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ALL FOR SOMETHING - CH.22

Chapter Twenty-Two: I Just Wanted You To Know That This Is Me Trying

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, Talks about Addiction Recovery,

Word Count: 8.0k

A/N: A lot of sad vibes for this one. :(

Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/sammroo167. 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: this is me trying by Taylor Swift

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12:00 P.M.

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY

South 15 has turned into a code room.

The usual hum of the emergency department fades behind the sharp, relentless rhythm of compressions and alarms.

Robby is leaning over Louie’s chest, his arms locked straight as he drives compressions down hard and fast. Each push lifts his shoulders with the effort, sweat already running down the sides of his face and dripping along his jaw.

The monitor beside the bed screams its flat, merciless tone.

Langdon stands at the head of the bed, laryngoscope already in place.

“I’m in,” he says, breath tight with concentration. “Bag him.”

The ventilator bag inflates in his hand as he begins pushing air through the tube.

You’re beside the crash cart, your hands moving automatically as you place the defibrillator pads across Louie’s chest.

“Defib pads are in place.”

Robby lifts his head briefly.

“Okay. Holding compressions.”

Perlah, standing near the monitor, watches the capnography line carefully.

“Good square line on the End-Tidal CO₂.”

Langdon glances at the rhythm.

“V-fib. Charge to 200.”

Your fingers move across the defibrillator controls without hesitation.

“Charged.”

You look up at the room.

“Clear.”

Everyone’s hands lift away.

The shock button clicks.

Louie’s body jerks sharply against the bed.

Langdon moves immediately back to the airway.

“Stand by with epi.”

You’re already pulling the syringe from the tray.

Then something catches your eye.

Blood.

Dark red and thick, spilling from the corner of Louie’s mouth and running down the tube.

Robby notices immediately.

“Suction that tube,” he requests. “You’re not in the esophagus, are you?”

Langdon shakes his head firmly, grabbing the suction catheter.

“Definitely not. I passed right through the cords. Good breath sounds. End-Tidal CO₂ confirmed.”

You watch the blood pooling inside the suction tubing.

Your stomach twists.

“His lungs are filling up with blood.”

Robby exhales sharply through his teeth.

“I know.”

He glances up at the monitor.

“Okay. Rhythm check.”

Langdon studies the screen.

His voice is quieter now.

“Asystole.”

You push the epi as ordered.

“Epi’s in.”

Robby mutters under his breath.

“Fuck.”

Then he goes right back into compressions.

Hard.

Relentless.

His hands pounding against Louie’s chest while the monitor continues its flat, unforgiving line.

A minute later, your arms replace his. “Switch.”

You climb onto the stool beside the bed and begin compressions yourself, your palms pressing into Louie’s sternum as your shoulders lock into the rhythm.

Robby steps back, breathing hard, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Perlah checks the timer, “Three minutes since the last epi.”

The door opens behind you, and Dana walks in with Emma close behind her.

Dana immediately locks eyes with Robby. One look. That’s all it takes.

Robby gives the smallest shake of his head.

Dana understands.

Robby turns back toward the bed. “Hold compressions.”

You stop.

Everyone waits.

Langdon studies the monitor again.

“Asystole.”

He exhales.

“Resume CPR. Another amp of epi.”

You start compressions again, pushing down hard, counting silently in your head as sweat begins to bead along your hairline.

Perlah leans toward the suction again.

“Needs more suction.”

Dana’s voice cuts in quietly from the foot of the bed.

“Pulmonary hemorrhage from liver failure.”

Emma’s voice is small beside her. “Is he going to make it?”

No one answers.

Langdon looks at Robby, “Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Too late for that.”

He looks at Louie—really looks this time.

“And he’s not an ECMO candidate.”

Langdon hesitates as he asks, “Nothing else we can do?”

“No.” Robby’s shoulders sag just slightly.

He swallows once.

“I think we’re done.”

Your hands stop.

The flatline continues to ring through the room.

A long, hollow sound.

Perlah glances down at her watch.

“12:07.”

Silence settles over the room.

Langdon exhales slowly.

“Should we do a debrief?”

Dana shakes her head gently as she announces, “We’ve got another motorcycle injury coming in. ETA ten minutes.” She gestures toward Louie’s still body. “Why don’t we get Louie cleaned up. Move him to the viewing room.”

Robby nods.

“Yeah.”

He removes his gloves slowly, the snap of the latex sounding louder than it should in the quiet room.

“Anybody that wants to pay their respects can join us in there.”

He looks around the room.

“Thank you, everyone.”

Then he steps back from the bed, shoulders heavy, exhaustion written across his face.

Perlah’s eyes are glassy with tears.

“I’ll clean him up.”

You step closer to her.

“I’ll help.”

Dana gently shakes her head.

“Why don’t you both take five first.”

She softens her tone.

“Or ten.”

You and Perlah exchange a glance.

Then both nod.

You step out of the room together.

Perlah walks ahead down the hallway, trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill over.

She makes brief eye contact with Princess in Central 10.

Princess already knows.

You meet Princess’s gaze too and shake your head slightly.

Not this time.

Not today.

Then you turn and follow Perlah down the hall, both of you needing a moment away from the noise before the ER demands the next piece of you.

You follow Perlah down the hall, away from South 15, away from the monitor that still echoes in your ears.

But the two of you stop beside one of the thick concrete pillars near the supply carts.

Perlah presses the heels of her hands into her eyes for a second, trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders rise and fall once, sharply.

