An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So it's the 31th for me already. So I'm posting the prologue of this long fic that has been rotting in my Google files for almost two years. Special thanks to @thuyuui for encouraging me to come back and finish this (it's not finished or anywhere near finished. But I will finish it someday).
Also um... I originally had plans to make a new crack series using the prompts but then I realized that I still had other stuff that needed to be done . Completely my fault as I shouldn't have left everything till the last moment lol
Chapter: prologue
Fandom: Bleach
Rating: Mature
Main relationship: Hitsugaya Toushirou/Kurosaki Karin. Others are mentioned.
Summary:
Two decades after Karin's death, Hitsugaya Toshiro never thought he'd see her again. Yet when he was forced to take a vacation he came face to face with someone who looked exactly like her at the human world.
After he was give the mission to train observe her, Hitsugaya fought to move on from the guilt and regrets left behind by her death, all the while trying to figure out the Soul Society's true intentions with Karin's reincarnation.
Okay so Daniel publishing the book ruined Louis and Lestat rekindling their relationship but honestly and profoundly I Do Not Care because they didn't give me a reason as to why Louis should have rekindled the relationship in the first place.
one of the main reasons why sk8 is such a good show (in my opinion) is the characterization of reki.
the fact that reki doesn’t somehow magically get better and surpass everyone, the fact that reki improves but not enough to be the best, the fact that reki gets jealous but not in this complete character-changing way is so important.
i think that’s one of the reasons that i like reki so much.
in media nowadays, the underdog character always becomes amazing, they always win in the end. they have a story similar to reki’s, but it turns out they always just needed a little bit more practice or a different teacher or more self-confidence to become better. there isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that, but it puts this immense pressure on everyone to want to be the best. it makes everyone think that if they can’t win, if they aren’t the best, if they don’t magically improve and become a prodigy, then they’re bad at whatever it is.
but that isn’t the case with reki.
reki tries and he tries and he tries so hard but no matter what he does, everyone else is better and that’s more realistic in a way. he doesn’t magically improve or magically realize that if he does some specific thing then he’ll be better than everyone else, he just isn’t and he becomes okay with that.
as much as everyone wanted reki to win his second beef against ad*m, i’m glad that he didn’t. i would like for him to beat ad*m because ad*m is terrible, but he didn’t because ad*m is genuinely just that good of a skater.
what makes reki losing so important is that even when he loses, he’s proud of himself. he’s happy and he’s okay with second place. what makes it even more important? not one single person in his little found family went “you were so close!” or “you almost had him!” or said anything about him losing because that wasn’t what was important.
here was this seventeen year old kid who they all realized they cared deeply for not because of his ability to skate, but because of his heart. he just basically got tortured while skating, but he finished the race. it didn’t matter to any of them that he lost, they were proud of him because he finished and he was happy. they all knew something was wrong--maybe at this point they know why or maybe reki tells them later--so seeing reki smile and laugh after one of the most purposefully violent beefs ever was more important.
reki is a symbol for being okay with being okay. reki is a symbol for those who aren’t naturally gifted and those who don’t become so much better even after loads of practice.
reki is loved by his friends and he is considered worthy not because his skating ability defined his worth, but because he loves it. that’s something that most of the found family needed to learn, and they learned it from reki.
skating is supposed to be fun--any activity you do is supposed to be fun. it’s really hard to remember that sometimes especially when you’re surrounded by such talented people--especially when you feel left out of left behind because everyone else is becoming better and you simply aren’t no matter how much you try.
reki is a reminder that you don’t have to be the best at what you do. reki teaches us that you don’t have to be really good at an activity to be amazing and that your worth is not defined by your talent.
people don’t often shows these sides of talent and activities. it’s always the underdog becomes amazing or you have to win or you’re a failure or you can become the best by practicing a lot and the thing is? that simply isn’t true. practice helps, sure. reki did improve when he practiced, but not by a whole heck of a lot. he isn’t on cherry’s level or joe’s level or miya’s or shadow’s or langa’s, and that’s okay.
you can still be important and you can still be a main character and you can still do something that brings you joy even if you aren’t amazing at it.
there are many great things about sk8 and many great things about kyan reki, but this has got to be one of my favorite things about them.
yall i got the rejected shadow for p4 new days and not gonna lie i basically did not breathe for twenty minutes straight during that entire encounter. that shit was intense. hands down one of the best “protagonist has a shadow” encounters i’ve ever read and i’ve read a fuckload of them. i dont even have anything interesting to say about this!!!!!!! it was just so goddamn good that i dont even have anything else to say!!!!!! i just feel the need to yodel from the rooftops about shadow yu encounter and how it was literally everything i’d ever wanted and how strangestquiet ACTUALLY made ALL of my dreams come true!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Summary: On a random Tuesday, you wake up tangled together in the late-afternoon light, exhausted and half-asleep, when Jack casually suggests getting married before your shift.
Pairing: Jack Abbot / f!Reader (reader works in night shift, nothing else described I think).
Rating: M.
Tags: Established Relationship. Tooth rotting fluff. Unconventional marriage proposal. Eloping.
Word count: 3904 words.
a/n: So... after publishing part 5 of my Harry Castillo story I word-vomited this in like an hour (don't get used to this 😅)... and I was like... I should wait to publish, but I just can't... so... here it is. Also, I'm aware that there are probably inaccuracies in how the courthouse system works, but, well... this is fiction, so... bear with me okay?
Here's my new obsession, The Pitt 😆, and even though I'm a Robby girl, this idea just wouldn't leave my head. I hope you like it! Also, English is not my first language and the corrector only goes so far, so if you see any weird stuff, I'm so sorry, I hope it doesn't bother your reading too much!
