“Screw you!”
Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”
Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything.
You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”
Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”
You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.
You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.
Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.
At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.
Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”
In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”
Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”
“Hooah!”
The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.
Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.
Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”
Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”
Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”
Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”
Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”
Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.
Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”
Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”
Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”
Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”
Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.
You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.
You follow, again.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. “Best I can do under the circumstances.”
Robby shakes Duke’s hand, “Thank you.” Then quieter, “Hey. Don’t leave before I get back, yeah?”
Duke smirks, “Hell, I feel like I live here now.” He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why you’re lurking here, and protects it.
Jack nods toward the bike, “Your friend fixing it?”
“Ambulance clipped it while it was parked here today.”
Jack stares. “Jesus Christ. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”
Robby’s face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. “Here’s the thing.” He steps closer. “When people worry about you…” His voice softens. “…it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I don’t like worrying about things.”
Robby scoffs, “Ooh. Now you’re a shrink?”
Jack doesn’t bite, “No. I’m trying to be your friend.” A pause. “You got— you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.”
His eyes sharpen. “And Ducky—” he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you stand— “—thinks you’re withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Dana’s got her own issues. So does Ducky.”
Jack lifts a brow, “That sounds like projection.”
And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. “Are you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?” He gestures at him. “I’m not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.”
Then, mockingly— “Hooah.”
Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it weren’t so bad.
Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. “Hey, Dr. Robby!” Medic Nguyen is already unloading. “This is Judith Lastrade—thirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.”
Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. “Judith, I’m Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?”
Robby’s fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. “Pitting edema with severe preeclampsia.” He looks up sharply. “Where are you doing prenatal care?”
The woman grimaces, “Nowhere.” A breath. “It’s a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.
Oh no.
You choose that exact moment to step through the doors— making a show of only just arriving. “Oh—what’ve we got?” As if you weren’t just listening to them tear at each other outside.
As if your heart isn’t still pounding, like you didn’t hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always are—too white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.
You’re helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know you’re pushing too hard. “You sure you wanna get in on this?” he asks. “You’re going on hour fifteen.”
There’s concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like it’s nothing. “Bridget texted me. She’ll be here soon.” You secure the belts over Judith’s abdomen, hands steady. “I’ll help with this and then go home.”
You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, “CTG is on.”
Judith turns her head weakly toward you. “CTG?”
At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, “Cardiotocography.” His hand gestures toward the machine. “Measures the baby’s heart rate and checks for contractions.”
Jack glances at the screen, “Fetal heart rate 128.” He looks toward Nazely. “Normal range?”
Nazely answers immediately, “110 to 160.”
Judith’s eyes dart, “So the baby’s okay?”
Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, “Right now, yes.” He nods toward the tracing. “One twenty-eight is reassuring.”
Mateo calls out from the pump. “BP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.” Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.
It catches in your chest. But then— Jack’s voice pulls him back. “Your next move, Crus?”
“Twenty of labetalol,” Crus says. “IV push over two minutes.”
Judith looks panicked now. “What’s happening?” Nazely steps closer. “You have a condition called preeclampsia.”
Judith blinks rapidly. “And how did it happen?”
Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. “Uh…” A breath. “Nobody really knows, actually.” He gestures gently. “It affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.”
Judith looks stricken. “Okay, well… it’s a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.”
Robby’s head tilts, something almost incredulous. “Then why are you here?”
Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, “I just need to get rid of this headache.”
Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.
You take this.
I know.
Jack steps in, gentler. “Well… if we don’t lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium…” He chooses his words carefully. “There can be problems.”
Judith whispers, “Like what?”
Crus doesn’t sugarcoat, “Seizures, bleeding, even death.” He glances at her belly. “For you and the baby.”
Her face crumples, “Oh my God.”
The door swings open, and Dana is there, “Robby—your VIP’s ready to go.”
Robby nods, “Ok, I'll be right there.” Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. “You good?”
Jack nods, “Yeah, I’m good.” A crooked grin. “I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe one eye.” He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it.
Then Jack turns. “Hey—” To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robby’s already gone, out the door as if he couldn’t stand still another second.
And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you can’t quite name, only recognize.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re adjusting Judith’s tubing, checking the IV line hasn’t infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. “How’s the headache?”
Judith’s face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Still a ten.” Crus looks up from the medication tray. “More fentanyl?”
Jack is near the glass doors, though he’s only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didn’t just disappear into the night, again.
“Yep,” Jack says absently.
Crus nods, “BP’s good. Another fifty.” He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesn’t relax.
“Hey, Abbot.”
Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. “Attending and resident are stuck in the OR.”
Jack gives a crooked grin. “Oh, you’re the next best thing.” Sam arches a brow. “Better, some would say.”
Jack hums. “Mm.” There’s affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. “What do you got?”
Nazely answers quickly. “This is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.”
Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. “Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.”
She immediately panics, “No, no, no.” Judith recoils. “Ultrasound can harm the baby.”
Jack answers before anyone else can. “Not true.” Crus, already uncapping gel, “Not doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.” Judith’s breath catches. Then, smaller, “Okay. Just do it as fast as you can.”
Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.
Sam watches the image. “Why no prenatal care, Judith?”
Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.“I wanted a free birth.” She says it like a creed. “No doctors. No hospital. No medicine.”
Jack lifts a brow. “You have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No. I don’t need one.” She says it almost stubbornly. “Women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
Jack’s mouth tilts, dry as ever. “Yeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.”
The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. “Femur length seven centimeters.”
Sam watches the image. “Thirty-seven weeks.” She glances at Jack. “They’ll probably induce.”
Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. “What?” Her fear sharpens. “No. No, no, no, no.” Head shaking. “Absolutely not.”
Jack steps closer, at eye level now. “At thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.” His voice lowers. “We need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
Judith looks horrified. “No. No, no.” Her hands clutch the sheet. “Mm-mm.”
Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe you’ll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when he’s thinking three things at once.
Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your mother’s hand around yours. Or maybe a memory you’ve spent years trying not to touch.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
You’re at Judith’s side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. “BP’s 164 over 114.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Another forty of labetalol.” And Crus is already moving. “Mag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.”
Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. “Labs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.”
Jack looks over, and there’s instant recognition. “HELLP syndrome.”
Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,“Hemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.”
Sam is already on the phone with OB. “They’re cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.”
Jack leans toward Judith, “How you doing, Judith?”
Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. “I—I—”
Nazely sees it first, “Oh—she’s seizing.” Judith’s body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.
“Shit.” Jack moves instantly. “Ten of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.”
You’re already protecting Judith’s head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.
Sam stares at the tracing, “With all the movement, we can’t get a fetal heartbeat.”
Crus reaches for oxygen. “Putting on fifteen liters by mask.”
The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. “Should we intubate?”
Jack shakes his head, “Hold intubation. Let’s try to break this. We don’t want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.” His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. “Crus, CTG isn’t reading. Check with ultrasound.”
“On it.”
Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Nazely—what’s the diagnosis?” He’s still teaching even now.
Nazely swallows, “With the seizure… Now it’s eclampsia.”
Jack gives one hard nod.
Crus studies the ultrasound, “Fetal heart rate about ninety.” Sam’s face drops at that, “Way too low.” Another layer of emergency.
Mateo checks pulse ox, “Mom’s sats are going down.”
The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. “Time to tube her?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, “Set up for it—but wait.”
He’s still trying to buy her one more chance, “One more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.”
Judith’s breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.
You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. “Pulse ox is eighty-eight.”
Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. “Dr. Abbot? Intubate?”
Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then he’s reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. “Let’s do it.”
He turns to Nazely, “Nazely—what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?”
She answers quickly, nerves showing, “Etomidate and roc.”
Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. “Mm. Not quite.” He reaches for the airway tray. “One-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.”
He looks toward Crus, “Why is that?”
Crus doesn’t miss it, “Propofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.”
Jack agrees. “Exactly.”
Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.
Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isn’t. You announce, “Pushing the propofol.”
White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.
Sam is already repositioning, “Once she’s flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.”
Jack gestures to Nazely, “That’s you.” He motions with both arms. “Big hug. Both arms.”
Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judith’s gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.
Jack nods. “Get the baby off the vena cava.”
Mateo glances at the meds, “Sux is on board.” Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.
Nazely, still thinking aloud, “But after she’s paralyzed, the seizing stops… right?”
Jack is checking laryngoscope light, “It might look like that.” He looks at her. “But an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.”
Nazely blinks, “Is there time for that?” Jack’s mouth pulls to one side. “Wait and see.”
Judith’s jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, “Paralytics kicked in.”
Crus steps in, “Let’s go.”
The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. “Intubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.” Then his voice lowers. “I need first-pass success.”
Crus replies aptly, “You and me both.”
The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judith’s chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.
Crus studies the screen. “Good lung sliding bilaterally.”
Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, “Fetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “Roll her to the left again. That can help.”
Mateo’s already at the rail. “One, two, three.” On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.
Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. “Okay.” A glance to the monitor. “All set here.”
Mateo checks the hookup. “EEG monitor’s good to go.”
Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. “That was fast.”
Jack doesn’t answer; he’s already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. “Still seizing while paralyzed. It’s nonconvulsive status.”
The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether they’re needed.
Shen comes straight in. “What’s she had so far?”
Jack rattles it off from memory. “Thirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.”
Ellis exhales. “Damn.” She looks at him. “What’s your next step?”
Jack turns. “Any ideas? Hmm? Nazely?” He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. “Dilantin? Valproate?”
Jack tilts his head. “Mm.” Not dismissive, but thinking. “Infusion’s too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. That’s had results with refractory status.”
Crus adds, still watching labs.“She also has HELLP syndrome—hemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.”
Shen already pivoting. “Two units whole blood?”
Jack doesn’t falter, “O-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.” You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.
Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, “Uh, put the AP pads on, just in case.”
Jack nods. “And ten of Decadron IV push.” His eyes never leave Judith. “For the inflammatory storm.”
You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.
Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. “Fetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.”
A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, “Little better.”
Shen mutters, “Yeah. She should be upstairs with OB.”
Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. “She will be.” A beat. “After we break this seizure.”
The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. “There’s been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.”
Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. “OB says send her up. They have an OR ready.”
Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, “About time.” But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.
He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.
Sam’s voice cuts through. “Baby’s been bradying down a bit more.”
Robby takes in the room in one sweep, “This one looks like it took a turn for the worse.”
Jack doesn’t look away from the monitors. “Eclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.”
Shen mutters darkly, “About as bad as it gets.” And then—an alarm screams. Sam’s head snaps up. “V-fib.”
Jack’s voice cracks through it, “Chest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.” Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robby’s already moving, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.” Commands flying like sparks.
Mateo at the defib. “Charged. Clear.”
Shock, and Judith’s body jolts. Shen says, “Continue compressions. We’ll check rhythm in a minute.”
Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. “Gown up.” Then he turns to his best friend, “Robby, it’s you and me.”
Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Another nurse masks Jack.
The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.
Mother.
Baby.
Both slipping.
Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. “What’s the four-minute rule?”
Nazely, breathless—“Uh… not sure.”
Crus answers over the chaos. “Pregnant patient with a viable fetus—four minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.”
Jack corrects gently but firmly, “And the mom. We don’t call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It’s a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
Nazely, horrified, “But she doesn’t want medical intervention—”
Robby cuts in. “That doesn’t matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” He looks to the monitor. “Charge to two hundred.”
“One more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.” He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.
Come now.
Now.
“Ellis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.”
Crus checks. And she’s still V-fib. Mateo announces, “Clear.” Shock.
Ellis scans Judith and sighs, “No change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.”
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. “Okay, showtime.” And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.
You secure Robby’s mask from behind. Another nurse does Jack’s.
Jack’s voice low, urgent. “We need to get this baby out right now.”
Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her, “Take a break.”
Robby holds out his hand. “Ten blade.” You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.
And as he cuts—he teaches. “First incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis…” Steel through skin. “…through skin to linea alba.”
There’s blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. “Units three and four running.”
Robby deeper now, “Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.”
McKay rushes in. “Where do you need me?” Shen replies, “You’re with the baby. Nazely bags. You’re on suction. Stand by for intubation.”
Sam begins, “Bladder retractors.”
Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, “Neonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.”
Jack leans in, “Ellis, gentle traction.” Small vertical uterine incision. “Okay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.
Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.
Jack looks to Robby.
“Got it?”
Robby doesn’t look up.
“Yep. I got it.”