You stand beside her in silence, your own hands folded tightly across your chest as you stare down at the floor.

Louie’s laugh from earlier that morning flashes in your head.

Ah, the kid’s smart.

You swallow hard.

A few minutes pass like that.

Then Princess rounds the corner from Central 10, still holding a pair of gloves she must’ve forgotten to throw away.

She stops when she sees the two of you standing there.

Her brow furrows immediately.

“Ano nangyari?” she asks softly. (What happened?)

Perlah exhales, the word leaving her like it weighs ten pounds.

“Louie.”

Princess’s eyes widen.

“Patay?” (Dead?)

Perlah nods once.

“Pulmonary hemorrhage.”

Princess blinks, stunned.

“That was quick.”

Perlah wipes at the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand.

“I’m gonna go clean him up.”

Princess steps forward instinctively.

“I’ll help.”

Before either of you can respond, a sudden burst of shouting erupts from Central 9.

A patient’s voice—panicked and loud—echoes down the hallway.

Princess turns immediately, instinct pulling her toward the sound.

Perlah lifts a hand quickly, waving her off.

“Go, go,” she says quietly. “Okay lang.” (I can handle this.)

Princess hesitates for half a second.

Then she nods and hurries toward Central 9, already pulling on a fresh pair of gloves as she disappears around the corner.

Perlah turns toward the CWA, shoulders squaring as she processes what just happened. You step forward beside her, holding her hand while Perlah gives you a small, grateful nod.

TRAUMA PREP ROOM — DAY

The trauma prep room smells faintly of antiseptic and plastic packaging.

You and Perlah stand shoulder-to-shoulder at a supply cart, restocking airway kits and trauma dressings—hands moving automatically from muscle memory. The ER rarely gives anyone time to sit with grief. The next task always arrives first.

Perlah is sorting through IV tubing when Kim walks in, pushing the door open with her hip.

“Did you guys hear about Louie?”

Perlah pauses for a fraction of a second before nodding.

“Yeah.”

Ogilvie leans against the counter nearby, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He yawns loudly.

“Yeah, chronic alcoholic,” he mutters. “Go figure.”

The three of you turn toward him at the exact same time.

The silence that follows is sharp.

Your eyebrows lift slowly in disbelief.

Kim’s mouth falls open.

Perlah’s stare could probably sterilize surgical instruments.

For a moment you genuinely consider tackling the med student.

Before you can say anything, Whitaker appears in the doorway, already halfway through a sentence.

“Hey, fent OD in South 20 is ready for discharge, but could you get Lupe to call him a ride? I need to check on Louie.”

Perlah shifts awkwardly, trying to intercept the moment before it lands wrong.

“Uh, actually, Whitaker—”

Ogilvie cuts in casually.

“He croaked.”

The room goes still.

Whitaker blinks.

“What?”

Ogilvie shrugs like he’s reporting the weather.

“Five minutes ago. Robby called it.”

Whitaker doesn’t say another word.

He just turns and runs.

The door swings open behind him as he disappears down the hallway.

Ogilvie strolls out toward Central like he hasn’t just detonated a grenade in the room.

Perlah curses under her breath.

“Punyetang bagito.” (Fucking new guy.)

Your jaw tightens.

“Tangina niya.” (Son of a bitch.)

You start forward like you’re about to hunt the kid down personally.

Kim and Perlah grab your arms before you can make good on the impulse.

“Hey, hey—” Kim mutters.

Perlah shakes her head.

“Not worth it.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, still furious, before turning toward the door.

You head back toward Central.

Perlah peels off down the other hallway toward South 15—toward Whitaker.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

You lean your weight against the counter beside Dana, trying to steady yourself while pretending you’re just catching up on charting.

The red phone rings.

Dana answers immediately.

“PTMC charge nurse.”

She listens for a second, expression flattening.

“Langdon? Where are you? Makes sense that we'd be his emergency contact. Sorry to get your hopes up.”

She hangs up just as Perlah approaches the counter, leaning forward with tired shoulders.

Dana glances at her.

“Our social worker’s gonna do their thing. If Louie had any family left, they’ll find them.”

She studies Perlah for a moment.

“You okay?”

Perlah shrugs weakly.

“Guess it’s good it happened here. Not out on the street.”

Dana nods quietly.

“You’re both off the hook with Louie. I’m gonna teach Emma here how to clean a dead body.”

Perlah nods once and walks away again without another word.

Just then Lindsey—the ASL interpreter—approaches hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, but they need me in L&D. You might want to call for another interpreter. Busy day.”

She disappears down the hall.

Dana glances toward Central 12.

“Shit. That’s the girl in 12?”

Princess nods, scribbling notes on a scrap of paper.

“Yeah. She’s been waiting five hours. Didn’t hear her name called the first time.”

Dana sighs.

“You check on her?”

Princess shrugs. “Need to brush up on my ASL.”

You lift your head slightly. “I can do it. I’m almost certified to translate. But legally we’d still have to offer her an interpreter if she’s not comfortable with me doing it. If I get busy, Princess can do it.”

Dana looks between you and Princess.

“You both know sign language? Princess here knows six languages while Ducky knows eight.”

Emma’s eyes widen.

“I know French.”

Dana snorts.

“Okay, it’s not a contest.”

Princess grins. “Je parle un peu français.” (I speak a little French.)

You add with a small smile, “Je parle aussi un peu français.” (I also speak a little French.)

Emma claps softly. “Ah! Très bien!” (Very good!)

Dana points a finger between you all.

