sulltrix @sulltrix - Tumblr Blog

darling, you and forever: chapter 1

Jack Abbot x F!Reader, Multi-chapter, MDNI

Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Summary: Night shifts in the Pitt had a way of stripping someone down to their core. Throw in fourth-year residency, egotistical residents, and the ever-blurring line of personal and professional between a certain night shift attending, and surviving the shift stops being the most difficult part of your job.

or: jack abbot loses a bet and it starts something neither of you meant to begin.

CW: no use of Y/N, canon-typical blood and gore, medical inaccuracies, eventual smut, MDNI!!

wc: 11.1 k

a/n: this idea has been floating around in my brain for a minute, so i finally decided to put pen to paper. comments and reblogs are welcomed. this was also posted on my ao3 so feel free spread some love over there.

The waiting room is packed.

Every single chair is occupied, with an overflow of people hugging the walls, or even sitting on the floor. The line up for registration is out the door— all people with various injuries, each in different stages of pain.

You sigh and tuck your bag closer to yourself as you begin to shuffle through the mass of bodies. Some move politely out of your way, others you have to physically shoulder past in order to reach the doors to The Pitt, vaguely registering someone shout at your back that there’s a lineup, asshole. Still, you smile at Lupe who was sitting behind the registration desk as you unlock the doors with your badge.

You’re immediately greeted with harsh overhead lights; the beeping of monitors, moans of patients in pain, the static voice of a nurse on the PA.

The familiarity of it all is comforting in the way it could only be to an emergency medicine doctor. You have practically lived at PTMC since your rotation here as a fourth-year medical student— this place brings you to life, it’s where you excel. The fast-paced environment that makes your feet ache; the triumph of solving a particularly puzzling case that earns you a nice work from your attendings; the thrill of running a code on a patient that’s lost a pulse but you bring back through pure determination and skill.

This job brings you to life, while simultaneously choking it out of you.

You make your way up towards The Hub, where you see Robby looking over Whitaker's shoulder at one of the computers, assessing what you assume to be a patient's chart. You nod at Robby when he catches your eye, which he returns with a raised hand, before turning his gaze back to the computer in front of him.

You walk past the first trauma room— currently being turned over by a member of the cleaning staff you don't recognize, then the second, which is mercifully empty— to the lockers ahead of you.

You don't think as you punch in your code; toss your bag inside, throw a black scrub top over your burgundy long-sleeve, just going through the motions of your pre-shift routine.

You begin to secure a single braid down the back of your head when you hear faint beeping of someone opening their locker next to you. You lean past where the door to your locker is blocking your view, and you see Heather grabbing things from her own.

“It’s a shit-show out there,” she says, by way of greeting. “We’ve been slammed all day.”

“Yeah, I got a small glimpse of it in chairs.” You finish securing your braid, before wrapping your stethoscope around your neck and shutting your locker. “Thanks for the heads up.”

You begin to walk backwards towards The Hub—still facing Heather—“Abbot in yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.” She closes her own locker, turning to face you. “Seriously, good luck out there tonight. I would not want to be you.”

“Thanks for instilling me with confidence, Collins.” You smile wryly.

Before you started working nights, Heather Collins was one of your favourite co-workers. Her approach to her work was enviable: her impeccable technique and vast sum of knowledge always inspired you to work just that much harder. You missed it, sometimes, day-shifts with her.

Heading back towards the hub, you pass Dana, who smiles and offers a quick hey hun before leaving for the night. A few others, doctors and nurses alike, have already left, thinning out the herd of day-shift as it transitions to night.

You stop in front of the board, reading off the patients and their RFVs as Robby comes to a stop in front of you on the other side of the desk. His glasses are sliding down his nose while he reads off of a tablet.

“What the hell is all this?” You brace your forearms on the counter’s surface, still looking up at the large TV. “You guys playing cards back here?”

Robby narrows his eyes at you, looking mildly offended. “You know, sometimes I wonder why I don't miss having you on day-shift, but then you say things like that, and I suddenly remember.”

You lower your eyes from the board and you chuckle. “Oh, come on, Doctor Robby. You know you miss me on your shifts.” You tease, grinning as he hands you the tablet. You scan it quickly, before signing and handing it back to him. “It must be so boring without me.”

“It’s certainly less lively.” He removes his glasses, hangs them off his shirt, then scans the ED while rubbing his hands together. “Where’s Abbot?”

As if on cue, he walks behind the The Hub desk and sets a coffee down in front of you, his own in his hand while he leans over a computer to clock in.

“Speak and he shall appear!” You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. Robby’s eyes jump between you, Abbot and the coffee in your hands, eyebrows raised.

“He lost a bet.” You answer Robby’s silent question. He lets out a noise that falls somewhere between a chuckle and an enervated sigh. You move to commandeer a computer to clock-in and receive your sign-outs, sitting in one of the rolling chairs when Abbot straightens and sips his coffee.

“Yeah,” he adds, with a bit of snark in his tone, “a bet that's going to cost me six dollars every day for the next month.”

“Don’t make bets you can't afford to lose.” You sing-songed to him, rolling back from the desk and spinning toward him.

“Can’t afford?” He retorts, crossing his arms. “Are you calling me broke?”

“Never,” you claim, placing a hand on your chest in mock offense. “Just think of this as an investment in humility.”

He shakes his head at you, but you don't miss the ghost of a smile that creeps up on his face.

Jack Abbot has been a fixture on the night-shift long before you came around. You met in passing during your years as a medical student and resident, but it wasn't until your fourth year that you officially made the switch. Night-shifts in the Pitt had a way of stripping someone down to their core. It tested your patience, your skill— when the witching hour hits and you're facing MVCs and GSWs while exhaustion weighs down on your bones, finding the drive to keep pushing through sometimes feels utterly impossible.

But Abbot never wavered, always steadfast in his duty to help those who could not help themselves. There was an unmistakable tacticalness that he ran the ED with— he organized chaos into strategy, was decisive when the seconds mattered, and could pull-off a unique, almost bat-shit crazy procedure that would save a patient that had next to no chance of making it. But above all else, he always had absolute faith in the people he worked with.

You were surprised, the first time he let you execute one of his insane ideas on a patient. You were unsure; it was risky and you’d never done anything like it before. You looked at him, eyes wide, about to ask him to take over when he just said, You can do this. His tone was steady, certain. Like he was stating a matter of fact instead of opinion. His eyes showed no sign of doubt, completely and utterly confident in your abilities.