“Okay.”
His gloved hands are steady despite everything.
“Using scissors to extend superiorly.”
Metal slides.
Tissue parts.
Blood glistens under the trauma lights.
Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.”
Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, “Amniotic fluid looks good.”
Robby shifts, “Give me some fundal pressure.” Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, “Breech position.”
A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robby’s voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. “Baby’s out.” Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a girl.”
And suddenly there she is— wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robby’s hands. Fragile as a held breath.
Jack works fast, “Milking the cord.”
Sam—“Clamping.”
Jack nods, “Cutting.” And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. “Okay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.” A quick glance. “You ready?”
And then—“Yeah. You got her.”
At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. “I got it, yep.” His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. “Poor tone. No movement.”
McKay steps closer, “Keep the blow-by closer.” Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. “She’s really blue.”
McKay doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Some blue is normal. But not this much.” Nazely’s fear slips out, “Do we need to intubate?”
Shen shakes his head. “Not yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.”
At Judith’s bedside—Robby keeps moving, no room to stop. “Okay, removing the placenta.”
Jack’s hand sweeps. “Sweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.”
Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, “Looks intact.”
You nod. “It does.”
Robby, breath tight—“Yeah.”
Sam murmurs, “Nicely done.”
As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, “Ten IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.” Ellis already massaging the fundus. “And lots of massage.” Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.
At the warmer, Sophie calls out, “Heart rate seventy-six.” Shen moves, “Less than a hundred means we bag.”
“Suction first.”
McKay, “Okay.”
Back at the bed, Robby doesn’t even turn. “Hey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.” Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.
McKay, breathless, says, “She grimaced.” Her voice lifts. “Good sign.” While Shen starts ventilation. “Bagging.”
Sophie communicates to the other doctors, “Pulse ox forty-five.” Nazely nearly chokes. “I’ve never seen it that low.”
Shen doesn’t panic. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.”
“Okay.”
Crus remarks, “Rhythm check.”
“Hold compressions.”
Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, “Still V-fib.” Jaw tight. “Okay. Shock it.”
Jack asserts procedure, “Clear.” The shock lands. “Resume compressions.” Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, “Shen, how’s she doing over there?” And Shen answers, “Heart rate’s up to one-oh-four.”
McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. “Uh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.” She looks up. “APGAR of five.”
Jack doesn’t waver, still working on the mom. “Five out of ten. Not great.”
Sophie reads off the device, “Pulse ox fifty-eight.”
Nazely asks, “Intubation?” But Shen shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.” McKay watches the monitor, “Her heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.”
And Shen—God bless him—actually smiles. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing. A little tincture of time.”
Back on Judith—Robby commands, “Hold compressions.” Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, “Looks like sinus.”
You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. “Can’t feel a carotid.”
Jack shakes his head, “No.”
Crus reads what everyone fears. “Heart’s barely pumping. It’s PEA.”
Jack gives directions, “Back on compressions.” And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, “Two more units. She needs red cells and platelets.”
Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. “Ongoing blood loss from uterus.” Then to you— “Give me all the lap pads we’ve got.”
You hand over two thick batches. And watch—almost disbelieving—as Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.
Trying—again—to keep death from taking what it came for.
Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.
Crus glances at the rapid infuser. “Units five and six are in.” Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.
Ellis has both hands still working at Judith’s abdomen, pressure steady. “Down to a slow ooze here.”
Jack watches the monitor. “Hold compressions.”
Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.
“Looks like sinus…” You press harder. “And I got a weak carotid.”
Robby turns so fast it’s almost a snap. “Okay.” His voice rough, “Cycle the BP.” Crus watches the echo. “Better filling. Better squeeze.”
Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. “No seizure activity.”
Robby nods, as if he’s afraid to trust it, “That’s progress.” A breath, then again, softer. “That’s progress.” As if saying it twice might make it true.
At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, “We’re at five minutes.”
McKay reading monitors. “Heart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.” She glances at Nazely. “The APGAR?”
Nazely, breathless and trying to think, “One off for color… One off for tone… One off respiration with hypoxia…” She looks up. “Total of seven.”
McKay corrects automatically. “Respiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.” Shen nods, “Sat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no crying…” He glances at the baby. “She still gets one off.”
Nazely, absorbing it, “Yeah.”
And then—it happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Then—a cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaking.
Because of all the sounds this hospital makes—alarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.
McKay laughs, actually laughs. “Ah!” She grins. “She just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.”
Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasn’t sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.
Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurts— “Holy shit. What did I miss?”
Jack, deadpan even now, “Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.”
Pettyfer blinks. “I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.”
Jack shrugs, “Shit happens fast down here.” Crus, almost proud despite himself, “Resuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.” Pettyfer stares. “Impressive.”
Understatement of the century.
You check the pressure, “BP one-oh-two over sixty-four.” A pause. “Hemoglobin up to nine.”
Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.
He steps aside, removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent. He moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of his—“That’ll do.”
He’s a man pretending this didn’t just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.
“NICU’s sending a team down,” Mateo says.
Pettyfer nods.“We can take Mom.”
Then, looking around the room—blood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, “You guys are rock stars.”
Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. “We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.”
A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, there’s room for stupid jokes. Maybe that’s survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Life in motion as if a woman hadn’t nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadn’t been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.
Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.
He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasn’t realized the crisis is over.
“If you’re not careful,” he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, “you’re gonna get stuck here all night.”
Dana is sorting forms, “Nah. Henny said she’d be here in thirty minutes.” Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, “How’s Mom and baby?”
For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. “Whew.” A breath of relief dressed up as a word. “They’re both gonna go upstairs.”
Dana’s shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. “Good.” And quieter—genuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. “You leaving now?”
Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesn’t really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. “Yeah. Pretty soon.” The list starts, “I gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.” He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. “I gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in there… And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.”
All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.
Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That he’ll keep finding reasons not to walk out. “You missed Langdon. He just checked out.”
Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. “Shit.”
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.
Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitaker’s hand. “My cell phone,” he says, tapping the paper. “And the building manager’s. He can help if there’s any emergencies.”
Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. “Yeah…” he says, squinting. “What kind of emergencies?”
Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. “Whatever.” Then, almost as an afterthought— “And follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?”
Whitaker nods quickly. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. Then more carefully—“You, um…” He hesitates. “You sure about this?”
Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, he’s spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. “I trust you, Whitaker.”
Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. “Great,” he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.
Robby half-smiles. “Any questions?”
Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, “Uh… when are you back, exactly?”
Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. “You know… I’ll text you. I’m trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.”
Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. “I think this is your ride.”
Whitaker turns. “Yeah—uh, yes.” Then, earnestly all over again, “I promise I’ll check in on your house tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.”
A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. Then—“Hey.” The driver’s door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.
“Hey.” Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. “Okay…” He sets down his backpack. “Hey, Theo. You’re up late, huh? What you got there?”
Amy buckles in. “He’s been fussy all day. I think he’s got another tooth coming in.”
Whitaker lights up, “Aww.” He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. “Right on, big guy. Ready to get funky?” He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.
Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone else’s windshield, then it’s gone.
Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.
Robby glances over. “Hey.”
She looks up. “Hey.”
He nods toward the phone. “Any luck picking an elective?”
She exhales, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into geriatrics.”
He gives a small approving hum, “It’s a smart choice.” Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, “I know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesn’t work out the way you expected.”
Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasn’t said it aloud before. “I thought I’d be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.” A ghost of a smile. “We’d play hockey on it in the winter.”
He laughs once through his nose. “And yet…” He gestures to himself. “Look at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.”
Samira says softly—“It’s never too late.” And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.
Robby looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Yeah.” She means it. He studies her. Then—“Only for me… or for you too?”
Samira huffs a little, caught. “Okay.” A tiny smile. “I see what you did there. Was that true… Or something you just said to make a point?”
Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.
The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. “Have you worked things out with your mom?”
Samira’s face closes some. “We’re not talking.” Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. “I am sorry… that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.” She swallows, and then, with more feeling, “Have a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.”
A tiny beat, before she adds, “Even if you can be a dick sometimes.” It startles a small laugh out of him.
“Good luck.”
Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, “You too.”
He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when they’re watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.
Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, “Come on,” when the system lags.
There’s something oddly soothing about it.
You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. “Hey, I didn’t think you were still here.” Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, he’s stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tired— more than tired. Frayed. “I was just talking to the neurologist on call.”
Robby studies her, “And?”
“We had a nice chat,” she says. “She agrees I can work with double coverage.” Something in Robby’s face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robby’s voice lowers, too controlled. “That’s not her call to make. You can’t do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.”
Al-Hashimi’s jaw sets. “I agree.” But already they’re moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.
“But ninety percent of our patients don’t require critical procedures,” Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. “And the ones that do?”
She folds her arms, “They’ll be handled by whoever’s working with me.”
“Unless they’re tied up with a critical patient.” He steps closer, “What if it's a double or triple trauma?”
“Robby,” she says through her teeth, “I can handle it.”
“No.” Sharp, and immediate. “You can’t. And I can’t let you.”
Her voice rises. “I am fully capable of handling—”
“No, you are not fully capable, and you know it.”
Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.
While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. “You’re okay.”
You blink hard, then swallow. “What’s going on?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Who’s shouting?”
Jack glances past his monitor. “Robby and Al are going at it in Central Six.” You both look. Through the glass—they are inches from a screaming match.
“What do you want from me?” Al-Hashimi demands.
Robby doesn’t soften. “I want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.”
Her anger flashes, “I am cleared for my driver’s license.”
“You shouldn’t be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, we’d have to report you.”
She explodes, “I am not your fucking patient.”
The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. “No—but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable.”
“That is not your fucking call!”
Then he shouts—voice echoing off glass—“You’re fucking-A right it’s my call!” Robby points toward the floor. “I'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.”
Al-Hashimi’s face scrunches up in anger. “Oh, ‘my department,’ ‘my patients.’” A bitter laugh. “All you fucking think about is yourself. You didn’t rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.”
Robby doesn’t flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. “No. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.” His voice is sure now. “And the same goes for you.”
He points toward her, “You’ve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.”
The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.
Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. “Ready to watch the fireworks?”
The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasn’t already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. “Can you make sure Robby…” You don’t finish, because don’t have to.
Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. “I got him.” Then softer— “You go enjoy the fireworks, okay?” He tilts his head toward you. “And let me know if you get…”
He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.
You nod, “I will.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; it’s warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, “Try to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Impossible.”
A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. “Where’s Dana?” A pause. “And Ducky?”
Vivi looks up from a chart she’s flagging. “Not sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.” She tips her head. “You want me to call her?”
Robby hesitates; there’s a flicker there. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.” He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.
Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.
Jack breaks the silence first. “Yo.”
Robby glances over.
“Thanks for your help in there.” A moment passes. “Almost out?”
“Yep,” Robby says, and without looking at him, “Is this where you try to talk me out of going?”
Jack scoffs. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”
Robby pretends not to falter, “Nope.”
Jack lifts a brow, “No?”
“Nope.”
Jack hums. “Don’t have to convince me.” But then, deadpan, he adds, “I mean… it is a little strange the only place you’ve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.”
Robby exhales through his nose, “Here it comes.”
Jack looks at him pointedly, “I looked it up. As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.” He gestures. “What’s in the fucking gift shop, man?”
That gets the ghost of a smile, “It’s just one place I’m going.”
Jack shrugs, “As long as it’s not the last. Don’t be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.”
Robby shakes his head, “I am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.” He glances over. “When’s the last time you took any time off, Jack?”
Jack huffs. “Yeah, but I’ve dealt with my demons.” A pause ensued. “It’s a process.”
They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.
Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, “You want to know why I never killed myself?” That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.
Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. “After what I saw…” He swallows. “What I lived through…” His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. “Losing my leg.” His voice nearly falters. “Losing my wife.”
He clears his throat, starts again. “Because it comes for all of us, man.” His eyes lock onto Robby’s. “You and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we can’t let ourselves succumb to it.” His voice roughens. “Yes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.” Softer, he adds, “But it’s also beautiful. And hilarious.”
A breath. “That woman today? Her baby? They’d both be in the morgue if you hadn’t been here.” He points between them. “That’s us. That’s you and me. That’s what we’re here for.”
Robby nods once, but he’s already breaking. His throat works before words come. “The most important things I’ve ever done in my life…” He struggles. “…have been in this hospital.”