“No shit-talking in front of me. I get enough of that from Princess, Ducky, and Perlah.” She turns toward the hallway, before picking up a the landline, “Guess I’ll call for backup. Yo, Donnie! Did you discharge your butt abscess?”

“Not yet!” Donnie shouts back while walking toward the ambulance bay.

All four of you turn toward the sound.

Dana squints. “What the hell?”

Robby is near the donut boxes that someone is giving out near the ambulance bay.

He hums lightly. “Your good friends upstairs sent doughnuts. Special thank-you for working the holiday.”

Dana stares at the boxes like they personally insulted her.

“You got to be kidding me.”

Robby shrugs. “What were you expecting? Tacos and tequila?”

Dana folds her arms.

“Every single one of them can forget about extra shifts. Won’t hire more nurses.”

Princess adds dryly, “Won’t pay us a decent wage.”

Dana continues, “Won’t hire security that can actually protect us from patients. But absolutely—send doughnuts.”

She glances at Emma. “Sure you want to go into this line of work?”

Robby nudges a box open.

“Want me to get you one?”

Dana gasps dramatically.

“Of course I do, but I’m not taking admin’s blood pastries.”

She spots Donnie shoving a donut into his mouth.

“Et tu, Donnie?”

Donnie just keeps chewing and walks away.

Dana waves everyone off, “Okay, move it or lose it.” Then to Emma, “Meet me in South 15 with gowns and gloves.”

At that moment Medic Nguyen rolls a stretcher through the ambulance doors.

“Looks like happy hour in here.”

Dana gestures vaguely.

“Don’t ask. What’s up with Evel Knievel?”

Medic Nguyen points to the patient. “Brandon Li, 52. Fell off a motorcycle pyramid at twenty-five miles per hour.”

Dana raises a brow.

“Motorcycle pyramid?”

She tilts her head toward Robby.

“You recruiting? Got a fellow rider in your midst.”

Brandon chuckles weakly.

“No kidding.”

Robby steps closer to the stretcher. “How high up were you?”

“Top of a three-two-one. Bottom guys sit and drive the choppers. I’m fine. I don’t need all this.”

Dana asks immediately.

“Were you wearing a helmet?”

“Of course.”

Dana shoots Robby a pointed look, “Oh, what do you know? They’re still in style.”

Medic Nguyen continues the report. “Good vitals. Tender right wrist. Big left knee lac.”

“Hey—Joy, Perlah, Ducky—Trauma Two. Who else can I have?” Robby turns toward the room.

Dana answers quickly.

“Santos and Whitaker are in with Louie.”

Robby nods, “Yeah. Give me Whitaker. He could use a distraction. And Santos has been ducking traumas all day.”

“She’s behind in her charting,” Dana shrugs.

Robby replies, “Who isn’t?”

TRAUMA TWO — DAY

The trauma bay is bright with overhead lights, the steady rhythm of monitors filling the space as everyone moves with practiced precision around the stretcher.

Brandon Li lies on the trauma table, still wearing half of his riding gear, adrenaline keeping his voice lively despite the dried blood along his left knee.

“I’ve been at every Millvale Fourth of July parade since ’08,” he says proudly. “World record is forty men on seven motorcycles. I plan to beat that someday.”

Perlah gives him a supportive hum as she adjusts the rail on the bed.

“Ambitious,” she murmurs.

Across the stretcher, Santos glides the ultrasound probe across Brandon’s chest, her eyes focused on the screen.

“Good lung sliding bilaterally.”

Whitaker leans in with a penlight, lifting Brandon’s eyelids.

“Pupils equal and reactive.”

You stand at the monitor beside Robby, watching the numbers settle into a steady rhythm.

“BP one-thirty-eight over eighty,” you announce. “Pulse ninety-four. Pulse ox ninety-eight.”

Robby nods, resting a hand lightly on the edge of the bed as he looks down at the patient.

“All your vitals sound really good, Brandon.”

Then, casually—

“What do you ride?”

Brandon’s face brightens instantly.

“The Bullet.”

Robby grins.

“Oh, Royal Enfield.”

He chuckles softly.

“Ankle breaker. Thumper.”

Brandon laughs.

“Yeah. Especially on a cold day.”

Robby gestures slightly with one hand as he explains, half teaching, half reminiscing.

“They call it an ankle breaker because you’ve gotta kick over a big fat single cylinder to get it started. Sometimes five or six kicks before it catches.”

Joy steps closer to the stretcher, eyeing the soaked fabric around Brandon’s knee.

“Um, does anyone have trauma scissors? I’ll check the knee.”

Robby lifts a hand to pause her.

“Uh, not yet.”

Joy blinks.

“Why not?”

Robby glances toward Santos.

“Dr. Santos.”

Santos doesn’t look up from the ultrasound, “Primary survey means rule out life threats first. Don’t get distracted by lacerations or fractures.” She tilts the probe once more. “No free fluid in the belly.”

Joy nods slowly.

“Airway, breathing, circulation are fine.”

Robby gives an approving hum.

“Okay. That’s ABC.”

He lifts his fingers slightly.

“That just leaves two letters. Tell her about D, Dr. Santos.”

Santos finally looks up.

“Disability.”

She turns toward Brandon.

“Wiggle your toes, sir.”

Brandon obliges immediately.

Whitaker presses along Brandon’s limbs methodically.

“Any pain in your arms or legs?”

“Not really.”

Whitaker presses along the spine.

“Does it hurt when I push here?”

“No.”

Whitaker nods.