You saved that patient, under his careful guidance, you saved the patient. And when it was done, when the patient was rolled up to surgery, he turned to you, a small smile on his face and something that might have been pride in his eyes, and said, Told you.

That was one thing you always admired about Abbot. He knew when and how far to push you so that you gain valuable experience, but never so far that it tears at your confidence.

You stand from your chair, walking back over to where you left your coffee before leaning back against the desk.

“So, Cap,” You begin, crossing one ankle over the other. “What’s the damage?”

Robby turns from where he was speaking with Lena, who came in from… somewhere. She grins at you before rushing off. Robby blows out a breath and places his hands on his hips turning to you and Abbot.

“You’ve got a sixteen-year-old girl with menstrual cramps in North 1,” He starts, turning and pointing a finger in the direction of North 1. “She’ll need an ultrasound, maybe a CT to rule out anything serious.”

Robby continues, listing off patients in different rooms, and the longer he goes on, the more you realize how totally and irrevocably fucked you are. Central 10 and 13 are waiting on Ortho consults, which means they'll be here all night. There’s a combative 53 year-old male boarding in BH1 waiting on a Psych consult, so he'll also be here all night, meaning there’s now nowhere to park the aggressive drunks that will inevitably roll in later. South 21, persistent vomiting, waiting on CT. Central 7, perfed-bowel waiting for surgery. South 19, full-thickness burn from boiling water on the chest, needs monitoring and a spot in the burn unit.

It doesn't end. Three-quarters of these patients are waiting on tests and consults that will take twice as long to get at night, not to mention the waiting room that is still completely clogged with people. You cast a sideways glance at Abbot, and now Ellis, who has joined in half way through Robby’s speech.

Abbot’s eyebrows are knotted tightly on his face, already concocting a battle plan in his head to try and clear out the place. Ellis looks like Robby is reading out her obituary. You probably don’t look much better.

“Well,” Robby finishes, clapping his hands together, “I think that's it.”

“Thats it?” You echo incredulously, placing your coffee on the table with a thunk.

“Help! Somebody, please help!”

You all turn to look toward the ambulance bay doors, where a young woman has the arm of a second woman slung over her shoulders. Blood stains their skin, who it belongs to or where it’s coming from, you can’t tell.

“Well, there's that.” Robby offers, but you’re already moving.

You snag a set of gloves while Ellis yells for a gurney, and when you reach them, it's apparent that the second young woman is in much worse condition than the former. Her long, black hair is blocking the view of her face, but your eyes don't linger there long anyway. They fall to the massive amount of blood inked across her shirt— wet, actively oozing from somewhere.

Fuck.

“What happened?” You question the woman holding the injured one up, as a gurney slides in beside you. Abbot comes up next to you and helps one of the nurses lift her into the bed before wheeling her off to trauma one.

“We were cutting through the park off of Fenharrow, trying to get to a bar,” she stutters out, looking toward where Abbot and Robby have wheeled her away, “A man came out of nowhere! He tried to grab my purse but Chelsea grabbed it back so—” she hiccups, tears streaking through the blood on her face, gasping for a breath. “He shot her in the stomach!”

“Abbot!” You call out, turning your head toward Trauma 1, where they’ve just gotten the doors open and are wheeling her in.

His eyes shoot to yours, assessing both you and the woman in front of you.

“Her name is Chelsea, GSW to the abdomen.”

He nods, quickly adding, “If she’s stable we're gonna need you!”

You acknowledge him, before turning back to the sobbing girl, placing your hands on her shoulders. “How do you know her?”

“She’s my roommate.”

“Do you know if she’s allergic to anything?” You question, keeping your voice calm and stable so as to not rattle the already shaking girl.

“No, I don't think so.” The girl's eyes land back on the trauma room doors, where they begin to work on Chelsea.

“Ok, what's your name?”

“Rebecca.”

“Rebecca, are you hurt?”

“No,” her voice shakes when she responds. “There was only one shot, and I was out of the way.”

“Ok— Lena,” You turn to where the night-shift charge nurse has returned behind The Hub. She’s already moving towards you, murmuring a soft I'll take her, as you rush off to Trauma 1.

When you enter, a wave of copper and antiseptic floods your senses and sticks to the back of your throat. You chuck your bloodied gloves into the bin without looking, a nurse already tossing you a second pair. You pull them on as you move, donning a white gown to protect your scrubs.

The room is a blur of motion.

People move around each other like it's a practiced dance— monitors chime in an overlapping rhythm, a voice rattles off medications, nurses grab supplies.

“BP is cycling.”

“SATS down to ninety-two.”

You look up at the cardiac monitor and— fuck.

“We’re gonna need to intubate.” You say, moving toward the patient's head before you hear a response. A nurse hands you a laryngoscope and an ET tube, knowing exactly what you need before you ask. “Drop Ketamine and ROC.”

“Already done,” Robby calls back. He stands at the end of the bed, keeping the room under his watchful eye.

They’ve cut the girl’s shirt, exposing her chest, abdomen, and a small hole just above her navel that's pouring out blood. The wound itself is unimpressive, but you know the havoc it is certainly wrecking under her skin.

“Alright, let's get some pressure on that!” Abbot orders, and a nurse is right there with gauze, putting pressure on the wound. “Massive Transfusion Protocol. Let's put in some orders.”

Ellis is at the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard while she lists off blood products like grocery items. “Page Surgery.”

You turn back to the girl.

You let the noise and chaos fall to a faint hum in the back of your mind, your focus completely set on this intubation. This patient. You’ve done this some many times you could do it asleep. Muscle memory kicks in before your brain has time to tell your hands how to move and the intubation is finished before you even realize it.

“Yellow on the end-tidal.” You say, to no one in particular.

“Great.” Abbot responds, having moved to the end of the bed next to Robby. “Surgey can take her.”

When the consult came in, you don't recall. Your focus was entirely on the patient and the intubation and not entering the esophagus. You take a deep breath as the girl is rolled out of the room, a surgical resident and nurse with her.

You can't help but notice how small she looks on the gurney. Her frame is dwarfed by the machines and people leaning in to assess her. You weren't able to get a complete history from her friend, but she couldn't be older than 23— just a young woman looking for a fun night out. How quickly a night can turn.

Robby turns to speak with Ellis, quietly discussing patient handover and something else you can't quite hear, when Abbot walks towards you.

“Nothing like a crash intubation to start the night.” He tosses his gloves and gown in the bin then stops in front of you. “Good work. You handled that well.”