His voice cracks. “Nothing will ever matter more.” A long breath. “But it is killing me.”
Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because that’s what this is, a confession. Robby’s eyes shine. “You know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not convinced a part of you doesn’t die every time you watch another human being pass.”
His face pinches. “And I’ve seen so many people die…” He shakes his head. “…I feel like it’s leaching something out of my soul.”
His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward, “Go on a cruise, man.” The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. “Knock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. That’s death-wish behavior.”
And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. “I’m tired.” He wipes at his face and it does nothing. “I’m tired of being a role model. I’m tired of feeling like you can’t get ahead. I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.” His voice breaks entirely. “I’m tired of all of it.”
Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. “You need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.” He points to the floor.
Robby’s tears don’t stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, “Am I fucked up?”
Jack nods once, immediately. “Hundred percent.” And then gentler, “But nobody works here as long as you and me and doesn’t get screwed up.” The moment stretched. “You gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.”
Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. “Did you just make that up?”
Jack squints, “Maybe it’s a song lyric …Maybe my therapist said it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then he truly studies him. “And…” He tips his head. “You already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.”
Robby knows immediately who he means.
You.
His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.
Jack snorts. “Or as she would say it— Waddle through the darkness.” That almost gets a real laugh.
Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. “Some dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.” And she’s gone.
Jack spreads his arms. “How can you not love this place?”
Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robby’s shoulder— “Don’t make me look stupid.” A squeeze. “You come back to us in one piece.”
He pulls back, points. “I’m still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.”
Robby laughs through tears.
Jack backs toward the door. “All right, night crawlers,” he calls as he exits into the noise— “What the hell’s going on out here?” Voices answer, and Medics shout report. “Twenty-five-year-old male—no meds, no allergies—”
Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff room— looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.
PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT
The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.
Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumps—nurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like it’s a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.
For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.
Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.
The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. There’s music drifting from somewhere below—faint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebody’s rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.
You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overhead— and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.
Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.
Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.
Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.
Because Robby said what if I don’t come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.
Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And because— God. You don’t know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize they’re there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.
You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these people—this impossible, messy, beautiful crew—this would be how you’d remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.
Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. She’s tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.
Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overhead—white sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlah’s hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.
You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. They’ve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.
And here—for this impossible little pause—you are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.
HALLWAY — NIGHT
Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though he’s tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.
For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, “Hey.”
Langdon lifts his chin. “Hey.”
Robby then stops, “I thought you’d left already.”
“On my way out.” His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.
Robby shifts his weight. “Hey…” He exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t find the time today to have that conversation.”
Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. “Yeah. That’s all right.” Seems like you didn’t really want to.”
Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. “Uh… yeah.” He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. “Look, I’m doing the work.” His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. “I’ve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. I’m going to meetings. I’m taking the drug tests.”
Robby nods once, “That’s good.”
“And you’re still riding me.” There’s hurt in it now, old hurt. “What would have happened if I’d paralyzed that guy?”
Robby’s jaw works; he doesn’t dodge. “I don’t know. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here today?” He presses on. “You’d still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.” Dry as acid, he tacks on, “You’re welcome.”
Langdon stares at him. “Oh. So that’s how you teach now?”
Robby shrugs. “Sometimes.” There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyone’s been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. “You know who I saw in rehab?”
Robby doesn’t answer.
“A bunch of guys just like you. The only difference… They’ve accepted they need help.”
Robby’s expression tightens, but Langdon doesn’t stop. “I think you’re afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isn’t perfect.”
Robby almost scoffs. “Oh, I never claimed to be perfect.”
“No,” Langdon says. “But you expect it of yourself. It’s not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standards… if you can’t even do it?” Then, softer—almost pleading, “You need help, Robby. You need help.”
And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when you’re exhausted enough.
From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. “Finished?”
Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. “You don’t gotta be honest with me, man.” A pause. “At least be honest with yourself.”
Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesn’t look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights. Still. Holding too much.
For a second, he doesn’t move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edges—hurt. Because some truths only sting when they’re true.
The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of course— that’s what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and there’s something almost unbearably tender in it— that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma bays—he still goes when someone cries.
As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdon’s words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.
PEDES — NIGHT
Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.
And Tim smiles back.
“She’s due for a new bottle,” Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. “I was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.”
Robby nods. “I’ll stay with her.”
Tim looks relieved. “Thanks.” He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, “Why are you—” then corrects himself. “Will you hit those lights on your way out?”
“Yep.” Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.
The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, “Why are you crying?” His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. “Why are you crying, little one?”
He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck. Let it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.
He leans in. “You’re okay.” A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. “You’re safe.” He gathers the blanket. “Yeah… You’re not alone.” His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. “Do you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?”
A crooked little smile, “I can do that.” He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. “Aww.” He exhales softly. “I wish somebody would swaddle me.”
A broken joke, half true. “Yes, I do.” He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. “You got off to kind of a rough start, didn’t you, little one?”
You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.
Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. “Yeah, you did.” A breath catches. “Well… That makes two of us.”
Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. “I got abandoned too.” His eyes close. “When I was eight. But I got through all that.” A tear slips down his face. “And so will you.”
His thumb strokes the baby’s back. “I got a good feeling… you’re gonna be just fine.” His voice trembles. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.”
He repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself too. “So many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.
When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.
He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, it’s you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.
Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softly—almost without thinking—you sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.
You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you think—this might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.
After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.
The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe. Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.
Home.
He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and can’t unsee it. He clears his throat, “So…”
You look at him.
“You want to have that talk?”
You whisper. “In front of the baby?”
His mouth lifts. “Well…” He nods toward her sleeping. “She seems pretty content.” Then lightly—“You could foster her for a bit. Take her home.”
You smile sadly.
“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom yet.” A pause. Then truer—“Maybe one day… If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partner…” Your thumb strokes the baby’s hand. “I’d want that. But I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”
Something catches in his face. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Me too.”
There’s a full silence. Then, you ask, “Still going on that road trip?” He exhales. “Not sure.” A little shrug. “Might take Abbot’s advice. Go on a cruise instead.”
“That sounds nice,” you say. “I’ve always loved the ocean.”
He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, “Wanna come with me?” It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
You shake your head, “I don’t get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.”
He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. “I heard what you told Duke.” His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. “Everyone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.”
You swallow. “Sometimes people say they don’t want to be here anymore…when what they really mean is… I don’t know how to stop hurting like this.”
His eyes gloss, and yours do too.
You lean closer. “Depression…” You search. “…it’s weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.” A brief pause ensued before you continued, “I don’t want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.”
You shake your head. “I want to stand in the rain with you. If it pours… Then we get drenched together.”
His breath catches while you touch his face. “There are times you need somebody else’s help. That isn’t failure. That’s being alive. And time…” You smile sadly. “Time matters. But how you use it matters more.” He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.
“I’m far from healing,” he admits, almost ashamed. “I know.” You answer immediately. “And I’m not asking you to be finished. Just… come back.”
His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, “I’m scared.”
It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.
You kiss his temple, “I know. I’m scared too.” A beat. “But isn’t that the point? It means you’re alive.”
The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward life—you realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT
Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distance—faint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.
Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.
You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. “What’re you doing?” he asks.
You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. “I know you didn’t want a cake, or a party, or whatever…” You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. “So I got you this instead.”
He blinks, actually surprised. “For me?”
You nod.
His mouth twitches as he asks, “Can I?”
A soft laugh escapes you, “Yeah. Open it.”
He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, it’s the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.
“It helps,” you say quietly. “With… everything.” You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. “I don’t care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you don’t know how to say.”
His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.
You swallow and add, softer, “If you finish all the pages… There’s something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.”
He studies you, “At the end?”
You nod, “One last page.”
A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you fill the whole thing.”
His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. “Okay. I promise.” His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.
“One more thing.”
He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, “Keep it with you.”
He looks confused, “The box?”
“The journal. All of it. Don’t leave it behind.”
His brow furrows; there’s concern there now. “Why?”
You shake your head. “I can’t explain right now. Just promise.”
He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. “I promise.” He adds, gentler, “Not gonna tell me?”
You almost smile, “Gotta write in that thing to find out.”
That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasn’t even started yet and already your chest aches.
“I’ll call,” he says.
You are trying so hard not to cry, “Okay.”
His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. “I’ll see you soon, Ducky.”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.” You nod once. Then— “Michael, I—”
He pauses, helmet visor still up. “Yeah?”
And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.
You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back. That you are terrified if you tell him now, he’ll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.
The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.
You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then… eventually, gone.
You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesn’t, there’s only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.
A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. “Goodbye, Michael Robinavitch.”
The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.
Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking hands—to let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.
You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.
Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of that—you have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.
Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.
“Hi?” Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.
Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. “Hi, Ate.” A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. “I’ll be there in November.”
Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, “Really?” Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesn’t quite believe you.
You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.
And answer almost to yourself, softly. “Yeah.” A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one sees— “See you soon.”
Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.
Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlights—toward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.
End Notes:
ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.
This ain’t the end of these two just yet… we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then it’s all good vibes from here.
“Wait, he doesn’t know about New York? D:”
Yes, he doesn’t… yet :P HEHEHEH
Now… DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE
And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)
If anyone is looking for a beautiful writen fic with and original character (Ducky) I wholeheartedly recommend this one, it's so beautiful, it hits you right in the feels every single time, it's not finished yet (thank God) and honestly I can wait to see where the storyline continues for this 10/10 fanfic
Trilogy Summary: You have made peace with loving Jack Abbott quietly.
Chapter Summary: Jack Abbot could be a real bitch; grief just made him efficient with it.
Reader is ex-MSF (doctor's without borders) and a current attending PTMC
Rating: Mature (M)
Word Count: 8k
Tags/Warnings: hurt/some comfort, grief, lot of talk about death, cancer (brief), slow burn, no pay-off in this part, friendship, lots of cursing, deeply incorrect medical information
Author's Note: this story and my last one were both kinda angsty. I'm normally not an angsty writter, and yet. Also the title is a direct rip off of a dimension20 quote (thank u emily axeford, the woman and storyteller you are, no one is doing it like you) and another story I posted on ao3 about Whittaker's religious trauma.
-- -- --
“Every time I page your department you’re the only one who answers,” Jack said sliding up to you as you stood at the nurse’s station with your laptop. He had paged infectious disease for a basic STI consult. Not exactly something you were often called for.
“Well, you’ve managed to insult everyone in my department. I’m the only one who is willing to tolerate you,” you replied looking up at him.
He looked more haggard today. Instead of his normal shit-eating, sardonic smile, the grin on his face was thinner and seemed almost fragile. You didn’t like it when Jack seemed fragile. He must have caught your study because he batted away your attention.
“I called you down here to evaluate a patient, not me,” he said.
“You paged infectious disease, actually, not me. Did you know I’m not even on call? But you insulted Yasmine so much that she refused to come down here.” You asked.
“I’ve said worse to you than anything I’ve said to her,” Jack replied.
“I seem to recall punching you the first time we met,” you pointed out.
“I also seem to recall you broke your hand because you had such shit form,” he replied.
“Shit form,” you repeated under your breath. He was right, but rude to bring it up—even if you brought it up first. “Stop bullying my doctors. I’m tired of coming in on my day off.”
“Tell your doctors to be less sensitive.”
“We’re infectious disease, Jack. We’re going to be slow and methodical. Page someone else if you want speedy results. Hell don’t page us at all. It fucks up our metrics.”
“I don’t care about metrics. I care about patients,” he said sharply.
“In what world did I say I didn’t care about patients?” You asked exasperated. “This is why people find you difficult, you know.”
“And yet it hasn’t scared you away, yet.”
“It would be a real feat if you managed it now. You were like this when we met and back then you carried a gun,” you said. Jack snorted.
“Feels like a lifetime ago.”
“It was a lifetime ago. Our friendship has its learner’s permit.”
“So we became friends when you punched me in the face?”
“Nah. We became friends when you patched me up and taught me how to punch someone without breaking my hand. Was useful a few times after that.”
“Well, glad I was good for something back then,” he said.
-- -- --
A decade and a half ago you were starting your first placement with MSF, stationed on the outskirts of Syria. The civil war had decimated the country and the humanitarian need was substantial. The heat was comparable to growing up in the southern United States, so it was not the shock to your system that it was to others on your team.