“Okay. No midline tenderness. Nexus negative.”

Santos glances at the monitor again.

“With no obvious brain injury or spinal cord injury.”

Robby spreads his hands.

“That just leaves E.”

He looks at Joy expectantly, but Joy sighs dramatically. “Can I buy another vowel?”

Robby gestures toward Whitaker. “Dr. Whitaker.”

Whitaker answers immediately, “Exposure.”

Santos smirks.

“A.K.A. strip and flip. Cut off his clothes and we’ll log roll him.”

The door swings open, and Dr. Garcia steps in briskly. “What do we have?”

Santos answers without missing a beat. “Helmeted motorcycle acrobat. Eight-foot fall standing on top of five riders. Primary survey normal, E-FAST negative.”

Garcia nods once and steps closer to the bed. “Another motorcycle accident. Hello, sir. I’m Dr. Garcia from surgery.”

“Hello.”

Santos positions herself at Brandon’s shoulder.

“Okay, we’ll roll him in three… two… one.”

The team moves together smoothly, rolling Brandon onto his side so Santos can inspect his back before easing him flat again.

A moment later, Brandon looks toward Robby again.

“What year is your Bonneville?”

Robby’s expression softens with quiet pride, “’69.” He smiles slightly. “Rescued it from a motorcycle graveyard. Brought it back to life with a buddy of mine who’s supposed to be coming in today.”

“How often do you ride?” Brandon grins, and Robby shrugs, “I ride it into work every day.”

“Good for you.”

At the exact same moment, you and Perlah speak. “Don’t encourage him.”

The words overlap perfectly. For a split second, Robby glances at you, but your eyes flick away almost immediately.

You clear your throat, turning back to the monitor.

“CT’s ready for Brandon.”

Santos nods but gestures toward the knee wound.

“As soon as we take a look at this knee.”

Joy carefully cuts through the fabric.

Then stops.

“Whoa.”

Garcia leans closer and mutters, “Through the deep fascia.”

Brandon shifts nervously. “How’s it look?”

Whitaker studies the wound.

“Definitely gonna need stitches.”

Brandon winces.

“How many?”

Santos answers bluntly.

“A lot.”

Robby studies the wound carefully.

“It could be an open joint.”

Garcia nods.

“We’ll do a saline load after CT.”

Whitaker finishes checking the leg.

“Okay. Lever sign negative. ACL intact.”

Perlah unlocks the bed wheels with a metallic click and nods toward the hallway.

“Okay, ready to roll.”

STAFF LOUNGE — DAY

After Brandon is wheeled upstairs to CT, Perlah stays behind with the transport team to keep an eye on him.

You don’t follow.

Instead, you drift down the quieter hallway toward the staff lounge, the kind of slow walk that looks casual to anyone passing by but is really just you trying to keep the pieces of yourself from spilling everywhere.

The lounge is empty when you step inside.

Both doors on each end close with a soft click.

The hum of the refrigerator and the distant havoc of the ER through the walls are the only sounds.

You sink down into one of the old lounge chairs and pull your knees up toward your chest, arms wrapping around them tightly. The posture is instinctive—something small and contained, like if you hold yourself together hard enough nothing inside you will fall apart.

You stare at the floor for a long moment.

Then the other door opens.

You glance up.

Langdon steps inside, looking just as tired as everyone else in the department. He pauses when he notices you, then walks over and drops into the chair beside yours.

Neither of you says anything right away.

Langdon gestures toward the couch across the room.

The Resusci Anne mannequin is still lying there from some forgotten training session, plastic smile frozen in place. Someone has wrapped red, white, and blue tinsel around its neck like a ridiculous patriotic scarf.

Langdon points, “Did you do that?”

“My sense of humor is astounding,” You tilt your head, pretending to consider it.

He huffs a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It always was.”

The quiet settles again. Not awkward—just ponderous. Eventually you glance sideways at him, “Are you like this right now because Louie died?”

Langdon exhales slowly, looking down at his hands.

“I’m sad about Louie,” he admits. “But… yeah. There’s something else that’s been bothering me.”

You shift slightly in your chair.

“You wanna talk about it?”

He hesitates for a moment, like he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head a dozen times already.

“I heard from a couple of people what happened after Robby found out I’d been stealing meds from the ER,” he says quietly. “Apparently, he… said some things to you. Accused you of doing the same.”

You don’t say anything.

Langdon continues, voice low and careful, “What I did… the benzos, the lying… it didn’t just blow up my life. It put you in the middle of it too. And you didn’t deserve that.” He swallows, “I’m really sorry you got dragged into the fallout from my mess.”

You sit there for a moment before answering.

“Robby reacting the way he did wasn’t entirely because of you,” you say gently. “You and him were fighting, yeah. And the situation definitely didn’t help.”

You shrug slightly, “But the way he treated me after that… that was his choice.”

Langdon nods slowly, accepting that.

“I also owe you an apology for something else,” you add.

He glances at you.

“I didn’t reach out while you were in rehab.” Your voice stays soft, honest.

“I was going through a lot around that time too. That’s not an excuse—it’s just the truth. But still… you were struggling and I disappeared. That wasn’t great friend behavior.”

Langdon shakes his head slightly.

“You had your own stuff going on.”

“Still,” you say. “I should’ve tried.”

You shift in your seat and look at him directly.

“If you’re open to it… I’d still like to be your friend.”

Langdon blinks at that, clearly surprised.

Then you stick your hand out toward him.

“Friends?”

He stares at your hand for a second, confused.