It startles you into motion. Realizing you're still standing there with your gown and gloves on, you toss them in the bin. You turn back to Abbot, who surveys you with a look you can’t quite place. You don't really know what to do with his praise, this look, you never do. It's loaded with enough pride that makes you squirm. So, fall back on old habits.

“Please, I could do an intubation blindfolded.” You smirk, sliding past him and out the doors of the trauma room. You feel his presence beside you when you stand in front of the board again, trying to decide which patient to pick up.

“Oh yeah?” He challenges, reaching over the top of the desk for his coffee. “Then how would you see the cords smartass?”

“With my mountainous talent, obviously.”

“Is your mountainous talent as big as your mountainous ego?”

You cut him a sharp look, but the corner of your mouth tugs up before you can stop it. Abbot has the good sense not to comment.

“I’m going to Central 11,” You say, “Seven-year-old with a rash. I bet it's chicken pox.”

“No more bets.” Abbot begins to move behind the desk again, reaching down and holding out your coffee to you. “This one is costing me enough.”

You chuckle, raising the coffee in thanks, before turning and heading off.

~~~~~

Your kid with a rash turned out to be a simple case of poison ivy. You had him wash his feet with dish soap and prescribed a calamine lotion to ease the itching. You discharged him with instructions to go see his family doctor if the rash didn't ease within forty-eight hours.

You go back to The Hub and page Ortho again for the patients waiting on consults in 10 and 13. Though, you figure they're all too busy shopping for Audis and Muskoka cottages to even bother looking at their pagers. You pick up two more patients: abdominal pain you put in line for a CT and a hand laceration from a kitchen knife that you have an intern stitch up. You barely get a start on charting for your kid with a rash before you get pulled in on another trauma.

Thirty-two year old male with glass in, well… everywhere. Supposedly, a bar fight over a Hockey game which ended with him through a window. You get him stabilized and up to CT before Surgery takes him to remove the glass from his body.

You get back to The Hub to continue charting when a voice you don’t recognize calls out: “Someone call for an Ortho consult?”

You spin from your place at the computer and see a middle-aged doctor in navy scrubs and a white lab coat looking way too well rested for your liking. He’s got dark stubble growing on his chin, enough to make you question whether he forgot to shave or if it’s entirely intentional. You catch what looks to be a Rolex peeking out from the cuff of his white lab coat and internally roll your eyes.

So he’s one of those.

You tilt your head at him, narrowing your eyes and plastering a nasty smile on your face.

“Well, thank you for finally gracing us with your presence.” Your voice drips with sarcasm and barely concealed frustration. “Keeping two patients waiting for almost—” you check the time— 12:23 AM, Jesus— “Six hours has got to be a new record.”

You want him to balk at your rudeness, bristle and get all offended so you can lay into him some more. But, he doesn't do any of that. In fact, he just smiles, wickedly, like a cat that’s laid its eyes on a mouse for the first time in days. You can practically see the cloud of arrogance that floats around him, his pride comes off of him in waves as pungent as his cologne.

You squint at the embroidery on his white coat— Doctor Luke Myers.

“It’s busy tonight.” He tilts his head slightly, the smile stretching across his face tells you they’ve been anything but busy. “And things aren't always as urgent as they seem.”

His deliberate refusal to be moved by your frustration only serves to heighten your anger. “I think I know enough to recognize when a broken bone requires surgery.”

“I’m sure you do,” he drawls, unabashedly looking you up and down.

You don't respond, lifting your brows at his boldness and crossing your arms over your chest. His eyes track the movement and linger. It makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You need him gone, so you deadpan: “Central 10 and 13.”

“10 and 13?” His eyebrows raise and it feels mocking, like he’s having fun. You just stare blankly at him, no longer wanting to feed into whatever he thinks this is. “You want to walk me there? I get so turned around in this place.”

“Can’t,” you shoot back, turning toward your computer again to finish putting in your orders, “it’s busy tonight”

You let your voice draw out the words as you sign out of the computer and walk off toward your next patient. You hear him call out something like thanks a lot, sweetheart that makes you want to spin right back around and introduce his face to your fist, but you refrain. You take the long way around to North 1 to give you a second to cool off.

You’re not sure what’s got you so testy. Maybe it’s the six-hour waits for patients who do not need to be in pain for that long. Maybe it's the fact that you don't need an ortho consultation to know when bones need surgery, but policy always seems to outrank judgement. Maybe it's the fact that you’ve been dealing with misogynistic, egotistical men your entire career, who allow what's between your legs to stop them from acknowledging what's between your ears.

By the time you’ve made it to the curtain of north one, you realize your cool-off walk has done nothing to actually cool you off. Your face feels hot, your stomach feels like its churning acid, your heart pounds against your ribs, your thoughts spiral, each one more bitter than the last.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your nervous system out of this attack mode it’s found itself in, and when you open your eyes—

“What’s got you picking a fight so early in the shift?”

Abbot.

He’s stood in front of you with his arms by his sides, surveying you like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb. Where he came from or how he knows you're a powder keg ready to blow, you don’t know.

“I—” You falter, not sure how to explain to your attending that you let your temper get the better of you, let it distract you from your work. “I don't know. That guy just got under my skin, that's all.”

“What did he say to you?” He coaxed, crossing his arms over his chest. His brows pinch, concern etched in his features. You know Abbot is protective of his staff—you’ve seen him lay into a few drunk guys who got too handsy with a nurse countless times since you’ve worked here. It’s unsurprising he’s the same way with you.

“He didn't say anything— do anything,” You reassure, blowing out a breath, shoulders sagging. You feel your heart slow, your breath comes in a little more even, the blood that’s rushed to your face retreats. You feel steady again. “I’m just angry at the system. And he seems like one of those guys that likes to feed the system.”

Abbot nods in complete understanding. He doesn't criticize your reaction, brush it off or try to fix it. He just nods, listens. Lets you stand there with him for a few more moments while you collect the last bits of yourself. Where most people would rush to fill the space with reassurance or advice, he doesn’t. He doesn't treat your emotions like something to fix, just lets them exist, trusting you can handle it. This is well-worn ground too. Whether it’s floating in each other's presence on the roof after a hard shift, or standing in silence in the ambulance bay during a rare, but needed break. It's comforting— grounding, in a way it isn't with anyone else.

You let air fill your lungs one last time, before setting it free. “I’m good,” you reassure again, “Really, I’m good.”

You only now realize that he hasn’t actually asked if you’re okay, not once.

But when lines on his face soften, you know he's let you come to that conclusion on your own.

“Alright,” He says, nodding once, “Find me if you need me.”

His hand falls to your shoulder as he passes, giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze, before he’s out the door, fading into the chaos of the ED.

You glance down at your shoulder as if you could see an imprint of his hand left on your scrubs. You don't see one, but let the warmth of it seep it into your skin.

What is the matter with you?

You shake your head, take a final, steadying breath, and pull back the curtain to see your next patient.