No, what rattled you was the destruction of a place that was once so beautiful. There were pieces of history and culture lost to ravages of human hatred and greed. Families were forced out of their ancestral homes and yet were grateful to be alive. The grief of your surroundings settled in between your bones. Sometimes, on bad days—days where you lost and lost and lost—the grief that lived amongst the rubble threatened to swallow you. You would bury your head in your thread bare bedding, attempting to stifle any emotion that might escape.
It was on one of these bad days that the US military swaned in and tried to take over your camp. By no means were you in charge of the camp. As an infectious disease doctor, you were in charge of a lot of logistics—more than other doctors—but nowhere close to an authority figure.
When a bright eyed Seargant and his platoon (gaggle? cadre? you still were unclear what the terms were) of half a dozen 20-somethings traipsed into your camp telling you to move for “your own good”, well you lost it a little.
“Fuck off, Uncle Sam,” you snapped as you and your fellow workers went about disinfecting materials.
Along with ensuring cholera and diphtheria didn’t rear their ugly heads—you were also in charge of ensuring proper disinfectants were used on equipment. Two nurses, one from Lagos and one from Burmuda, were helping you.
“Ma’am,” the auburn haired man started.
“It’s doctor, actually,” you snapped.
“Doctor,” he said. You could hear the patience thinning in his voice. Good, yours was thinning, too. “We have the authority to ask you to move.”
“No, you don’t,” you said. You had no idea if they did or not. But fuck the colonizing, imperialist US military if they thought moving doctors was going to be easy.
“Doctor, it isn’t safe,” the man said.
“We’re well aware our job isn’t safe thanks.”
“There has been insurgent fire nearby,” he snapped.
He was about your height. He looked bulky with all the gear strapped to his person. He also looked sweaty. There was a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and neck. You wondered if he knew that just today you had tried and failed to treat sepsis, or had to deal with such a bad case of gangrene the surgeons ampuated, you wondered if this fresh faced military yes-man had an inkling of the grief his presence had caused in the region.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to blame one person for centuries of violence and unrest, but you were getting tired and losing the optimism that had sent you across the globe in the first place.
“Oh no,” you said mockingly. You looked at your nurses, your friends. “Did you guys realize what we heard last night was gun shots and not fireworks?”
They stifled their laughter and took the sonogram wand out of your hand while you focused on your stand off with the military man in front of you. His uniform read “Abbot”.
“Look, lady,” he started. “My job is to secure the area. You aren’t in charge. So take me to whoever is.”
“Find them yourself, fucker,” you snapped. “Some of us have a job that isn’t destabilizing a region.”
“Watch your mouth,” one of the young men behind Abbot said looming closer.
“You’re a child,” you said to him. And he was. He couldn’t have been older than 19. When you were 19 you were getting blind drunk at frat parties conning men out of alcohol and loose change for fun.
“Doctor,” Abbot said, he sounded exasperated. “I don’t have time for this. Your camp is in our way.”
“Our humanitarian camp is in your way? Oh no! Poor US Military.”
For some reason, out of the many jabs you’d thrown at him in those few minutes, that was the one that made him step into your personal space. You felt, more than saw the large automatic weapon he held.
“I’m sure you’re thrilled with your position on your high horse but incredibly enough the world isn’t black and white. You’ve seen nothing. You’ve not seen the fear in people’s eyes when they’re being shot at. You haven’t seen the carnage that an IED does to a human body. You don’t know anything. You’re helping pregnant ladies and that’s great, but some of us are doing real medical work.”
You noticed two things. The insignia on his uniform that marked him as a doctor, too. And that his jaw was much, much harder than the punch you threw with your fist.
“Fuck!” You said at the same time he said,
“Did you just fucking punch me?”
You heard your friends, Sunday and Patricia, shouting as one of the children that followed Abbot began manhandling you to the ground. One moment you were standing clutching your injured hand and the next you were on the ground. The man yanked your arms behind your back. You were a lot of things, stubborn—sure, but you were definitely smart, which is why the feeling of a gun’s muzzle against the small of your back made you freeze.
“Get off of her!”
“That is a violation of our UN Charter!”
At the same time you heard the thunder of footsteps approaching from your camp, a pair of ziptie handcuffs were being placed around your wrists and you faintly heard someone say your were being arrested. You were pretty sure that was illegal—but there wasn’t much you could do with a giant weapon pointed at you. The pain in your hand was taking up a lot of your brain space, so it was hard to keep track of the other happenings across the camp.
You were shoved in the humvee while Abbot apparently went to talk to the camp facilitators about moving the location. You fumed. The fury sat heavy in your chest as you glowered at the two young men who put you in the car, one of which wouldn’t even make eye contact with you.
You flexed your hands against your bonds and shifted so they wouldn’t press so intently against your radial nerve. You continue to stare daggers at the boys until the door next to you opened as Sergeant Abbot got in the car.
“You’ll be released tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll have to take you to our base and process you before we can officially release you.”
“Suck my dick,” you snapped.
“Right,” he said signing. He ran a hand over his face, “Did you hurt your hand?”
You went silent. Your hand was throbbing and you suspected it was broken, but you weren’t going to tell him that. If you were being released tomorrow you’d have Sunday patch you up when you got back. Hell, you’d do it yourself to avoid talking to these men any longer than you had to.
“Your camp director was a lot kinder than you.”
You said nothing.
“Still said no to moving the camp.”
You did your best not to smile, but you suspected everyone knew.
“Tough break for the most powerful military in the world,” you said. Abbot just snorted.
“Where did you go to medical school?”
“UNC Chapel Hill,” you said clipped.
“UPenn myself,” he said.
“An Ivy League medical school and you’re out here instead of making millions of dollars?”
“Same could be said for you.”
“UNC isn’t an ivy,” you snorted.
“Sure, but it’s prestigious,” Abbot pressed.
“What can I say? The MSF recruiter had really good pens,” you replied blithely.
To your surprise Abbot laughed.
The rest of the short ride passed in relative silence. Although you caught a sharp glance Abbot threw at the man who’d arrested you. There seemed to be a unique tension in the humvee you knew you were not responsible for. You suspected your arrest was made more out of emotion than anything else.
When the vehicle arrived at the small base, you were processed and briefly interrogated about any terrorist connections you might. Honestly, it didn’t seem like their heart was in it. The questions weren’t particularly difficult and the interrogator seemed bored more than anything.
By the time you were given a shitty cot in the medical tent, your hand was discolored and the throbbing was beyond painful. Unfortunately, that’s when Abbot found you.
He wasn’t in his whole uniform anymore but was wearing a sand brown T-shirt with sweat stains and patches, with his fatigue pants. You couldn’t help but appreciate the way his shoulders filled out the shirt and the confidence with which he walked through the tent.
More than that, you noticed the kindness he doled out without reservation. He spoke to each person, patient or military personnel. He spoke to people who were clearly native Syrians in badly accent Arabic. You knew it was badly accented, because it sounded a lot like yours.
His smile lit up the whole tent and you hated it. You hated that you found him hot. You really hated that you wanted to see him without his shirt on. More than that you hated that he was going to notice your hand when he came over. You weren’t sure you could handle him touching you. This man is the reason you were detained and half-assedly interrogated by the US Military.
And yet.
And yet when he realized that you broke your hand he reset the dislocation carefully and wrapped your dominant hand delicately. He made a joke about how all good doctors need to be ambidextrous anyways and you laughed. You noticed he had a light bruise on his cheek but nothing compared to your broken hand. It was embarrassing.
“You don’t punch well,” he said after he had brought you dinner. It was about as good as what you would have gotten back at the MSF camp.
“I noticed,” you replied ruefully. The acidity in your tone had worn off throughout the day.
“Did you tuck your thumb?”
“What?”
“Did your tuck your thumb in your fist?”
“Maybe?”
“Well that’s why. Here stand up,” he said.
You were both in the medical tent. There were a couple men in the back corner already asleep so for all intents and purposes it felt like you both were alone. He showed you how to wrap your fist and hold your body so the next time you threw a punch it wouldn’t end with broken bones, at least not yours.
The feeling of his calloused hands on your skin sent tingles up your spine. You allowed him to maneuver your hands, shoulders, and hips at his whims. There was a traitorous part of you that wished he would bend you over the desk he was working at and fuck you senseless. It had been a good two years since anyone had fucked you well and you knew in your bones the grief that lived ever present in your body might abate for just a second if you let this man put his hands on you.
Then you saw the black band on his finger.
“You’re a good teacher,” you said instead of voicing any of your less than professional thoughts.
“No shortage of idiots to teach in this place,” he said chuckling. He had sat back down in the office chair and you leaned back on the cot.
“I think we both know my opinion on that,” you replied. He smiled and said,
“Well, I appreciate you letting me teach without telling me to “suck your dick” this time,” he said.
“Night is still young, Abbot,” you replied laughing. You crossed your legs and looked at him. “How’d you end up here?”
“I was poor and wanted to go to medical school,” he said simply. “Serving my country was a plus. What about you?”
“I already told you about the pens.”
“I’m being serious.”
You took a deep breath. What was the harm in a hint about your traumatic back story? It wasn’t like you’d see him again after this. People knowing too much about you always made you feel exposed.
“My fiancé cheated on me and we had matched to the same hospital. Different residencies, but same place. I’ve always been a bit…rash, but as soon as I sat through the presentation for MSF I knew that I couldn’t do anything else. Did my infectious disease/emergency medicine residency in Antwerp and then they sent me here,” you said.
“This is your first placement?” He asked.
“Yeah, I’m on month five. I’ll go on break in a few weeks,” you said.
“How are you finding it?”
You hesitated.
“Sad,” you finally said.
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
You couldn’t help but think maybe your experiences were more aligned than previously assumed.
The military returned you to your camp the next morning. Despite thinking you wouldn’t see Jack Abbot again, every so often the two medical teams would trade for materials. During the hand offs, you and Abbot would chat and joke. You grew to look forward to the weeks the military stopped by, well you began looking forward Jack, at least.
His group was only in the area for a couple months before moving on, but it was enough time for you both to become good friends. He told you about his wife and even you fell a little in love with her. He told you about his life in Pittsburgh and how he didn’t think he was going to reenlist. Over the past few weeks, you realized the two of you had become real friends.
The last night before his crew shipped out to a new location he handed you a piece of paper. It had his email, domestic phone number and address on it.
“Don’t be a stranger. My wife couldn’t believe I made a friend halfway across the world,” he said.
“Honestly, I’m only friends with you to steal your wife,” you told him.
“I can’t blame you. Although, now I’m less than thrilled I’ve been teaching you to fight,” he sighed.
You laughed and knocked your shoulder against his. “You’re a good friend, Jack. Stay safe, okay?”
“You too, Rocky,” he replied.
“I hate that nickname,” you sighed.
“And that’s why I’ll never let it go.”
-- -- --
“Why did you teach me to fight all those years ago?” You asked the man in front of you.
This seemed a better direction for the conversation than badgering him about what triggered his melancholy. The lines on his face spoke to age, but it was his eyes that held the grief which had been such a consistent companion of his.
“Because your punch was pathetic,” he replied.
“Fair,” you agreed. “But for the rest our overlap those next few months you taught me how to protect myself and make sure that any future punches weren’t pathetic.”
Jack sighed and ran a hand over his face. It was the same thing he did all those years ago, he was just…grayer now. “You were the first person I’d met since my wife that hated the US military. It was before I was ready to hate them and…”
“You needed people in your corner not theirs,” you said realizing.
“I knew that my required service was almost up. Darcy and I had talked about joining up with MSF. She was a fantastic anesthesiologist. But Robby recruited me before MSF could and so, we stayed stateside. You told me I was a good teacher and I guess I wanted to prove you right,” Jack told you.
You had only met Darcy a handful of times before she passed away. Each time you liberally flirted with her just to watch Jack’s face go red with annoyance. She was everything Jack claimed her to be and more. She was charming, smart and beautiful. More than that, she was also funny and creative, perhaps a bit dorky.
One of the few nights that you had spent in Pittsburgh during your furlough from MSF had been spent wine drunk in their garage while badly throwing clay in her at-home pottery studio.
You still had the lumpy, misshapen mug sitting on your mantel.
A few months after that night, Darcy had been killed by a drunk driver and you worried Jack was going to follow her.