You roll your eyes, “I know it’s a little elementary school but sometimes you gotta go back to basics.”

A small smile breaks across his face.

“I don’t think it’s silly,” he says as he takes your hand and shakes it. “It’s just very… you.”

You let go.

The tension between you both feels lighter somehow. After a moment, you ask, “How do you feel now? After rehab?”

“Better,” he says honestly.

You tilt your head.

“Did you want to get better?”

He thinks about that.

“Not at first.”

“But now?”

Langdon nods.

“Yes.”

You study him for a moment before giving a small approving hum.

“You seem calmer,” you say. “More grounded. It looks good on you.”

“Thank you.”

Silence drifts in again.

Then Langdon asks quietly,

“Why are you so forgiving about all this?”

You lean back in the chair, thinking about that.

“I can see you trying,” you say eventually. “And that counts for something.”

You rub your thumb along the edge of your sleeve absentmindedly.

“Admitting things are hard… admitting you screwed up… that takes humility. A lot of people never get that far.” You glance over at him. “And honestly? I know what that place feels like. That point where you’re finally trying but everyone else still thinks you’re a mess.”

You shrug lightly.

“It’s frustrating. Because people don’t see how hard it was just to get there.”

Langdon nods slowly.

You continue, voice steady but thoughtful. “You don’t get a gold star for waking up every day and fighting addiction or mental illness. No one throws you a parade for it. It’s just… you choosing to keep trying anyway.” You take a breath. “That matters.”

Your gaze drifts toward the lounge door.

“For a while,” you say slowly, “it might feel like none of it matters. Like all the effort just disappears into the same dark place everything else does.” You pause, searching for the right words. “But it doesn’t.”

“The people around you… hold on to them while you can. Life has this quiet way of taking people out of the room before we realize we were supposed to say something to them.” Your voice softens, gentler now.

“And if there’s one thing I’ve learned working here… it’s that the smallest kindness can keep someone alive a little longer.” You glance down. “The way you notice can be a weapon or an act of love. Because sometimes the deepest kind of hurt isn’t someone yelling at you or pushing you away. It’s the slow, quiet feeling that you don’t register to anyone at all. And no one should have to live thinking they’re that easy to overlook.”

Langdon studies you quietly.

Then he smiles faintly.

“They should call you Ducky the Wise.”

You laugh quietly.

“Shh,” you whisper dramatically. “Don’t tell them I’m a self-aware duck.”

You lean over and bump your shoulder lightly into his.

“I think it’s really brave that you wanted to get better,” you add. “And that you came back here.” You look at him. “I’m proud of you, Frank.”

His expression softens, “Thank you.”

A beat passes.

Then Langdon clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says cautiously. “Now what’s going on with you and Robby—”

You’re already shaking your head.

“Nope.”

Dana steps in, the familiar creak of the hinge cutting through the soft hum of the refrigerator. She pauses just inside the doorway, scanning the room before her eyes land on Langdon.

“Should’ve known I’d find you in here,” she says dryly.

Langdon glances up from his chair.

Dana points a warning finger at him as she walks toward the fridge.

“You steal anyone’s lunch, it’s a twenty-dollar fine.”

She opens the refrigerator, rummaging through it with the casual authority of someone who practically lives in the department. After a moment she pulls out a lime LaCroix, shuts the door with her hip, and cracks the can open.

The soft hiss fills the room.

“Made a lot of changes while you were gone,” she adds.

Langdon gives a small nod, taking in the updated schedule board, the new laminated policy sheets, the reorganized cabinets.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

Dana takes a sip, then leans back against the counter.

“Look,” she continues, voice a little softer now, “I’ll let you hide out a little bit longer. But after that, I need you picking up more patients.”

She gives him a pointed look.

“You’re not as fast as you used to be.”

Langdon exhales through his nose with a small, self-aware smile.

“Ouch.”

Dana suddenly reaches behind the two of you and rips a flyer off the corkboard.

“Damn doughnuts!” she mutters, crumpling the poster advertising thanking the staff for working on the fourth before tossing it into the trash.

Langdon rubs the back of his neck.

“First day back and I get kicked in the nuts,” he says with a tired half-laugh. “One dead, one septic bounce-back.”

Dana doesn’t even hesitate, “Both of those weren’t your fault.” She studies him for a second. “You expecting a party?”

Langdon shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

His voice lowers slightly. “Didn’t hear from anyone while I was gone.”

Dana’s expression softens just a little.

“Sorry.”

The word hangs in the room, quiet but sincere. You reach over and give Langdon a small, reassuring pat on the back before pushing yourself up from the chair.

“I’ll let you guys talk,” you say gently to both of them.

Dana gives you a brief nod of thanks.

You slip out of the lounge, leaving the two of them behind as the muffled sounds of the emergency department greets you again on the other side of the door.

TRAUMA TWO — DAY

Robby stands at the workstation on wheels, reading glasses perched low on his nose as he scrolls through Brandon’s imaging results. The glow from the screen reflects faintly in the lenses.

“CT head, neck, chest, abdomen, pelvis all negative,” he announces.

He slips the glasses off and folds them into his scrub pocket just as Whitaker and you wheel Brandon back into the bay from CT.

The gurney rolls over the threshold.

You guide the frame carefully into position before stepping on the brake pedals, and the wheels lock in place while Whitaker moves to Brandon’s side. “It means we can get this collar off.”

Brandon exhales with relief.

“Thank you.”

Whitaker carefully loosens the cervical collar while giving instructions.