~~~~~

“Can I confer with you on something?”

Jack looks up from where he’s signing a discharge form on a tablet—handing it back to the nurse beside him with a polite thank you—to see you sitting at one of the smaller work stations off of Central 9. “Of course.”

He stands behind your chair and watches as you pull up an ultrasound result on the computer in front of you. Nothing immediately jumps out at him, but he lets you present the case to get the full picture.

“Fiona Rivers, sixteen,” You begin, "complaining of painful menstrual cramps with little relief after 5 milligrams of morphine. She’s been here for four separate visits prior to this one, all with the same complaint. I did an ultrasound, looking for ovarian cysts and signs of endometriosis, but I didn't find anything.”

Jack lets your words fill in the gaps of information left by the ultrasound, and, well… you're right. There is nothing there to suggest this patient has any cysts or endometriosis. He looks at the chart you’ve pulled up beside the images and sees you’ve also completed a standard set of labs, all looking normal.

His instincts kick in, offering up differentials and treatment options, but he holds his tongue. Jack knows you’ve likely already got your own plan formulating in your head, and he has always preferred to hear them first, not wanting to take over when you can navigate a challenge perfectly on your own.

Even when you were a med-student, and he’d find himself on those rare day-shifts, he knew your instincts were not something that could be taught. You were a little underconfident, still had years worth of experience to gain, but your thought-process, the way you approached difficult tasks and communicated with your patients? It was something he usually saw in his third or fourth year residents, and now that you were one… well he doesn't know how he’d run the ED without you. You're the eye of the hurricane that is this place. Calm, collected, always right where he needs you. He can trust you to handle tricky procedures and even trickier patients without hovering over your shoulder. Not that you’d let him. Where you used to be hesitant and uncertain, you're now assertive and self-assured.

He’ll never admit it, but you're his favourite resident and he’s proud of how far you’ve come. When it comes time for you to select a fellowship, he knows he’ll have to fight tooth and nail to keep you.

“What are you thinking?” He asks. Your lips twist in a way that tells him you're biting the inside of your cheek, whether you realize it or not.

“I’m thinking this much pain even after 5 milligrams of morphine is abnormal,” You respond, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the desk, “I don’t want to rule out endometriosis just yet, because it doesn't always show up on standard ultrasound. I’d like to send her for a transvaginal ultrasound, which will be better at catching any peritoneal implants. If something shows up on the imaging, then I’ll consult Surgery for a diagnosis.”

Jack hums softly in agreement. “I agree. Put in your orders.”

It's less of an approval and more of a loop-in. Just you letting him know what you were already going to do.

You turn back to the screen and begin writing up orders, fingers flying over the keyboard before pulling out your pager, and requesting a consult from what he assumes to be gynecology. He goes to turn away but notices your coffee—or rather the one he bought you— left a few feet from where you're sitting. He picks it up, the weight of it in his hands suggesting you’ve barely had a few sips.

You begin to push back from the desk, but before you stand he places the forgotten coffee in front of you.

“Drink this,” He orders, “It cost me six dollars.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” You intone, but you take the coffee in your hand, “twice now.”

“I’ve mentioned it twice because six dollars for a coffee is insane.” Another nurse hands him a tablet with another discharge for him to sign. He paces away slightly as he does, but he can see a smirk forming on your lips in his periphery.

Oh lord.

“Hey, I never said you had to buy me a coffee,” You inform him, taking a sip before continuing, “I said you had to bring me a coffee. I would’ve taken one from home. Hell, I would've taken one from the shitty pot in the staff lounge.”

He lifts his eyes from the screen and pins you with a knowing look. You’d never accept coffee he got from the staff lounge pot.

You rise, likely having the sense to exit this conversation before he turns it on you.

“All I’m saying is you didn't have to buy the expensive one.” You edge out from behind the desk and move out into the main area.

If he’s being honest, he couldn’t care less about the price of the coffee. He likes to provoke you, watch your eyes spark with a wickedness he knows means you got something sharp about to fly off your tongue. This is just another opportunity for that. It's playful, easy.

But he didn't even think of it, not really anyway. When he walked into the café he somehow knew you liked, and bought you your six-dollar usual that he’d somehow memorized— he didn't second-guess it until Robby eyed the cup in your hand, recognizing it for what it was.

Or for what it isn't. Because it's just coffee. He lost a bet and he's honoring it. That's all this is.

He finishes reviewing the discharge, then hands the tablet back to the nurse with a nod. Jack's eyes track your movements to The Hub where you rest your hip on the edge and chat with Lena. Your posture is relaxed and an easy smile lights up your face as Lena laughs at something you’ve said.

Whatever intense anger you harbored from earlier has disappeared, replaced with the steadiness he’s grown familiar with. It eases his worry.

He watched you interact with the resident from Ortho while supervising an intubation, so he couldn't hear what was said, but he gleaned enough from the way you tensed, how your eyebrows rose on your forehead, the way you crossed your arms.

He knows you don’t launch genuine anger at just anybody, and he’s only had to be on the receiving end of it once to know it's not a nice place to be. But this guy just took it like you were a child throwing a tantrum, smiling condescendingly instead of apologizing, not only to you but the patients he’s kept waiting in pain for hours on end. He recognized the shape of this conversation. The tone. It’s the kind of exchange that leaves behind no evidence, but he knows will linger long after it's finished. He would have gone out there and to give him a piece of his mind if he could’ve, but he was tied up, and by the time the intubation was over you had walked off and the resident went to find his patients.

He was standing in front of you a minute later, before he even realized he had followed. And when you told him about the resident—about the system you thought he perpetuated— he understood. Understood the emotions that swell when patients are spit out by a system that aims for their wallets and not quality care. He understood, too, the barriers you would’ve faced, that you continue to face, as a female physician, and how it must add extra weight to the already heavy baggage you carry on a day-to-day basis.

He didn’t offer much—couldn’t really. There’s not much to say in moments like those that don’t sound hollow. So instead, he let you gather yourself. Let you take a brief minute to quell your anger before treating a patient, parting with an absent squeeze to your shoulder as he moved past.