You wondered if Jack felt that way about you when your friend died. The reason you were no longer with MSF was two-fold: you had been in harm’s way one too many times (some people would say shot, but that felt dramatic, it was on a bit of a wound in your thigh) and your best friend had contracted a particularly aggressive cancer. You had volunteered to help care for her while she was in treatment.
For a year and a half, most of your life was consumed by ensuring Farah was going to chemo, taking her medication, eating, had someone nearby to comfort her when she inevitably threw up what she ate. You also made sure to do your own physical therapy and recovery, but Farah was the priority.
You watched your best friend, the platonic love of your life wither away and die.
Grief had followed both you and Jack. But perhaps that was life. Grief was part of living. It was the contrast that ensured joy was felt and appreciated.
That is what you tried to tell yourself at least.
“What happened tonight, Jack? That consult was basic and not something you’d normally page us for.”
You had noticed he had seemed fragile earlier, but at your soft tone, the one dedicated for moments like this—moments when the world seemed to be too much—you saw the facade Jack had so painstakingly built begin to crumble. Instead of pressing again, you squeezed his arm and stood.
“Follow me,” you said closing your laptop and leading him through the ebbing chaos of the ER. A few nurses and residents appeared before the two of you, but you redirected them before Jack could get distracted.
“The roof is closed,” he mumbled when you both got into the elevator.
“Not going to the roof. I’m fucking normal,” you said.
“And scared of heights.”
“That too,” you agreed.
The doors dinged opened to the infectious disease floor. In between your offices and the medical library was a small alcove that overlooked the river. There were two armchairs and you were pretty certain you were the only person that used them. At this time of night they were certainly deserted.
You sat Jack in one and took the other. Just barely, you could make out the reflection of Jack in the glass. He was sitting with his shoulders straight and near his ears. You relaxed back into the chair until your head was resting on the top and you were looking at the ceiling.
“It’ll be nine years next week,” Jack replied quietly.
“An annoyingly big yet unsatisfactory number,” you replied.
You both were staring out the window but through the reflection you watched Jack toy with the ring on his finger.
“I felt like I missed her less this year.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that.
“I don’t think she would be upset.”
“It certainly feels weird,” he replied.
“Hmm,” you replied, but you knew.
You had this great bright ball of golden sunlight that light in your heart when you were surrounded by your friends. And when Farah died that sunlight dimmed. You could go days without thinking about her, but then sometimes your fingers would itch to call or text her and you’d remember again.
She was dead.
Her phone number belonged to someone else.
There were no more inside joke or jabs.
There were no more impromptu phone calls or rants.
There was just no more.
The woman who had been most constant relationship in your adult life was dead and sometimes, you missed her so much it felt easier to join her than to wait it out.
“I lost a woman, victim of a hit and run tonight. Just a little too similar and a little too close to home,” he finally said after a bout of silence.
That you definitely understood. Farah had died nearly three years ago and working with cancer patients still made you jumpy. You’d take all the ER pages if it meant your colleagues would cover the oncology ward.
“That must have sucked,” you told him. “What a bitch.”
“What a bitch, indeed. Makes you question the point of it all.”
“What do you mean?”
“All of the things we’ve seen, all the things that have happened. How can people carry on? The only thing keeping me going is this fucking job—but half the reason I’m depressed is this fucking job.”
“I dunno,” you sighed. “Maybe for those moments of joy. The ones that fill your chest and you remember why life is so beautiful. And sure; they leave, but they always come back again.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had those moments,” Jack sighed.
“I write mine down,” you told him fishing a small notebook out of your bag. It was the size of your palm.
Inside was a simple numbered list. Jack flipped to a random page and saw:
76. A cat fell asleep on my lap purring. (6/8/2021)
77. Farah ate a full lunch and did not vomit! (6/9/2021) (I wish you would stop celebrating when I don’t vomit) (make me bitch)
78. Farah’s parents dropped by and weren’t passive aggressive (6/9/2021)
Jack smiled at the interplay between you both. He had not had the chance to meet Farah before she passed and you hadn’t taken him up on his offer to accompany you to the funeral. You watched as he flipped through the pages.
134. Mr. K finished antibiotics and his white blood cell count is rebounding. No one thought he was going to make it. (5/18/2023)
He flipped a few more pages.
179. Jack bought me coffee. I love having a beverage. (8/26/2023)
He laughed at that one. He remembered that day. It was a particularly rough night at the ER. Multiple patients came in with some kind of obscure parasite and it had taken you the bulk of the night to figure out what it was and where it came from. Jack was positive he was going to watch your normally cool demeanor finally combust.
He closed the notebook and before handing it back to you saw inscribed in the corner: it is what could be.
“It is what it could be?” He asked.
“What about it?”
“Isn’t the saying “it is what it is” something about radical acceptance?” Jack snorted handing you back the notebook.
“Sure, but sometimes radical acceptance means missing the opportunity for change,” you replied.
“There are things you just can’t change, Rocky,” he sighed.
“Sure, you, Jack Abbot, can’t single-handedly fix the healthcare woes in our country. But you can change how you teach the up and coming doctors—you have changed how you teach them. You are kinder, more empathetic, and far more thorough than anyone who taught us. I’ve seen too much to sit back and take it on the chin.”
He scoffed. “You’re an optimist.”
You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve spent most of my career in war zones and instead of giving up, I figured out what I could do and then did it. I can’t change geopolitics—and the people that can certain have no intention to—but I can make sure my patients have clean equipment and bedding. I can make sure they’re treated with kindness and care. I can fight for them tooth and nail. I’m under no illusion as to what the world is like, but I refuse to be cowed by it. It’s easy to know the world is shit, but it’s harder to do something.”
“And what, you think I’m not doing enough?” He asked, his tone more acerbic than before. You sighed and thought for a moment before replying.
“I’m asking if maybe you’ve lived with your grief for so long that you’ve forgotten what it came from. Grief is love. It’s the remnants of what could have been. Love isn’t a feeling, Jack. It’s action. It buying your wife flowers when she had a bad day, or advocating for better hours because she’s always tired. Love isn’t passive, it’s active.”
He was scoffed. “No offense, Rocky. But you lost a friend. I lost my wife and my leg. Your grief ain’t got nothing on me.”
He said it in a light tone but you heard the edge to the comment. Suddenly, you were back in the Syrian rubble fifteen years ago, staring down a head strong sergeant. The anger and rage at being belittled reared up through your chest and settled in your throat.
You had matured over the years. Your first instinct was no longer to throw a wild haymaker. Instead you clenched your jaw, released it and said.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such shit friends, then Jack. Next time, text me when you’re having a bad day. Don’t have the hospital call me in on my day off. And be nicer to my doctors. I think I’ve hit my threshold of Dr. Jack Abbot for awhile,” you said simply.
You stood and walked a few steps to your office. You heard Jack say your name and stand after you. You badged into your department offices and let the door shut behind you. You turned the corner, opened your office door and sat down. Distantly, you could hear knocking on the offices.
Your office was an homage to your loved ones. Photos and Knick-knacks from friend and family filled the space. Photos of you and Farah from high school and college were appropriately cringey but the love and care was evident in the way you both held onto each other.
Angrily, you wiped away an errant tear and gathered your bag. Instead of walking out the front where you suspected Jack likely still was, you headed out the back through the medical library into the back stairwell and eventually the cold night air.
-- -- --
Your weekend plans were hospital free, thank god. You didn't have to think about patients or Jack or anyone for a blessed two whole days. Instead you spent Saturday cleaning your house top to bottom, blasting music far too loud for the size of house you lived in.
You took your dog to the dog park. You went to your favorite book store. You filled your day with things you loved.
And that night, when there weren't chores to do or errands to run or books to read, and you were laying in bed you couldn't help but think about the words Jack said to you the night previous.
"Your grief ain't got nothing on me."
It was something that had been a subtle constant in your friendship. Jack always seemed to hold your respective experiences against each other, measuring to see which of you was allowed to be sad and depressed. More accurately, measuring when you were and were not allowed to tell him he was being a depressed, defeatist asshole.
He was not always like that, it came in waves. Most days, he would grab the day by the throat, and force it to bend to his will. His iron will was one of your favorite and least favorite parts of him. But sometimes he was under this insane assumption that just because you never held a gun during your time in a warzone, meant that you hadn't seen or experienced the same things he had.
You had seen the trauma IEDs, land mines, and automatic weapons caused to human flesh. You knew exactly what the anguished cries of a mother who lost her child to starvation sounded like. You knew what the tears of children orphaned by conflict looked like. There were parts of war you did not know. You didn't know what it was like to take another life, but you knew the cost of war far better than he did.
It wasn't anything you ever argued with him about it. You weren't exactly keen to relive those memories. Still, you wished you could shake him, or slap him, and remind him that his suffering--while great--was not winning any competition. There was no competition to win.
Grief was ever present. It gnawed at your heart and lungs. Sometimes it kept you from breathing.
Tonight, you found yourself nearly swept under the high tide of grief. It was large and ominous. Overwhelming thoughts of anything else. All you could think about were the patients you had, the ones you lost, the ones who you saved but who weren't any better off, and even worse you kept thinking about Farah.
You knew what she would say to this: "Every experience reshapes and rebuilds you into something new. You're in charge of what that new things is. So make it great."
What you were feeling was more than just sadness at the dismissive nature of a friend, though. If you were honest with yourself--and in the dark of night, curled in the safety of your bed you could be--perhaps what you were feeling was more akin to heartbreak.
It's not like you held out hope that Jack was going to suddenly fall in love with you. In fact, you weren’t sure you would be able to handle that if he did. Because you knew Darcy, it felt messy in a way that was too uncomfortable to parse.
So you had kept your feelings to yourself.
It wasn't sad; there wasn't a perpetual ache in your chest because he didn't feel the same way. It was just the way life worked sometimes and Jack’s friendship was enough. The problem, however, came from how none of your romantic prospects held a candle to way that Jack made you feel.
When he spoke to you, his eyes never left your face. It was intense to get used to, but then it made you feel so seen. He never let you trail off in a story or get overshadowed in a conversation. In many ways, he knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew how to talk you down when someone at the hospital ignored your sepsis protocols, or how you carved out time each week to see your goddaughter, because you believed in the importance of having many adults in a child's rooting for them.
When you spent time together, it wasn't tedious or exhausting like it was with some people. Being around Jack added to that golden ball of sunlight in your chest, that held all the energy from your friendships. Being around him was energizing and exciting. Most of the time.
But every so often, it felt like he saw someone who wasn't you. Someone who was naive and unclear about the horrors of the world. As though you hadn't loved and lost. As though you hadn't seen the tragedies of war and destruction.
People were never just one thing, and Jack was not a perfect, idealized man that could do no wrong. He was human and had blind spots. Some of those blind spots hurt more than others.
Implying that your love for Farah was somehow less than his love for Darcy was not a hurt that would be easily healed.
Perhaps it felt like heartbreak because your love for your friend was so fundamental to how you viewed yourself. You gave up your MSF career to care for Farah as she went through cancer treatment. For nearly two years, each of your decisions had her in mind. Sometimes it was a terrible burden, but it was time you wouldn't trade for anything.
So to have Jack ignorant to the gravity of that friendship, maybe it meant he didn't know you as well as you thought--as well as you hoped.
And maybe that meant--maybe it confirmed--what you had always suspected:
Jack Abbot was not in love with you.
So the emotional balled up in you chest, battling against your ribcage felt like a reminder of all the grief that had long been present in your life, but this time it was the solidification of a grief that had been ignored. Your heart broke that night.
-- -- --
Sunday morning you were sitting on your front porch when you saw a familar truck circle the block. The first time, you thought you were seeing thing. But then your dog raised his head and began to wag his tail. Hank had always loved Jack. The third time you saw the truck, well, it was beginning to get old.
Finally, the fourth rotation of the truck resulted in him parking in front of your house. You could have gone inside, but there was a nosy part of you that was curious about what he was going to say.
He was stiff getting out of his truck and you suspected he came to your place straight from a night shift at the hospital. You stopped keep track of his shifts years ago--it was concerning how many hours each week he worked, better for you not to know.
He looked just as tired and haggard as he had on Friday night.
"Fourth time's the charm?" You asked as he limped up the steps to your porch.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied sitting down in the chair next to yours. He stretched his leg out stiffly and rubbed at the top of his thigh.