“Roll to your side. We’ll get you off this board.”

Brandon shifts carefully as Whitaker and Joy help slide the rigid backboard out from beneath him.

As they work, Brandon glances back toward Robby. “How long is your trip?”

“Two thousand miles,” Robby says. “All the way from here to Alberta.” He shrugs slightly, “Couple stops along the way. Got the whole thing mapped out.”

Brandon smiles, “Sounds like heaven.”

Kim slides a pillow behind Brandon’s back as he sits him upright. “Let’s sit you up.”

Just then the door opens and Santos walks in, pulling gloves from the dispenser on the wall.

“Sorry,” she says. “Got stuck with a patient.”

Brandon chuckles as he looks back at Robby.

“You know the old saying—four wheels move the body, two wheels move the soul.” He nods toward Robby knowingly. “You’re gonna be living the dream.”

Robby gives a small amused smile. “Thank you, Brandon.”

Then, with a glance around the room—

“Not everybody down here feels that way.”

He looks toward Whitaker, “Okay, Whitaker. What’s next?”

Whitaker steps forward, already beginning the secondary exam. “Ortho assessment. Palpate all long bones, starting with the clavicle.”

Joy moves into position.

“Got it.”

Santos crouches near Brandon’s legs.

“I’ll take the lower extremities.”

Joy presses gently along the wrist.

“Distal radius tender. No deformities. Needs an X-ray.”

Santos palpates along the knee and shin.

“No bony tenderness down here. No laxity of the knee.”

Robby gestures toward the large laceration on Brandon’s knee.

“Are you concerned about that knee lac?”

Santos nods slightly.

“If it’s an open joint, he’ll need a washout in the OR.”

Whitaker thinks for a second.

“We could try a fluorescein injection. Okay, we’ll need a—”

Before he finishes the sentence, you’re already moving toward the supply area.

“Wood’s lamp,” you say briskly as you walk across the room, already mentally assembling the setup. “One percent lido with epi, sterile saline, sterile basin, sterile fluoro-strip, eighteen- and twenty-seven-gauge needles, five- and sixty-cc syringes.”

Your voice fades slightly as you disappear past the glass sliding doors.

The room goes quiet for a second.

Joy blinks, “How does she know all that?”

Whitaker smirks faintly.

Robby watches the door you just disappeared through. Something warm flickers behind his eyes—something soft and deeply familiar.

“She just does,” he says quietly.

Whitaker leans over Brandon’s side, methodically continuing the exam. “Any pain here, Mr. Li?”

Brandon shifts slightly on the bed, testing the pressure, “Can’t feel a thing.”

Whitaker nods, “Great.”

Across the room, Robby glances around briefly. “Where is Santos?”

You’re standing at the medication cart preparing supplies, eyes focused on the vial in your hand. You answer without looking up, “Probably catching up on her charting.”

“Right,” Robby replies.

Kim reaches over and flips the wall switch. The room goes dark except for the Wood’s lamp now glowing in Joy’s hand.

“Lights out,” Whitaker announces. “Wood’s lamp on. Okay.”

Joy leans closer, watching the eerie glow from the syringe. “I might want to use some of that on Halloween.”

Robby gestures toward the syringe Whitaker is holding. “That’s two hundred fifty cc’s of sterile saline with one small touch of a sterile fluoro-strip.”

Whitaker nods, focusing, “Okay.”

Robby turns to Brandon, voice calm and reassuring, “We’re going to inject this fluid into your knee, Brandon. If anything glowing appears in the wound, we know the joint capsule’s been breached.”

Whitaker carefully begins the injection.

Brandon exhales as the pressure builds inside the joint.

“Feeling some pressure.”

Whitaker keeps his hand steady.

“Yeah, that’s normal. As soon as I finish the test, I’ll pull the fluid back out.”

Everyone watches the wound under the blue light.

A long moment passes.

Robby studies the glow carefully, then nods, “That looks good.” He gestures toward the wound, “Laceration did not enter into the joint space.”

Joy straightens immediately. “Surgery not needed.”

Kim flips the wall switch and the lights are back on.

Brandon lets out a relieved breath. “Excellent. I can get back to the parade.”

Whitaker shakes his head, “No. We’ll still need to stitch you up and splint your wrist.” You hang the IV bag on the pole beside the bed. “Hanging a gram of Ancef.”

Joy glances up quickly. “Wait, he has a penicillin allergy.”

Kim shakes her head, “No. PEN-FAST was negative. We’re okay.”

Brandon shrugs apologetically. “My mom said I got a rash with amoxicillin when I was two.”

Robby nods casually. “Yeah, probably not a true allergy.”

He gestures toward the IV. “Go ahead and give it, Ducky.”

Joy still looks slightly nervous.

“But have epi and Benadryl standing by, right?”

Robby gives a quick nod, “Yes. To be on the safe side.”

You finish priming the line, tone calm as you explain. “Most people who think they have a penicillin allergy actually don’t.”

Whitaker glances toward Joy, amused.

“Always listen to the nurses.” He gestures around the room. “They run the ER. We just try to stay out of their way.”

A small smile spreads across Robby’s face at that.

His eyes flick toward you.

You’re already nodding slightly at Whitaker’s comment, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

But you still don’t look at him.

Robby’s smile lingers for a second longer than it needs to.

His gaze stays on you while you work—watching the quiet efficiency of your hands as you flush the line, check the tubing, hang the antibiotic like you’ve done it a thousand times before. Because you have.