His attention drifts to where it never really left, your smile still lingering as Lena launches into a story. He forces his eyes away, scanning the ED, its patrons and staff. His eyes catch Ellis talking with an elderly woman, then follows a nurse who darts in front of them carrying vials of blood, across to a monitor that beeps quietly in the otherwise loud environment. A clock on the wall reads 1:04 AM, and he sighs.

Barely half-way through this shift and he can already feel the pain threatening where his prosthetic meets his leg. He shifts his weight for a few moments, but it only serves to put pressure on where his heel aches.

So, he accepts his fate and moves to see another patient, sending a silent prayer to someone—anyone— that this shift might pass quicker than it’s come.

~~~~~

You love Lena.

Really, you do. She’s an excellent charge nurse: always keeping things moving, could recite the names and room numbers of every patient that resides in the ED, and constantly seems to be three steps ahead of everyone else.

Which makes her perceptive. Extremely perceptive.

Maybe it comes with the territory. She’s not only in charge of anticipating the needs of her nurses but also the doctors she works with—more often than not she rattles off orders for patients before the words have time to form on your tongue. She knows what you need before you even know you need it.

It’s incredibly helpful when it comes to patient care, and incredibly annoying when it comes to your personal life.

“So,” she starts, "what's with the coffee?”

You don’t look up from where you are writing discharge notes for a patient, typing furiously about oral antibiotics and wound care. Her words register a second later and your fingers stall their sprint over the keyboard.

“What do you mean?” You ask cautiously, looking up at her briefly before your fingers resume moving. “It’s my usual.”

“But it doesn’t usually come from Jack.” You can feel her eyes pinning you to your seat even when you don't meet them.

“So?” you puzzle, keeping your eyes trained to the screen, “How do you even know that?”

“I see all, know all,” she responds, “like Jesus.”

An uncontrolled laugh flies from your mouth, eyes flicking up to meet Lena’s, who grins right back at you. You rise from your seat, shaking your head, the coffee in your hand starting to feel like the center of this shift.

“Alright, well, relax, Jesus. He lost a bet.”

“What kind of bet?” Her eyes brows lift mischievously.

“Wouldn’t Jesus know that?” You say, by way of response.

You suppose you could tell her. It’s not like it's a secret. In fact, you’ve been enjoying getting to boast about your victory over Abbot. But the way she looks at you makes you feel transparent.

Like she can see past the punchline.

The cup is suddenly heavy in your hand. The last of its warmth seeps into your fingers and fades.

You flit your eyes up to where Abbot had stood minutes ago—where his presence was a steady pillar at your back. You swear you could still feel it linger there and you have the sudden urge to smile—

What is the matter with you?

You snap your eyes back to Lena like a whip, but not fast enough. Her gaze follows to where yours had held, then slowly drags back to you.

Extremely perceptive.

“Don’t.” You rise from your seat, the coffee in your hand starting to feel like the center of this shift.

“I didn't say anything.” She raises her palms in defense, but the corner of her mouth lifts

“Mhm.” You turn, making to leave, when Doctor Luke Myers steps directly into your path.

You nearly collide with him.

He grins, not making a move to step out of your space, “Hello again, sweetheart.”

“That’s doctor, to you.” Your voice turns hard, body going rigid as you take a step back. You can feel Lena watching you two carefully from The Hub.

“My apologies, Doctor.” He says it in a way that a parent might to their child playing dress up.

Your anger boils back up like it never left, hot and wild. But you check it, draw it back in and set your face in a mask of cool professionalism, refusing to give this guy an inch.

“What can I do for you?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Your cases in 10 and 13 both need surgery.” He folds his arms and begins to explain the breaks to you: their type, severity, how complicated and challenging both surgeries will be. You groan internally.

“Thank you,” you cut him off, not being able to listen to another second of his mansplaining, “but I understand these cases perfectly fine.”

Lena shuffles by with a hand on your shoulder and a pointed look. You nod, letting her know you’re okay, that she doesn't need to hover, as she strides away.

“It never hurts to gain another perspective.” You draw your attention back to Doctor Myers, the muscles in your face shifting faintly in shock. He has some nerve, you’ll give him that.

“If I recall correctly,” you say tartly, annoyance dripping back into your voice, “I did tell you they would have to go to surgery.”

“You have good instincts.” He shrugs, his praise patronizing, voice dripping with indulgence— like you somehow stumbled on something clever. “I’d like to see more of it in action.”

His smile turns feline and he inches imperceptibly closer. You slide away, the back of your thighs hitting the chair you were sitting in minutes before. You need more space— more distance, but there’s not really anywhere to go that won’t require you brushing past him. And you can’t trust he'll move back if you take a step forward.

“We’ll come grab Central 10 in the morning.”

“In the morning?” You bristle, “take them now.”

“The orthopedic surgeon is not here right now.”

“You have beds upstairs.”

“You have beds down here.”

“Not really,” your voice rises just enough to be a challenge, “These patients will pay a fortune if they sit down here all night. And we need the beds for the other dozen patients sitting in the waiting room.”

He studies you for a beat too long.

“I guess I could take them,” he says slowly.

Silence stretches between you two.

“But?” You ask, impatiently.

His mouth curves.

“Dinner,” he adds lightly, “with me.”

You must look absolutely ridiculous, because you just stand there, mouth agape, arms slacking at your sides. You’re almost not sure you heard him correctly, because there is no way he is that idiotic.

“Are you negotiating patient care for a date?” You ask, utterly perplexed.

“I’m negotiating with you.” His words drip with honey, but it feels oily where it settles against your skin. He thinks you're into this—thinks that your verbal sparring was somehow you flirting back.

Fuck professionalism.

You take a step forward, no longer caring whether he moves away—which he does not.

“How about you take my patients, now, because it's clinically appropriate,” you demand, voice dangerously quiet, “and not because you think I owe you something.”

You shoulder past him, aiming to put as much space as possible between you two, heading for the ambulance bay. You need air—you need to not feel so… inhuman.

The bay doors slide open with a mechanical sigh, the night air sharp against your skin. You let it slide down your throat and into your lungs—it feels good. You tilt your head up towards the sky, searching for stars you won’t see this deep in the city and blow out the air sitting in your lungs.

You want to scream. Want to slam your fists against the walls of the hospital until the stone cracks and crumbles to its foundations.

Instead, your hands curl into fists at your side.

The anger isn’t explosive. It’s dense—heavy. It sits behind your ribs with a heartbeat of its own, pulsing and pounding and burning. You don't bother trying to rein it in anymore, letting it flow through you with abandon.

How dare he.

Treating your patients like bargaining chips, treating you like—

How dare he.

You don't know how long you stand there for. You just stare and stare and stare at the sky until sirens rip through the quiet.

You let out a chuckle that's void of humour. There is no space for anger here. No time.

So you shove it down and move.