You didn't say anything and continued reading your book while sipping at your cooling cup of coffee. It didn’t taste like anything now. Hank, unaware of your inner turmoil at Jack's appearance, excitedly ambled over to him and sat in front of him expectantly.
"Well, at least someone is excited to see me," Jack said scratching the dog's ears.
"Fuck off," you snapped, angrier than even you had expected.
You refused to look at him, but out of the corner of your eye you saw Jack rear back in surprise. Most of the time you were the calm and collected one in the friendship; he was the the hotheaded. Slowly, Jack eased back to looking at Hank and eventually said,
"I'm sorry,” it sounded placating more than genuine.
"Thank you for that lackluster apology."
"Christ, Rocky, cut me some slack. It's the anniversary of my wife's sudden and tragic death."
"No," you replied simply.
"No?" he asked.
"You don't get to use Darcy as an excuse to be a dickhead. Unfortunately for you, I knew her too. So, try again."
He let out an angry huff and said, "You can be a real bitch, you know that right?"
"Not the first or last time I'll hear that," you said.
"What do you want me to say then?"
"I want an apology for assuming my love for my friends is somehow less than your love for your wife," you explained calmly.
“I spent almost twenty years with Darcy,” he said.
“I know, you were high school sweethearts. I’ve know Farah since freshmen year of college. She saw me through the same stages of life.”
“Darcy was my partner,” he snapped.
“And Farah was the one person who supported me no matter what. Just because I didn’t share a bank account and fuck her doesn’t mean I cared about her less.”
“It’s different!” He exclaimed.
“Sure, in the way we made decisions for most of our relationship, I agree. But for the last three years of her life, there was not a decision I made that didn’t consider her. She was deeply entangled with my life and when she died. It felt like someone had ripped out part of me.”
The conversation had started off angrily, but now you were tired. You wanted Jack off your porch and you wanted to get on with your peaceful Sunday. All of the emotion that had been building was released and you felt tears prick at your eyes.
Incredibly enough, you were an adult and didn't need to take out your emotions of the people close to you; instead you processed them and released them. The white hot anger and deep pit of despair had been felt and unfettered from your depths and now, all that remained was a weariness.
Jack's silence was stretching.
"I think we might just see the world in fundamentally different ways," you said standing.
"Rocky--" he started.
"Jack, don't," you said sharply. "I have spent the last nine years being a listening ear for your grief. I have been more than happy to do that. I knew how amazing Darcy was. Of course you'd grieve. But every time I bring up the things I've seen or expereinced, it's a competition I can't win. I don't really know how bad war is because I've never fired a gun, as though half the reason I left MSF wasn't because I was shot. Or I can't understand what it is like to lose someone important to you, because it wasn't my spouse. You don't own grief."
"You were shot?" He asked. The growing redness of his face was sudden pale.
"Yes? What are you talking about? I talked to you about it when I came back."
"No, you said you got hurt," he said angrily. The redness was back. "See, this is your problem. You keep all your thoughts and feelings inside and then get pissed when people don't read your mind."
"I do not," you scoffed.
"Really? I didn't even know Farah died until I saw the obituary. That was your best friend and you didn't tell anyone!"
"I wasn't exactly doing well that week, Jack," you said. "I held her hand as she died. I was having a hard time."
"This is the first time I've ever heard that! I had no idea you were there when she died! I had no idea you got shot! You don't tell anyone anything! Do you know how upsetting it is to never know what you're thinking or feeling? Friday was the closest you've ever gotten to telling me I've upset you. That's not fair. You talk about the importance of friendship all the time, but you're a shit friend sometimes."
It felt like he had slapped you. You were an open book. He could have asked you anything and you would have answered. It wasn't your fault he was perpetually uncurious.
Perhaps if you had more time to think or if you had been less upset, something less idiotic would have come out of your mouth next,
“Maybe you never showed an iota of curiosity about my life. I was convenient emotional replacement for someone you lost,” you said. You knew it wasn’t true as soon as you said it.
“Oh fuck you,” Jack nearly spit. “How dare you—“
“Deign to compare myself to her?”
“No, you asshole. Pretend like you aren’t important to me. Christ. You’re mean when you want to be,” he said almost ruefully.
You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure what to say. But you both felt the angry energy dissipate from the porch. You snuck a peak at the man next to you. He was pinching the bridge of his nose. It was a common pose you saw him adopt with particularly dense residents and medical students. Rude.
Eventually Jack said, “Have you spent our whole friendship thinking I didn’t want to actually know you?”
“No?” Even to your ears it sounded like a question. “Jack, I—“
“Nope, it’s my turn to talk now,” he said cutting you off. “Why did you never offer the information? Why keep it to yourself?”
"I didn't think you wanted to know."
"What?"
And if you thought you were heartbroken before, it was nothing compared the way Jack's voice broke on your porch just now.
"I just figured if you didn't ask, it meant you didn't want to know," you said.
"That's what you thought? And you were still friends with me?" he asked. You shrugged.
He sagged back into the chair and you found yourself sitting down next to him.
“Jesus I’ve been a shit friend.”
“No, Jack,” you began but he held up a hand.
"Rocky, I..." he started. "I always want to know. I just thought you didn't want to share."
"Oh."
"Why in the world did you think that I wouldn't want to know about your life? You're my friend."
You just shrugged, suddenly feeling very small.
"Maybe your friends have failed you," Jack said. He was looking at you and even if your eyes were firmly in front of you, his gaze bore into the side of your face. "How someone so vibrant and interesting could remain convinced that people around her don't want to know her is astounding to me."
"No, it's not anyone's fault," you started.
"I'm serious, Rocky. You're amazing. Do you just think no one wants to see that?"
Christ, it was too early for this.
"I think we've strayed too far from the topic at hand," you said, desperate to get him away from this topic. Jack
"That's fair. And you're right. I do hold my marriage above friendships. But I was thinking about it yesterday and I would be just as devastated if you or Robby died. As for the warzone shit...I still maintain not shooting a gun means you don't carry the same guilt I do, but maybe that's a good thing," Jack admitted.
"I'll agree about the guilt. I think we can share in the survivor's guilt, though."
“Fine, so glad we get to share something so special,” he grumbled.
You both lapsed into silence and eventually Jack said,
“What was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“Doing MSF?”
And so you told him. You told him about the constant battle against competing political groups, the fights for resources and the inability to get a good shower. But you also told him about all your friends around the globe. You told him about your travels during your furloughs—how Jordan was your favorite country you’ve ever visited.
You caught Jack watching you with something akin to awe. It made you uncomfortable.
“Stop that,” you grumbled.
“What?”
“Staring at me like that.”
“Sorry, Rocky, but unfortunately for you I kinda feel like I’m meeting a new person.”
“Fuck off,” you replied nudging him with your shoulder.
“Did Darcy know about any of this?”
“The blanket on your ottoman is from Jordan. I sent it to her,” you replied.
Jack snorted. “I can’t believe you told her and not me. I can’t believe I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to try.”
“I dunno, it’s one of those things I think we learn as kids and we’re lucky if we figure it out by the time we die,” Jack replied sighing.
“I think you’re giving me too much grace,” you said.
“You’ve given me plenty over the years. I think you’re due some yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“But seriously, you told Darcy about Jordan and I’m just now learning about it?”
You laughed.
He sighed and leaned his head against your shoulder. “God I miss her.”
“I know,” you said grasping his hand in yours. “I doubt you’ll ever stop.”
“I wouldn’t get rid of this pain if it meant I didn’t know her. I imagine it’s the same with you?”
“For Farah and Darcy. I didn’t know her well, but she was magnetic.”
“She liked you a lot.”
“Feeling was mutual.”
“In another life, you probably could have stolen her.”
“In another life I would have tried.”
Jack hesitated, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles. “Do you think…”
The bottom dropped out of your stomach. You panicked, desperate for him not to finish his sentence, for fear of what he might say, for fear of what it might do to the two of you. You’d made your peace with loving him this way quietly and distantly. The idea of him putting voice to it—acknowledging something you’d closed the book on years ago—felt like it could unmoor you.
But he let the silence collapse between you. “Nevermind, I think we’ve had enough emotions for one day.”
Relief hit you fast and sharp, “Thank god.”
-- -- --
another author's note: I've had this idea rattling around in my brain for awhile and I have no idea if people will like the same way I have, so thank you for reading if you got this far <3
Request - Can you write a scene when there is hostage situation at The Pitt. There is a man with a gun, a criminal who wants to make sure his girlfriend has a healthy baby. The reader agrees to become the hostage while the rest of the people are evacuated. Her and Robby are a couple. The reader delivers the baby, both the baby and it's mother survive. Then, there are a few gunshots Heard. The man is dead, the woman is also hurt and the reader is also hurt. The reader survives and she and Robby don't hide their relationship in the moment when Robby learns she's alive and also very hurt. (God it is long)
The shift had started like any other, which in the controlled chaos of The Pitt meant that nothing about it was actually calm, just familiar enough that the noise blended into something manageable, the steady rhythm of monitors and movement and voices creating a kind of organized urgency that you had long ago learned how to live inside without letting it swallow you whole. You were halfway through charting at the nurse’s station, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee that you kept forgetting to drink, when Robby drifted into your space without announcement, his presence more felt than heard as he leaned a shoulder lightly against the counter beside you and glanced over the screen with that quiet focus that always made it seem like he could read three lines ahead of wherever your cursor sat.
“You’ve been staring at that same sentence for five minutes,” he murmured, low enough that it didn’t carry, his voice threaded with just enough amusement to pull at the corner of your mouth even as you exhaled through your nose.
“I’m thinking,” you shot back, though your tone lacked any real bite, and when you finally took a sip of your coffee, you grimaced at how cold it had gone, which only made him huff a quiet laugh under his breath.
“You’re overthinking,” he corrected, reaching past you to tap something on the keyboard with easy familiarity, his arm brushing yours in a way that lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental, the kind of small, unspoken contact that had become second nature between the two of you in a place where being careful was no longer optional but required.
You angled your head slightly toward him, voice just as quiet. “You hovering isn’t helping.”
“Debatable,” he replied, but there was a softness there, something steadier beneath the sarcasm, and for a brief second you let yourself lean into it, into him, into the normalcy of a moment that existed in between everything else.
That was when the doors burst open. The sound cut through the department like a blade, loud and abrupt enough that every head turned at once, conversations halting mid-sentence as a man stumbled inside with one arm wrapped tightly around a visibly pregnant woman whose weight he was practically carrying, her face pale and contorted with pain as she clutched at his shirt and gasped through what was unmistakably a contraction.
“Help her,” the man barked immediately, his voice sharp with something that wasn’t just panic, his eyes darting too quickly around the room as if he were measuring exits, people, distance, and for a split second something in your chest tightened in recognition of a different kind of urgency than the one you were used to.
Robby was already moving before anyone else fully processed it, his posture shifting seamlessly into command as he stepped forward, hands raised slightly in a calming gesture as he approached them. “Okay, we’ve got her, just take a breath and let us—”
The gun appeared so fast that it almost didn’t register at first, the metallic flash catching the overhead lights as the man yanked it from his waistband and leveled it in a wide, unsteady arc that immediately froze the room in place, the fragile illusion of control shattering in an instant.
“No,” the man snapped, his voice louder now, more frantic, the barrel of the gun jerking slightly as his grip tightened. “No, nobody touches her unless I say so, you hear me? She’s having this baby and nothing goes wrong, nothing, you understand?”
The silence that followed was deafening, the kind that pressed in on your ears and made every small movement feel amplified, every breath too loud, and you felt rather than saw the way the entire department shifted, people going still, calculating, waiting. Your eyes flicked to Robby, and for just a second the professional mask he wore slipped enough that you saw it, the sharp flicker of alarm, the immediate recalibration, the way he was already working through options in his head even as he kept his hands visible and his voice level.
“We’re here to help her,” he said carefully, each word measured as he took another slow step forward, not close enough to threaten, not far enough to disengage. “That’s all we’re going to do. You don’t need that.”
“I do,” the man shot back instantly, shaking his head as his grip on the woman tightened when she cried out again, her body curling inward as another contraction hit, more intense this time, her breathing breaking into short, panicked gasps. “You don’t get it, they said something was wrong, they said she needed more tests, more time, we don’t have time, she’s in labor now and you’re going to fix it, you’re going to make sure my kid is okay.”