There was a time when you would have looked up by now. Would’ve thrown him some quick remark under your breath or met his eyes just long enough for the joke to land between you. Now there’s just the soft rustle of gloves and the steady beeping of the monitor.

You keep your focus on the IV pole.

Next to you, Robby’s eyes linger on you a moment longer before he finally looks away. Not because he wants to, but because you won’t.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The central station hums with the controlled chaos of midday in the ER—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, stretchers rolling past in the background.

Robby stands near the desk with the hospital phone pressed to his ear, one hand braced on the counter.

“Great. Thank you,” he says into the receiver. “No, that is exactly what I needed to know. Okay.”

He hangs up and turns toward Dr. Al-Hashimi, who is approaching Central.

“I just got off the phone with the physician assistant at the prison,” Robby explains. “They’ve got a sixteen-hour-a-day infirmary with NP and PA coverage giving everything we’d provide here. And they’ve got an RN for overnights.”

Al-Hashimi’s expression tightens.

“Even so,” she replies, “he’s here because they’re ignoring his basic needs.”

Robby shakes his head slightly.

“He’s here because somebody kicked the shit out of him.”

She doesn’t back down.

“I think you’re missing the point. We have more to offer.”

Before Robby can respond, Dana appears from behind the counter, scanning the tracking board on her tablet.

“Robby, we’ve got four more coming our way.”

Robby nods once.

“Okay, got it.”

Then he looks back at Al-Hashimi.

“What you’re trying to do is very noble,” he says, voice calm but firm. “We don’t have the resources to spare.”

Al-Hashimi tilts her head slightly.

“Okay, then why admit the unhoused man—Digby? Why not send him back to the street with antibiotics and a roll of gauze?”

Robby exhales slowly.

“Because Digby lives on the street,” he replies, “and your incarcerated patient has a mid-level provider and a nurse looking after him.”

You stand just behind Al-Hashimi holding an iPad, waiting quietly for a moment in the conversation to open.

Robby’s eyes flick toward you, lingering for half a second longer than necessary—like he’s hoping you’ll meet his gaze.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding toward you. “Are you waiting for me?”

You look past him instead, keeping your focus professional. “No.” Then you turn slightly to Al-Hashimi, “Dr. Al-Hashimi, for the patient in Seven.”

You hand her the iPad.

She signs the chart quickly while continuing the conversation. “A few days here could make a world of difference for Gus’ health.”

You take the tablet back and quietly step away, leaving them to finish. As you walk down the hall, you hear the last part of the exchange behind you. Robby’s voice carries through the noise of the department.

“We are a safety net. But nets have holes.” A pause. “We are not admitting him because this is not about social justice.”

You hear Robby’s footsteps move off toward the North hallway.

Behind him, Al-Hashimi turns toward Dana, clearly frustrated.

“Everything I’ve done in my career is an effort to improve the system,” she says. “Just because you know it’s broken doesn’t mean you stop trying.”

She exhales.

“Excuse me.”

PEDIATRICS ROOM — DAY

The pediatric room is noticeably quieter than the rest of the department. The overhead lights are softer, the air warmer.

You and Samira stand beside the clear infant cradle where the abandoned baby—Baby Jane Doe—lies wrapped in a small hospital blanket.

The baby squirms slightly, making soft little noises.

You lean over the cradle, gently adjusting the blanket around her tiny shoulders.

Samira checks the chart on the workstation beside the bed.

A moment later the door opens.

Dr. Al-Hashimi steps in with Kim behind her.

“How’s she doing?” Al-Hashimi asks.

Samira looks up, “She took three ounces of formula without vomiting or distress.”

Al-Hashimi nods approvingly. “Excellent.”

She glances toward the hallway, “Dr. Wolke from Peds should be down shortly.”

You watch the baby carefully, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think I saw her smile.”

Al-Hashimi steps closer to the cradle, peering down at the infant.

“A true social smile,” she explains, “where the baby is awake, alert, and responding to facial expressions usually doesn’t happen until about six weeks or older.”

She tilts her head thoughtfully.

“It was likely a reflex smile. Babies often do that while sleeping.”

Then she shrugs lightly. “But some parents report their babies smiling socially as early as four weeks.” Her tone softens slightly. “So… who knows.”

BEHAVIORAL TWO — DAY

Gus sits propped against the thin hospital mattress, his wrists loosely resting on the blanket while the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger flashes numbers on the portable monitor.

Dana stands near the foot of the bed, watching the screen.

Suddenly the number drops and her voice cuts through the room. “Robby, pulse ox just dropped.”

Robby looks up immediately from the chart in his hands at Central as he runs over. “What happened?”

Dana shakes her head, eyes still locked on the monitor.

“I don’t know.”

Jesse reappears at the doorway, slightly out of breath. “I stepped out for a minute.”

Dana gestures toward the screen. “It’s down to eighty-five percent.”

Robby steps closer to the bed, crouching slightly so he’s level with Gus. “Are you having some trouble breathing?”

Gus nods faintly. “A little.”

Robby straightens and begins issuing orders calmly.

“Start him on two liters oxygen, nasal cannula. Titrate to five.”

Jesse moves immediately to the wall unit, pulling the tubing free.

“Keep the pulse ox at ninety-two or higher,” Robby continues, “and have a rebreather standing by just in case.”

He glances back at the guard standing near the door. “He’s gonna have to stay.”

Officer Lorenzini frowns, “For how long?”

Robby shrugs slightly. “Not sure.”