~~~~~

You meet the ambulance when it pulls into the bay.

It carries a twenty-nine year-old male, Dylan, with a temperature of 104 and difficulty breathing, accompanied by his fiance.

His fiance—Daniel—who never lets go of his hand the entire way. Not during the transfer: the work up, the intubation. Not when you send off labs, blood work, and tests. He never leaves his side, knuckles white where their hands are entwined.

You watch from where you're sitting at a desk as Daniel whispers something against Dylan temple.

A soft, sad smile tugs at the corners of your mouth and something pinches in your chest.

Their love was palpable. Thick and heavy that comforted rather than suffocated. It rinses your earlier interactions from you like water, reminding you of the kind of love that asks for nothing, that is free.

You’ve had boyfriends, flings. A nice guy during your undergrad who never let you drive his car, but always let you claim the front seat. A douchebag during med-school who complained about your lack of attention, then cheated on you—twice. And a situationship during your R3 year that was more about stress-relief than anything tangible.

You're not sure whether you’ve ever been in love. Truly in love. The kind that alters gravity: shifts your center before you even realize you’re falling. You’ve wanted, lusted. But the kind of love that sits by your hospital bed at three in the morning hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings that you may not be able to hear—you’ve never had that.

Maybe you’ve never been in love because you never made room for it. You had your life set up like a trauma room—everything always in reach, organized and controlled. There is no shelf space for something so messy.

That pinch behind your chest returns. Not hot like jealousy, but an ache like desire.

Desire for that kind of love, for that kind of life.

You drag your eyes away from the couple and back to your screen, rotating your neck to ease the pain forming where it meets your shoulders.

The time in the corner of the screen reads 3:51 AM.

Since your breather in the ambulance bay, you somehow got busier. Between the trauma, your existing patients, and the ones you picked up from the waiting room, you're slammed. In fact, this might be the first time you've sat down since then.

Your coffee is discarded off to your left, cold and half empty.

You feel a heaviness start to weigh down on your bones, your eyelids getting harder to keep open. You place your elbows on the desk and rub your eyes with the backs of your hands.

You can’t wait for this shift to be over.

“You better not be falling asleep over there.”

You lift your head, spinning the chair to where Abbot’s replacing a tablet on the rack.

He looks just about as tired as you feel. His salt and pepper curls lay a little flatter on his head, you can see the blossoming of dark circles under his eyes, and the way he favours his left leg suggests his prosthetic is starting to ache.

It was an accident, finding out about his leg.

You knew he was ex-military, it didn't take a genius to discover that, but you never really asked about it. You made assumptions. Likely Middle East, somewhere hot. Saving soldiers who fought for your country, who fought for others.

But it wasn't your business, so you never asked.

Until—after a particularly rough night when you shuffled off to a patient room to cry— you found him, hunched over and massaging the residual limb, prosthetic discarded on the bed.

He looked up first.

You stood frozen, one hand braced on the door, eyes wet.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, voice tight. “I didn't realize—”

“It’s fine.” He responded, almost clinically, resuming the press and pull of muscle on his leg.

You knew you should leave. This was a private moment, you didn't need to see him like this. But you were glued to the floor, questions swirling in your mind.

When did this happen?

How did this happen?

Is he in pain all the time?

Why am I still standing—

“It happened when I was in the Middle East."

His words shook you from your stupor. You realized you were staring at him and guilt flooded your body.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, the sound rough and broken, “I can go.”

You were about to pull the door closed when he cut you off.

“You don't have to.”

You stilled again and looked at him. Really looked.

His eyes weren't wet like yours, but you could see the heaviness in his shoulders, the darkness that clouded his hazel eyes.

So you stepped inside, not sitting beside him but placing your back against the wall, sliding down to the floor, knees up to your chest.

And you listened. Listened to his story, the parts he could manage to tell. You didn’t press for details and he didn't offer any. He listened to you, too. He passed you tissues when tears streaked down your face, nodded in understanding at the words that couldn't move past your lips. By the end, you were both raw: eyes red rimmed, ribs aching, voices in shreds. But the air had shifted.

You never mentioned it, and he didn't either.

Abbot keeps the wall of The Hub between you as he walks closer, bracing his forearms on the ledge. You lean back in the chair causing you to slide down a few inches.

“I’m not sleeping,” you say, “I’m—”

A yawn catches in your throat and you cover your mouth with an elbow.

“—Meditating.” You finish.

“At The Hub?”

“It’s inspirational.”

Abbot chuckles. It’s a rich sound, earthy and rough.

“Do you need anything?” He’s not looking at you when he asks, his eyes catching on where Ellis is supervising an intern suturing a patient's leg.

“A shot?” You ask, following his line of sight, watching as the intern's hands shake slightly when reaching for a pair of scissors. You slide further down the chair as his eyes find yours again.

“Of what?” He braces more weight on his arms, taking some pressure off his prosthetic.

“Preferably tequila,” you muse, using your foot to rotate the chair back and forth, “but I wouldn’t object to morphine.”

“Morphine is not going to help,” he looks you up and down, “this.”

You open your mouth to retort but he shifts his weight again, head hanging.

“Do you need anything?” You ask, pointedly. It’s a genuine question. When his leg starts to bother him he can get unintentionally snappy and the last thing this ED needs right now is a short-tempered Abbot.

He shakes his head, eyes back to scanning the ED.

“Ice pack? Ibuprofen?” You let your voice trail off, "Retirement brochure?”

His eyes swing back to yours, sharpening when they land on your frame. “Watch it.”

“What?” You absolutely know what. A ding sounds from your computer, so you turn and see a set of labs has returned on Dylan.

“You are one comment away from me giving you a sex injury in South 22.”

Your head whips to him at the same moment Ellis slides behind you, stopping abruptly.

“What did I just walk in on?” She remarks, looking half-traumitized-half-delighted for a new piece of blackmail to hold over Abbot.

You are still stuck staring at him, mouth agape. His face morphs from confusion at both your reactions, to understanding, to horror in the span of a heartbeat.