You could feel your pulse in your throat now, your mind moving faster than your body, cataloging everything in front of you with the kind of clarity that only came when things went very, very wrong, the distance between him and the nearest patient, the angle of the gun, the way his attention kept snapping back to the woman like she was the only thing tethering him to reality. Around you, people had started to subtly shift, inching backward, guiding patients toward exits with quiet, controlled movements that didn’t draw attention, the beginnings of an evacuation unfolding in slow motion under the surface of the standoff.
Robby’s voice cut through again, steady, grounding. “We can take her to a room, get her monitored, make sure the baby’s okay, but you need to let us do our jobs.”
“No one leaves,” the man said sharply, his head snapping toward a nurse who had taken one step too far toward the hallway, the gun following the motion in a way that made your stomach drop. “Nobody moves unless I say so.”
The woman whimpered, clutching at him as another contraction tore through her, her voice trembling. “Please… it hurts…”
That was the moment everything shifted for you, the fear narrowing into something more focused, more deliberate, as you stepped forward before you could second-guess it, your voice cutting cleanly through the tension.
“Hey,” you said, calm and clear, your hands visible at your sides as you moved just enough to draw his attention without threatening him, without escalating anything further. “Look at me.”
Robby’s head turned sharply toward you, your name already forming on his lips in warning, but you didn’t break your focus, didn’t let yourself look at him because you knew if you did, even for a second, you might hesitate.
“You want her and the baby safe,” you continued, your tone steady, grounding, the same way you spoke to patients on the edge of panic, the same way you were speaking to him now. “So do I. But standing out here isn’t going to help her. She needs to be in a room, she needs monitoring, she needs someone with her who knows what they’re doing.”
The man’s eyes locked onto yours, searching, desperate, the gun wavering just slightly as the woman cried out again, her knees buckling enough that he had to tighten his hold on her to keep her upright.
“I can help her,” you said, taking another slow step forward, just enough to close the distance by inches, your heart hammering against your ribs but your voice unwavering. “But you have to let me.”
Behind you, you could feel the entire room holding its breath, waiting to see which way this would go, and somewhere in that silence you were acutely aware of Robby, of the tension radiating off him, of the fact that you had just stepped directly into the center of something that could go very, very wrong. And still, you didn’t stop moving.
Robby moved the second you did, his hand closing around your wrist with a grip that was firm without being forceful, the kind that grounded you without stopping you entirely, and when you finally let your gaze flick toward him there was nothing carefully controlled left in his expression, only sharp, unfiltered alarm layered over anger that you knew wasn’t really at you but was hitting you anyway because you were the one stepping closer to a man with a gun.
“No,” he said under his breath, low and immediate, his voice carrying just enough edge that you knew he was already past the point of pretending this was just another case, just another patient, and the way his fingers tightened slightly around you told you exactly how hard it was taking for him to not physically pull you back behind him.
“Robby,” you returned quietly, not pulling away but not yielding either, your tone steady in a way that contrasted sharply with the tension building in his posture, and you could feel the eyes of the room on the two of you now, the subtle shift as people began to notice that whatever this was between you wasn’t strictly professional.
“You don’t go near him,” he continued, ignoring the way the man’s attention flicked between the two of you, the gun still raised, still unpredictable, his focus locked on you like if he looked away for even a second you might disappear into something he couldn’t control. “We can handle this another way.”
“We don’t have another way,” you answered, just as quietly, your gaze steady on his even as your pulse hammered hard enough that you could feel it in your fingertips, and for a second something flickered between you, something deeper than the situation, something that had nothing to do with the ER and everything to do with the fact that you both understood exactly what this risk meant.
Another cry tore through the room, sharp and broken, the woman sagging harder into the man’s hold as her breathing fractured into panicked gasps, and the man’s attention snapped back to her instantly, his voice rising again with a desperate edge that cut through everything else.
“She’s running out of time, do you hear me? I told you, I told you something was wrong and nobody listened, you’re not going to let anything happen to her now.”
“I’m not,” you said, turning your attention back to him, your voice firm without being confrontational, stepping just slightly out of Robby’s hold, his fingers slipping from your wrist as he exhaled sharply through his nose like he was fighting the urge to grab you again. “But I need space to do that, and right now you’re making it harder.”
The man’s grip on the gun faltered for a fraction of a second, uncertainty threading through his expression as he looked between you and the woman, between the chaos of the room and the narrowing focus of your voice, and you saw it then, the opening, small and fragile but there.
“You can come with us,” you added, carefully, slowly, each word deliberate. “You stay with her the entire time, nobody takes her anywhere without you, but I need to get her somewhere I can actually help her, because right now she’s in active labor and if something goes wrong out here, I can’t fix it.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Robby cut in, sharper now, stepping forward just enough that he was back within your peripheral vision, his voice tight with a kind of control that felt like it was being held together by sheer force. “We can get a full team in here, we can—”
“No,” the man snapped again, the gun jerking slightly in Robby’s direction, and the entire room tensed as one, the fragile balance tipping dangerously for a heartbeat before settling again when the woman cried out, dragging his focus back to her.
“No teams, no crowds, just her,” he added, nodding toward you with a shaky, uncertain motion, “she comes, nobody else.”
The words landed hard, heavier than the gun still pointed in a loose, wavering line between all of you, and for a second the entire room seemed to freeze around that condition, the reality of what he was asking settling in. Robby’s head snapped toward you fully now, any pretense of distance gone as he stepped closer again, lowering his voice so it barely carried past you even as the tension in it made it feel louder than anything else in the room.
“Absolutely not,” he said, each word clipped and controlled in a way that told you he was holding himself together by threads. “You are not staying in here alone with him.”
“I won’t be alone,” you answered, your gaze flicking briefly to the woman before returning to him, your voice softer now but no less certain. “She needs someone who knows what they’re doing, and right now I’m the one he’s willing to trust.”
“Trust?” Robby echoed, a humorless edge slipping into his tone, his jaw tightening as he glanced toward the gunman and back to you. “He’s pointing a gun at you.”
“And she’s about to deliver a baby in the middle of the ER,” you shot back quietly, not raising your voice but letting the weight of the truth sit there between you, and for a second something raw flashed across his face, something that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with you.
“You don’t get to make this call,” he said, softer now but more dangerous for it, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign that you might back down, that you might let him pull you out of this.
“I already did,” you replied, just as softly, and that was the moment something shifted, something unspoken but undeniable, because there was no hesitation in you, no wavering, just the quiet certainty that you were not stepping back from this.
Behind you, security had begun to gather at a distance, barely visible, careful not to escalate anything, and you knew time was narrowing, the window for this to resolve without someone getting hurt shrinking with every passing second. The man shifted again, his voice cutting through the standoff with renewed urgency.
“Decide,” he said, his eyes darting toward the exits where movement had slowed to a near stop, the evacuation hovering in place as everyone waited for the next move. “She stays or nobody leaves, and if nobody leaves then nobody helps her.”
You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, before nodding once.
“Okay,” you said, turning fully toward him now, your hands still visible, your posture open, controlled. “I’ll stay.”
“Don’t,” Robby said immediately, the word breaking through whatever control he had left, and this time he did grab your arm again, not hard enough to hurt but enough to stop you from stepping forward completely, his voice dropping low and rough as he leaned in closer. “Don’t do this.”
You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and for a second everything else faded out, the gun, the room, the noise, all of it narrowing down to the way he was looking at you like he already knew how this could end and couldn’t accept it.
“I have to,” you said quietly, and there was no dramatics in it, no grand declaration, just the simple truth that you both understood all too well.
His grip loosened, not because he wanted to let you go but because he knew he couldn’t stop you, and the frustration in that flickered across his face in a way that made your chest tighten despite everything else.
“Then I’m staying too,” he said immediately, straightening as he turned toward the man, his voice shifting back into something more controlled, more authoritative. “You want her, you get me too, because she doesn’t do this alone.”
“No,” the man snapped, shaking his head violently, the gun lifting again in a warning motion. “Just her, nobody else, I said just her.”
“That’s not how this works,” Robby pushed back, stepping forward another inch despite the danger, his presence solid, immovable. “She needs support, she needs equipment, she—”
“I said just her,” the man shouted, the sound cracking under the pressure, his control slipping as the woman cried out again, louder now, her body starting to bear down in a way that made your stomach drop because you knew exactly what that meant.
“She’s transitioning,” you said quickly, your attention snapping fully back to the situation, your voice urgent now as you looked at the man. “The baby’s coming, whether we’re ready or not, and if you don’t let me help her right now, you’re risking both of them.”
The words hit, hard and immediate, cutting through whatever argument remained as the man’s focus snapped back to the woman, panic overtaking everything else as he looked down at her, his grip tightening, his breathing uneven.
“Okay,” he said suddenly, the decision coming in a rush, his voice shaking. “Okay, she stays, just her, everyone else gets out, now.”
The room moved all at once, controlled but fast, staff guiding patients toward exits, voices low and steady as they ushered people out without drawing attention, the tension thick enough that every movement felt like it could tip something the wrong way.
Robby didn’t move. He stood exactly where he was, his eyes locked on you, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, and for a second you thought he might argue again, might refuse to leave, might push this until it broke. Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that his hand found your arm again, gentler this time, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.
“You talk to me,” he said, the command quiet but firm, his eyes searching yours. “You keep him talking, you don’t let him spiral, you understand?”
You nodded once, your throat tightening just slightly as you held his gaze. “I’ve got this.”
His jaw clenched, like he wanted to say more, like there were a dozen things sitting right behind his teeth that he couldn’t let out here, not now, not in front of everyone, and for a second his hand lingered before he forced himself to let go.
“I’m right outside,” he said, barely above a whisper, and there was something in the way he said it that felt less like reassurance and more like a promise.
Then he stepped back. And you stepped forward. The last of the patients were ushered out, the doors closing with a heavy finality that echoed through the suddenly hollow space, the noise of the ER replaced by something quieter, sharper, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides.
It was just you now. You, the man with the gun, and the woman whose body was already forcing the next contraction as she cried out, her hands clutching at anything she could reach. You exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders back as you shifted fully into place beside her, your voice steady as you met the man’s gaze one more time.
“Okay,” you said, grounding, focused. “Let’s have a baby.”
The silence that settled over the ER after the doors shut was nothing like the controlled quiet you were used to, because this wasn’t the lull between cases or the brief exhale before the next wave of patients, this was a vacuum, a hollowed-out space where every sound echoed too sharply and every movement felt like it mattered too much, and for a split second you had to consciously steady your breathing so it didn’t match the frantic rhythm of the woman in front of you.
“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” you said gently as you guided her down onto a stretcher, your hands sure and efficient even as your awareness stayed split between her and the man hovering too close with the gun still clenched in his grip. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do, your body knows this, I just need you to breathe with me, slow and steady, alright?”
She nodded shakily, tears streaking down her temples as she tried to follow your rhythm, her hand gripping yours with surprising strength as another contraction built, her entire body tensing in anticipation before it hit, harder this time, deeper, pulling a broken cry from her throat.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured, squeezing her hand once before shifting your focus, your movements quick as you reached for supplies, mentally cataloging what you had and what you didn’t, the absence of a full team sitting heavy in the back of your mind even as you adjusted, adapted, recalibrated. “I’m going to check how far along you are, okay? It’s going to be uncomfortable, but I need to know where we’re at.”
The man paced at the edge of your vision, restless, agitated, the gun lowering slightly now that his attention was split between you and her, but not enough to forget it was there, not enough to make this safe.
“You said you’d help her,” he snapped, his voice tight with something that was still too close to panic. “So help her.”
“I am,” you replied evenly, not looking up at him as you worked, keeping your tone calm, controlled, because you could feel how close he was to tipping over into something worse. “But I need you to give me space to do that, you’re making her more anxious standing over her like that.”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the woman, to the way her breathing hitched, to the way her fingers dug into your arm as another contraction crested, and you saw the shift again, the crack in the panic where something else could get through.
“What’s her name?” you asked suddenly, glancing up at him just long enough to pull his focus back to you.
He blinked, thrown by the question. “What?”
“Her name,” you repeated, softer now, steady, grounding. “I’m not going to keep calling her ‘her’ while she’s having your baby.”
There was a beat of silence before he answered, quieter this time. “Maya.”