Jesse rubs the back of his neck, clearly uneasy. “Sorry, boss. I only stepped out for a second.”

Robby waves it off without looking at him.

“Let me know if anything changes.”

Then he turns to Dana as she’s walking away, “You were in the room when his pulse ox dropped?”

Dana nods. “I was.”

“What were you doing?”

Before Dana can answer, Perlah appears at her side, clutching her arm. “D, still can’t get a hold of Ortho.”

Dana exhales, already turning toward the hall. “Leave them to Ducky.”

As she walks past the doorway she tosses a roll of medical tape backward over her shoulder without looking.

Robby catches it easily.

Dana continues toward Central.

Out in the CWA, you’re seated at one of the workstations, shoulders slightly hunched as you review a chart on the monitor.

Dana approaches and gives you a quick look.

The kind of look that means I need this handled.

You nod once in understanding, your hand already reaching for the phone.

A second later you’re dialing Ortho, voice composed and professional as the chaos of the emergency department continues humming around you.

VIEWING ROOM — DAY

The viewing room is quieter than anywhere else in the department. The noise of the ER—monitors, voices, rolling stretchers—feels distant here, muffled behind the closed door by the stairwell.

Louie lies on the narrow hospital bed, his hands folded neatly over the blanket someone has pulled up to his chest. His face has been cleaned. The tension that used to live in the lines of his forehead is gone.

For the first time in a long time, he looks peaceful.

People begin filtering in slowly.

A few doctors. A handful of nurses.

But the first ones already standing at either side of the bed are the nurses who knew him best.

Perlah rests her hands folded, looking down at Louie with the kind of tired affection reserved for patients who became something more.

“Remember the day you found him passed out in the park?” she asks quietly.

Donnie snorts softly.

“Sure do. Had to drag his ass over here.”

Princess folds her arms, remembering. “Came in soaked to the bone.”

McKay nods, “You saved his life.”

Kim shifts her weight beside the bed. “How about last summer when we didn’t see him for months?”

You stand beside Perlah and Princess, staring down at Louie’s still face.

You sigh softly, “He said he finally quit drinking,” you murmur. “So he didn’t need to come in anymore.”

A quiet round of knowing hums moves through the room.

Perlah nods. “Mm-hmm.”

Langdon, standing near the wall, shakes his head gently.

“How many times did he say he was gonna quit drinking?”

A chorus of quiet agreement follows.

“Mm-hmm.”

McKay’s voice softens.

“He always asked about Harrison.”

Whitaker nods. “Always said thank you.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Langdon reaches into his pocket.

“Found this with his stuff.”

He pulls out a worn photograph and holds it up.

“Who knew he was married?”

He hands it to you first.

You glance down at the faded photo—Louie, younger, smiling wide beside a woman leaning into his shoulder.

You pass it carefully to the next person.

Behind you, Robby’s voice speaks up quietly.

“That’s Rhonda,” he says. “Louie’s wife. High school sweetheart.”

You hadn’t even noticed he’d stepped up beside you.

If you did, you don’t react.

Your eyes stay on Louie.

Robby continues, voice low.

“About five years ago, Ducky and I were covering a night shift. He came in feeling talkative.”

He folds his arms loosely, remembering, “Born and raised in Pittsburgh. Lifelong Steelers fan. Groundskeeper at Three Rivers Stadium until ’98.” A faint smile flickers across Robby’s face. “He never really wanted kids. But Rhonda wore him down.”

He pauses.

“And when she finally got pregnant… he changed his tune.”

Robby’s voice grows quieter.

“He got excited.”

The room goes still, then he finishes.

“And about a month before the baby was due… Rhonda and the baby were killed in a car crash.”

No one moves.

Emma steps forward slowly and reaches for Louie’s hand, holding it gently even though it’s already gone cold.

Even though he can’t feel it anymore.

“Louie never really came back from that,” Robby says softly.

He looks down at the man on the bed.

“May his memory be a blessing.”

The group murmurs together.

“Amen.”

McKay repeats it quietly under her breath.

“May his memory be a blessing.”

You watch as Donnie carefully slides the photograph back onto the blanket atop Louie’s chest.

Robby nods once.

“Yep.”

Then he turns and leaves the room.

One by one, everyone else follows him out.

The door opens.

Closes.

And suddenly the room feels enormous.

You stand there for another moment, staring down at Louie.

Two hours ago he was alive.

Talking.

Laughing through half-numb gums.

You remember the way he looked at you and said it so casually it almost sounded like a joke.

The worst kind of love is the one you never say out loud.

Your chest pinches in some way, and you let out a deep breath as you say, “Salamat sa lahat, Louie. Minahal ka ng marami. (Thank you for everything, Louie. You were loved by many.)

End Notes:

RIP Louie, fly high king 🕊️🕊️🕊️

Ruh roh, ROBBY WHAT IS THIS FEELING!?!?!? Is it finally processing in your brain lil bro

W Nurses episode btw. They do the most in the Healthcare system, I swear.

Also, the whole conversation I wrote with Langdon has been on my mind since I saw that episode.

It’s a very human thing to be like, “You could be me, and I could be you.” The recognition of ourselves in the other. As Chidi from the Good Place puts it, “Our innate desire to treat each other with dignity.”

^ I think about this a lot. Any time I’m writing or dealing with day-to-day situations.

The number of people who have read or given this fic a chance, regardless of any background, has genuinely been the highlight of my year. There will never be enough words to describe how grateful I am to have you here. If I could scoop you all up into a big group hug, I definitely would tehe :>

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