“That wasn’t— I didn’t—” he splutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Ellis joins in and soon you're both keeled over, tears spilling over your cheeks, and gasping for air. You’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable and you’ve never heard him stumble over his words before. It's weirdly refreshing. You don't often see him make mistakes, second-guess himself over patient care, and he’s annoyingly charming in most social scenarios.

This is uncharted territory. This is brilliant.

It takes another minute for you and Ellis to collect yourself, patients and staff alike watch you two like you’ve gone insane. The entire time Abbot eyes you both, red in the face, and you can't tell whether he wants to throttle you or himself.

“Freudian slip, Abbot?” Ellis teases, wiping her face with the back of her hands. It sends you into another fit.

“There’s a patient in South 22 with a sex injury.” He grounds out, not quite making eye contact with you.

“Uh-huh.” You retort, standing to round the other side of the desk. When you reach him, you pat him on the back. “I’m never letting you live this down, by the way.”

“I’ll report you to HR for workplace harassment,” he fires back.

“You’ll report me?” you taunt, “After that comment, Abbot, I don't think you’ll be the one doing the reporting.”

With one last pat, you stride off and you can hear him mutter something like I hate this place as you reach your next patient.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur. You go through the motions of assessing, treating, and discharging patients, moving quickly enough to avoid feeling the pain in your feet. You deal with a group of drunk frat boys, a GSW that comes in by ambulance, a mom that screams in your face about her sick son needing a blanket. You check your temper for the third time tonight when you argue with Abbot over the course of treatment for a diabetic patient with an extremely high blood sugar. You try to let it go, mostly because he’s your attending, partly because you know he’s not being harsh for the fun of it.

By the time the clock hits 7:00 AM, you're running on fumes. Everything is pissing you off: the lights are too bright, it’s too loud, your shoulders ache, you're giving and receiving instructions left, right, and center and you’re so over it.

You’re at one of the nurses stations, which is blissfully empty, writing up your hand-offs and finishing the bulk of the charting you didn't get done. You already know you’ll be here for at least another hour post shift to get your charting done. You usually are, which just sets to irritate you more. You can picture your bed stacked with pillows and throw blankets and wish you could be laying in it. You imagine a hot bath and a chilled glass of white wine that is wholly not appropriate for the hour but you live alone so no one would know anyway. You just want to be home, just need this shift to be over—

“Doctor—”

You jump, letting out a string of curses as you turn, finding Robby with his hands raised like he’s trying not to scare a wild animal.

“Jesus, Robby,” you breathe, putting a hand on your chest, “What is your problem?”

He tilts his head, slightly amused. “Rough night?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, “but I’ve still got at least an hour worth of charting to do so, it’s not over.”

“How about you go grab some air?” He placates, placing his bag on the counter.

“I’m fine,” you respond, albeit a little tightly, “I’ve got to finish these hand-offs for day-shift.”

“Don’t worry about hand-offs,” he brushes off, “they’re more for hospital records than our benefit.”

You hesitate. You’ll have to finish these hand-offs at some point; putting it off won't help you get out quicker. But some sun on your face sounds incredibly good right now.

“Go,” he insists, “your charting isn't going anywhere.”

“I wish it would,” you joke, but you stand and make your way to the stairs.

The climb to the roof makes your thighs burn in the way it only could after a long shift, but it’s familiar. Golden light spills over your face as you push through the doors to the roof, sun rising on the edge of the city. The late September chill slices at your skin and you tug your long sleeves down from where they were pushed to your elbows to stave off the cold.

You can be grateful for a shift like this. It was grueling, but you know you’ll sleep like the dead once you get home. There was a non-stop flow of patients, but they're stable, there was nobody you couldn't save. You can take the small win of death not following you home this morning, because Lord knows what will happen tomorrow.

Tonight. Whatever.

You allow your arms to rest on the railing blocking the edge of the roof, content to bask in the glow of the early sun and bustle of morning traffic. You let your head fall forward, stretching your neck and shoulder muscles where they cramp viscously.

You hear the whine of the roof door’s rusted hinges and a steady gate approach.

You do not need to turn to know who it is.

Abbot was the one who first showed you the roof. You had just moved to nights when you lost your first kid. Six-year-old Amelia, struck by a drunk driver in a crosswalk after walking home with her sister from ballet. You were doing CPR with tears sliding down your face, knowing you wouldn't get her back. When Abbot finally called it, you took off to the stairwell, climbed a few floors up and cried.

You cried until you couldn't breathe, until you thought you might pass out. That's when Abbot found you and dragged you up to the roof. Snow whipped at your face, shocking your system into drive, and you could finally breathe again. You stayed until you thought your fingers might turn blue, but Abbot was there, a gentle nudge with his hand on your arm got you back downstairs.

He walked you home that night. The first of many times.

Abbot comes to a stop beside you, a sweater now around his shoulders, mimicking your position on the railing. It’s only a little tense between you two after your argument earlier. He is your attending and you will always respect the years of experience he has on you, but sometimes you can't help pushing.

The woman rolled in on a gurney, unresponsive with ketones on her breath, blood sugar close to 300.

“Let’s start with 1 litre an hour of normal saline for four hours,” you had said, typing out the orders on the computer in Trauma two.

“That’s a bit aggressive don't you think?” Abbot approached from your left and watched you place the orders.

“Yes, but she needs fluids, she’s in DKA.” You responded, holding his gaze.

“Studies show that infusing fluids at a slower rate is equally as effective as an aggressive infusion,” he disputed, voice clipped, “Besides you run the risk of cerebral edema if you replenish her fluids too quickly.”

You knew you should back-off, it wasn’t worth getting into it.

“The risk of cerebral edema is low in adults with DKA.” You turned to face him fully and crossed your arms. He recognized it for the challenge it was, jaw ticking in annoyance.

“Low, but not nothing,” he argued right back, his voice low and even, “try 100 mils, per kilo, per hour first.”

“But—”

“Stop.”

It shocked you, the volume. The finality.

“Stop arguing with me about this.” He turned, peeling off his gloves and strode out.

It’s rare that he raises his voice, even in the testiest of moods. And never usually with you.

You stood there for a moment, before the compulsion to run after him and demand what his problem was kicked in. But you kept your feet planted firmly to the floor, and let it go. Or tried, whether or not you were a little short with him for the hour that remained in the shift was your business.

Standing next to him on the roof, however, made your little spat seem small. Made you feel small. You trust Abbot implicitly. Why you pushed… you guess you’ve been a little pushy all shift. Not necessarily with him, but in general.