You nodded, turning your attention back to her. “Okay, Maya,” you said gently, your voice shifting into something warmer, more personal, “you’re doing really well, I just need you to keep breathing with me, in through your nose, out through your mouth, just like that.”
Maya tried, her breath hitching but following your lead, and you felt the tension in her grip ease just slightly, enough that you could work, enough that you could think.
Outside, Robby was not still. He stood just beyond the closed doors, every instinct in his body screaming at him to go back in, to ignore the protocol, the risk, the very real threat of the weapon that had forced him out in the first place, because none of that mattered in the face of you being in there alone, but he didn’t move, not because he didn’t want to but because he knew exactly what you needed from him right now, and it wasn’t recklessness.
“What’s the status?” someone asked behind him, a security officer stepping closer, voice low, cautious.
“She’s in there with them,” Robby answered without looking away from the doors, his tone flat in a way that hid too much, his jaw set so tightly it ached. “He’s armed, agitated, but focused on the girlfriend, she’s in active labor.”
“Negotiators are on their way,” the officer said, glancing toward the hallway. “We’ll—”
“No,” Robby cut in sharply, finally turning, his eyes hard in a way that made the officer pause. “You don’t rush this, you don’t escalate, because if he feels cornered he pulls that trigger and she’s the one standing closest to him.”
The officer nodded slowly, backing off a fraction, and Robby dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before forcing himself to stop, to breathe, to think, because spiraling wasn’t going to get you out of there.
Inside, time had started to blur.
“Okay,” you said, shifting slightly as you assessed, your focus narrowing as the situation sharpened into something more immediate, more critical. “Maya, I need you to listen to me very carefully, alright? Your body is moving fast, faster than I’d like, but that just means we’re going to meet your baby sooner.”
Her eyes widened, panic flickering. “Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily,” you answered quickly, keeping your tone reassuring even as your mind raced, because there were variables here you didn’t like, things you couldn’t fully account for without equipment you didn’t have, a team you didn’t have, but none of that could show right now. “It just means we have to stay focused.”
Another contraction hit, stronger than the last, her back arching slightly as she cried out, her grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain, and you leaned closer, grounding her, guiding her through it.
“That’s it, breathe through it, don’t fight it,” you coached, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you. “Your body is doing the work, you just have to let it.”
The man hovered again, unable to stay still, his free hand dragging through his hair as he watched, his fear bleeding through every movement. “She’s okay, right? You said she’d be okay.”
“She can be,” you said, glancing up at him just long enough to anchor him again. “But you need to help me with that, I need you to stay calm, because she feeds off you, if you panic, she panics, and that makes this harder.”
He swallowed hard, nodding quickly, trying to steady himself, his breathing still uneven but quieter now, more controlled.
“Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Okay, I’m calm.”
You held his gaze for a second longer, making sure it stuck, before shifting back to Maya, your hands moving with practiced efficiency as you worked. Minutes stretched, each one packed with too much, the rhythm of contractions tightening, intensifying, the space between them shrinking until there was barely time to breathe before the next one crashed in, and you felt it then, the shift from labor to something more urgent, more final.
“Maya,” you said firmly, your voice cutting through the haze of pain she was caught in, “I need you to listen to me, you’re going to feel the urge to push soon, and when you do, I want you to follow it, don’t hold back, don’t fight it, okay?”
She shook her head weakly, fear flashing again. “I can’t, I can’t do this—”
“Yes, you can,” you interrupted gently but firmly, leaning closer, your eyes locking onto hers. “You already are.”
Another contraction surged, and this time her body responded differently, instinct taking over as she bore down, a raw, guttural sound tearing from her throat as she pushed, and you shifted instantly, guiding, supporting, your focus razor sharp now.
“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice stronger, more commanding. “That’s exactly what I need, keep going, don’t stop, you’re doing so well.”
The man froze, watching, his fear momentarily replaced by something else, something like awe, like disbelief, his attention fully locked onto her now, onto the reality of what was happening.
Outside, Robby heard it. The faint, muffled sound of her cry, distorted through the doors but unmistakable, and his entire body went rigid, every muscle tightening as he took an involuntary step forward before forcing himself to stop again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
“Robby,” someone said behind him, cautious, but he didn’t respond, his focus locked on the doors like he could will them open, like he could somehow see through them.
Inside, you barely registered anything beyond the moment.
“Maya, again,” you urged, your hands steady, guiding, supporting as the baby began to crown, the pressure building, the tension shifting into something that was almost there, almost done. “One more strong push, I know it hurts, I know it’s hard, but you’re so close, I need one more from you.”
She cried out, gathering whatever strength she had left as she pushed again, her entire body straining, and you felt it, the shift, the movement, the moment where everything changed.
“That’s it,” you breathed, your voice softer now, relief threading through it as you worked quickly, carefully. “That’s it, I’ve got the head, you’re doing it, you’re doing it—”
The room held its breath. And just beyond the doors, so did he.
The moment stretched, fragile and razor-thin, balanced on the edge of everything that could still go wrong, and yet your hands stayed steady as you guided the baby’s head free, your focus narrowing to the smallest details even as your pulse roared in your ears, the world reduced to the space between Maya’s next breath and your next instruction.
“That’s it, that’s it,” you murmured, your voice softer now but no less certain, your hands working with practiced precision as you checked for the cord, your movements quick, efficient, grateful when you found nothing wrapped too tight, nothing immediately dangerous. “Maya, I need one more push from you, just one more and your baby is here.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed, her head falling back against the stretcher, her body trembling with exhaustion, her strength fraying at the edges. “I can’t do it again—”
“Yes, you can,” you said, firm but gentle, leaning closer so she couldn’t look anywhere but at you, anchoring her in the moment instead of the fear. “Listen to me, your baby is right here, I’ve got them, you just need to finish it, one more push and I’ll take care of the rest, I promise.”
The man stood frozen at her side, the gun still in his hand but lowered now, forgotten in the face of what was happening, his eyes locked on her, on you, on the tiny glimpse of something new entering the world in the middle of all this chaos, and you saw the shift again, the way his breathing slowed just enough, the way his focus narrowed to her instead of everything else.
“Do it, Maya,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking as he reached for her with his free hand, gripping her shoulder like he could hold her through it. “You’ve got this, just one more, okay? Just one more.”
She nodded weakly, drawing in a shaky breath, and when the next contraction hit she didn’t fight it this time, she leaned into it, bore down with everything she had left, a raw, broken sound tearing from her throat as her body did exactly what it was meant to do.
“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice stronger now, matching her effort as you guided the baby through the final moments, the pressure giving way as shoulders followed, then the rest, your hands moving instinctively as you caught the baby, the sudden weight small but overwhelming all the same. “That’s it, I’ve got them, I’ve got them—”
For one heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound, no movement, just the echo of Maya’s labored breathing and the pounding of your own heart as you assessed quickly, efficiently, clearing the airway, your fingers working with careful urgency as you stimulated, coaxed, waited.
“Come on,” you murmured under your breath, quieter now, more personal, like the baby could hear you, like they just needed a second longer.
Then…..
A cry.
Sharp, sudden, piercing through the silence and filling the space with something so alive it almost didn’t belong there, and you felt the tension in your chest break just slightly as relief flooded through you, your hands steady as you shifted the baby carefully.
“That’s what I want to hear,” you said, louder now, a small smile pulling at your mouth despite everything as you glanced up at Maya. “You did it.”
Maya sobbed, the sound softer this time, overwhelmed and exhausted and relieved all at once as you placed the baby against her chest, her trembling hands coming up instinctively to hold them, her entire body collapsing inward around the tiny life she had just brought into the world.
“Is the baby okay?” she whispered, her voice barely there.
“They’re perfect,” you assured her, your tone warm, steady, checking quickly, efficiently, your hands moving through the motions even as your attention flicked briefly to the man.
He had gone still. Completely still. The gun hung loosely at his side now, forgotten entirely as he stared at Maya and the baby, his expression cracked open in a way that stripped away everything else, every layer of fear and desperation and anger replaced by something raw and unguarded.
“They’re okay?” he asked, his voice quieter than it had been since he walked in, like he didn’t trust it to hold.
“They’re okay,” you confirmed, meeting his gaze, holding it for a second longer than necessary, grounding him in the truth of it. “Both of them.”
He nodded once, sharply, like he needed the movement to believe it, his hand dragging over his face as his breathing hitched, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb, the reality of the moment settling in. For the first time since he had walked in, the room felt…still. Not safe, not yet, but quieter, the immediate crisis shifting into something more fragile, more uncertain.
Outside, Robby heard it. The cry cut through the doors, faint but unmistakable, and his entire body reacted before his mind could catch up, his head snapping up, his breath catching as something like relief punched through the fear that had been building steadily in his chest.
“That’s a baby,” someone said behind him, disbelief threading through their voice, but Robby was already moving, taking a step toward the doors before security blocked him again, firm but cautious.
“Not yet,” the officer warned, but Robby’s eyes were locked on the doors, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
Inside, you worked quickly, your focus shifting seamlessly into the next phase, checking Maya, monitoring bleeding, keeping your movements calm and controlled even as your awareness remained split, always aware of him, always aware of the gun still in his hand.
“We’re not done yet,” you said gently, your tone softening again as you adjusted, your hands steady as you worked. “I need to take care of you too, okay?”
Maya nodded weakly, her attention fixed entirely on the baby, her fingers tracing over their tiny features like she couldn’t quite believe they were real.
“You did good,” the man said to her, his voice rough, stepping closer now, the distance between all of you shrinking as the tension eased, just slightly. “You did so good.”
You watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders started to drop, the way his grip on the gun loosened further, and you let yourself breathe just a fraction easier, your voice steady as you spoke again.
“You can put that down,” you said carefully, not pushing, not demanding, just offering, your eyes flicking briefly to the weapon and back to his face. “You got what you came for.”
He hesitated. For a second, it looked like he might. His gaze dropped to the gun, his hand shifting like he was about to lower it completely, about to let it go, about to step out of whatever line he had crossed to get here.
Then something changed. It was subtle at first, a flicker in his expression, a tightening of his jaw as distant noise filtered in from outside, muffled voices, movement, the unmistakable presence of people waiting, watching, ready. His head snapped toward the doors.
“What’s happening?” he demanded, the tension slamming back into him all at once, his grip tightening again, the gun lifting just slightly as his breathing picked up. “I said nobody else, I said no one else comes in—”
“No one is coming in,” you said quickly, your voice calm but firm, stepping just slightly to keep his focus on you, to keep him from spiraling. “They’re just making sure everything is okay out there, that’s all, you’re still in control here, nothing has changed.”
But the moment had already shifted. The fragile calm cracked under the pressure, the reality of what he had done, where he was, what was waiting on the other side of those doors pressing in all at once.
“They’re going to take her,” he said suddenly, panic threading through his voice again, louder now, sharper. “They’re going to take them both and say I did something wrong, I didn’t do anything wrong, I just wanted to help her—”
“You did help her,” you said immediately, stepping closer despite the risk, your voice stronger now, anchoring, trying to pull him back before he slipped too far. “You got her here, you stayed with her, you made sure she was safe, that’s what matters—”
The doors burst. It happened too fast, too loud, the controlled entry anything but subtle as voices shouted, commands cut through the air, the fragile balance shattering in an instant as everything you had been holding together snapped apart.
“Drop the weapon!”
The man flinched, his head whipping toward the sound, the gun lifting instinctively, his grip tightening in pure reflex as the room exploded into motion.
“No—” he started, his voice breaking—
Gunshots rang out.
One.
Two.
Three.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, sharp and violent and final, and for a split second everything went white, your ears ringing, your body reacting before your mind could catch up as the force of something slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs as you stumbled back, your hands instinctively reaching out for anything, anyone.
Maya screamed. The baby cried.
And then, silence crashed back in, heavy and suffocating.
You hit the floor hard, the world tilting sharply as pain flared, bright and overwhelming, your vision blurring at the edges as you tried to orient yourself, your chest heaving as you fought to breathe through it.
Across from you, the man was down. Still. Too still. Maya was crying, her voice broken, her body curled protectively around the baby even as blood stained her side, her hands shaking as she tried to hold onto everything at once. Your ears rang, the world muffled and distant as footsteps rushed in, voices overlapping, hands reaching, the scene dissolving into chaos all over again. And somewhere beyond it, just beyond the noise, just beyond the blur…a voice you knew.