You don’t speak for a while and you wonder if it’s because neither of you wants to concede first.

You’re like that. Well, you suppose most emergency medicine physicians are. You see everything, train for everything, and generally end up more well rounded than doctors in other specialties simply because of the exposure you receive. It’s why your egos are so big. But with time, you come to learn to check your ego at the door; to not let it override patient care.

It comes with time; experience. It’s why Abbot speaks first.

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting his hands fall open, eyes on the horizon, “about earlier. I was a little harsh.”

You take a deep breath. Somewhere below, you can hear a siren. “It’s fine. You were right about the treatment. No reason to take an unnecessary risk.”

“Yes, I know.” He turns to face you, eyes trying to catch where yours are glued to the ground. “Still, I was harder on you than needed. For that I’m sorry.”

You let your eyes find him and nod. “Thanks. I’m sorry too. For pushing when I knew I should back-off.”

“You probably picked that up from me.” The corner of his mouth lifts, eyes a little softer. “I want you to push, it’s important that you do. Your superiors aren't always right, they don’t always know more than you. There will come a time when you disagree with someone about treatment and you’ll be right and it’ll be your duty to advocate for your patient when that happens.”

You nod, letting his words sink in.

“But,” he adds, “you need to know when the right time to press is, when it’s worth arguing over. You’ll get better at that. Hell, I still need to get better at that.”

You nod again, your smile small but genuine.

“You’re great. Seriously,” he continues, “you’re one of the best residents I’ve seen come through here in years. Maybe in my entire career.”

You don’t know what to do with his words, where to put the feeling that swells in your chest when he says them. It’s one thing to receive a nice work or a good catch from him when you just do your job. It’s easy to let those ones go. But to hear him say you’re the best he’s seen in his whole career?

“Jeez,” you snort, “you must really feel bad if you’re saying all these nice things about me.”

He knows you're deflecting, you can see it in his eyes as he shakes his head. “Do you know how to take a compliment?”

“Nope. I’m incapable.”

“A trait you share with Robby.”

You chuckle at that. “I do not want to share personality traits with that man.”

“Might be too late for that, 3 years is certain to rub off on you.”

Your smile fills out as a gust of wind sends the loose strands of your braid across your face. You both fall silent again, letting the sound of the city fill in the cracks of your lack of conversation. When the sun finally peaks over a distant building, he drums his fingers on the metal railing and stands.

“You ready to get out of here?” He asks, and it’s a real question. You’re sure he’d stand here with you all day if you refused to leave, if only to make sure you didn’t jump.

“I’ve still got an hour’s worth of charting to do.” You sigh, standing and following him back to the door. “I won't be out of here for a bit.”

“Thoughts and prayers.” He jokes, holding the door open for you as you make your way back downstairs.

You end up finding a quiet room in the back of the ED to get your charting done, even managing the strength to get through your handoff reports. It’s close to 8:30 AM when you make your way back to the lockers to retrieve your things. You let your braid down and comb through it with your fingers where the curls are a little wild. The weight of your bag when you throw it over your stiff shoulders is enough to make you want to leave it here, but you won’t risk it being rifled through, so you just close your locker and head for the doors.

You're stopped by Javadi on your way out who asks about one of your previous patients in North three, then by Santos, who starts to rant about her Mom before promptly walking off, leaving you very confused. You barely make it past The Hub when Dennis walks straight into you, dropping a bunch of papers on the ground.

“What’s all this?” You ask, bending down to help him pick them up.

He starts to ramble on about applications for internships and match day and you're really trying to listen, but your eyes catch on Abbot who’s stood by the ambulance bay doors with a day shift nurse you don't recognize. He’s leaning casually against the wall: camo print bag slung over his shoulders, sweater zipped up to his waist and smiling lightly as the woman’s hands fly around in front of her. He laughs and she smiles even brighter, ever so slightly closing what was a respectful distance between the two of them. An ugly feeling stirs and your stomach, and you can't quite place why. He’s your boss, chatting with a co-worker, it doesn't mean anything. And even if it did, it’s none of your business anyway.

You shake it off, tuning back into Whitaker's rambling as you rise to hand him back his loose papers. He takes them from you, eyes darting around the ED like he’s got a hundred other thoughts running in the back of his mind as he speaks. At least you aren't the only one.

“Hey, Whitaker.” You cut him off, and his mouth snaps shut. “You are going to be a great doctor. And whatever hospital you end up at for your residency will be lucky to have you.”

He straightens a little, shoulders squaring like your words have actually done something for his confidence. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you smile, patting his shoulder as you pass by.

You walk towards the ambulance bay doors where Abbot still leans against the wall as the woman offers a goodbye. She passes you with a smile and you muster your own.

“Thought you left already?” You remark when you reach him.

“I had some stuff to finish up.” He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside you as you both wind your way between paramedics and patients on gurneys, out into the light of the day. It’s a relatively nice one, if a little windy. The temperature is cool but you know by mid-day it will be warm again.

“Are you getting up to anything today?” He asks, while you adjust your bag on your shoulders as the two of you set off down the street. “Other than sleeping, of course.”

You shake your head. “Nothing, short of an alien-invasion, will get me out of bed after that shift.”

“Well, at least if aliens abduct you you won't have to come into work.”

“Best thing you’ve said all night.”

He huffs a laugh as you turn down the next block. The morning traffic is starting to pick up— cars flowing by in steady streams, the sidewalks beginning to fill with people. The hospital fades behind you with every step.

He talks about his week; patients you hadn't known he’d seen, stories that have you clutching your chest in laughter. You tell him about panicky medical students; the continued saga of your weird neighbours, and what you’ll have to eat when you make it home. It’s light, easy. The only conversation you’d be able to hold in the state you're in.

Up ahead, the street splits and a familiar corner where you go your separate ways comes into view.

He slows when he reaches it, before stopping completely. You turn your back to your path home, watching as he fixes his bag on his shoulder.

“Do you want me to walk you the rest of the way?” He offers, like he usually does. Sometimes you’ll say yes, not quite ready to be alone yet. Sometimes, you’ll say no, needing to be as far away from anything that reminds you of work as possible or because he looks so worn out that you’re worried he might not make it back to his place. Sometimes, you don’t get a choice.

“I’m good,” you say, “go get some sleep.”

“Alright,” he concedes, raising his hand in goodbye, “you too.”

You linger longer than you mean to, until he passes behind a delivery truck and out of sight.

Then you turn and make your way towards home.