MASTERLIST
The apartment is honey-gold with late afternoon light, that weird hour that doesn’t belong to anyone.
Not morning. Not evening.
Just that quiet, suspended time night shifters live in, when the rest of the world is halfway through their day and yours is just beginning.
The clock on the stove reads 4:42 PM, but your brain still thinks it’s morning. Your body thinks it’s midnight. And Jack is wrapped around you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.
The blackout curtains don’t quite meet in the middle, so a stripe of sunlight cuts across the bed, warm against the sheets.
It lands right across his bare shoulder. Golden, soft. You trace it lazily with your fingers. He doesn’t wake.
He’s half on top of you, one leg hooked between yours, arm tight around your waist, face tucked into your neck. His breath is warm and slow and smells faintly like the toothpaste you both used at eight this morning before collapsing into bed.
Post-shift sleep always feels heavier, like drowning in cotton.
You shift a little. His grip tightens instantly. A low, sleepy hum against your collarbone.
“…don’t go,” he mumbles.
“I’m not,” you whisper.
“You’re warm.”
“So are you.”
“Good.”
He sinks closer, like a cat claiming territory.
You smile into the pillow.
This is your favorite part of night shift life, the world feels small. Private. Like you two exist slightly out of sync with everyone else. No emails, no traffic... No expectations.
Just him.
Your fingers slip under his t-shirt, tracing the familiar line of his spine; he sighs, then blinks one eye open.
“What time is it?” he croaks.
You squint at the clock.
“Four forty-something.”
He groans dramatically and buries his face deeper into your neck.
“Illegal,” he mutters. “The sun shouldn’t exist when I’m conscious.”
“You picked night shift.”
“I was lied to.”
You laugh softly, and his stubble scratches your skin when he kisses your shoulder, slow and lazy.
Neither of you moves to get up, you still have time. Report isn’t until seven. There’s always that dangerous illusion that you have plenty of time.
His hand slides under your shirt, resting warm against your stomach. Not sexual. Just… grounding, like making sure you’re real.
You turn to face him. His hair’s a disaster, pillow lines on his cheek, eyes puffy with sleep. God, you love him like this. Soft. Unarmored. Just Jack.
“Hey,” you murmur.
“Mm.”
“You okay?”
He nods, then shrugs. Then stares at you for a long moment like he’s trying to memorize your face.
“What?” you ask.
He studies you another second. Then, very casually, very quietly:
“What if we got married before shift?”
You blink.
“…what?”
“What if we got married today,” he repeats, like he’s suggesting takeout. “Before work.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow.
“Jack. We just woke up.”
“I know.”
“You still have pillow creases on your face.”
“So marry me anyway.”
You stare at him.
He doesn’t smile. He’s serious.
Soft. Calm. Certain.
“There’s that courthouse by the hospital,” he says. “Closes at seven.”
“…you’ve thought about this.”
“Maybe.”
“Jack.”
He exhales through his nose, thumb rubbing slow circles on your hip.
“I just keep thinking,” he says quietly, “how every shift feels like roulette.”
You know. You’ve both seen it. The calls that change everything. The families. The codes. How fast a normal day becomes the worst day of someone’s life.
“I don’t want to keep waiting for some perfect moment,” he continues. “Because we don’t get those. We get vending machine dinners and trauma bays and five minutes together in supply closets.”
You snort.
“Romantic.”
“Shut up, I’m trying.”
He cups your cheek, his hand is warm, steady.
“I already feel married to you,” he says. “You’re the first person I want after every shift. You’re the one I fall asleep with at eight in the morning. You’re home.”
Your throat tightens.
“So… what if we just make it official?” he murmurs. “Today. Before we clock in.”
“This is the least traditional proposal ever.” You reply, mid-laugh.
“I’m aware.”
“It’s very ‘we have forty minutes before report.’”
“Extremely on brand for us.”
You look at him, at the messy hair. The sleepy eyes. The absolute sincerity. No kneeling, no grand speech.
Just him. Choosing you. Right now. Every day.
You lean down and kiss him. Slow. Soft.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He freezes.
“…okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go get married before shift.”
He stares at you like you just rewrote gravity.
Then he laughs, bright and disbelieving, and pulls you into the tightest hug.
“Oh my god,” he says into your hair. “We’re insane.”
“Completely.”
“We’re going to show up to trauma married.”
“Dana is going to lose it. And Robby.”
“Worth it.”
Sunlight creeps further across the bed, reality creeping in. You groan.
“We have, like, an hour to shower and not look like raccoons.”
He kisses you again, quick and sure.
“C’mon,” he says, sliding out of bed and grabbing your hand. “Wife-to-be.”
*************
You stand in front of the closet in your underwear twenty minutes later, staring at your clothes like they personally betrayed you.
Scrubs, hoodies, old band tees, three identical cardigans… Why do you own nothing remotely bridal?
You huff out a breath.
“This is so stupid,” you mumble, rifling through hangers.
Then…
Your hand pauses in the back. The white dress. You’d forgotten about it. Simple. Soft cotton. Knee-length. Something you bought last summer for a friend’s birthday dinner and never wore again. Nothing fancy, no lace. No drama, but clean. Light. Easy.
You pull it out and hold it up. It looks… right. You tug it on. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Hair still a little messy no matter what you do. You look like yourself.
You study your reflection… A woman about to get married before a 7 p.m. trauma shift.
Completely unhinged behavior.
You smile.
Perfect.
When you step out into the living room, Jack is buttoning up a clean dark shirt. Not scrubs yet, actual clothes. You stop walking.
Because…
Oh.
Oh no.
He looks unfair. Dark jeans. Rolled sleeves. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. That stupidly handsome jawline, the faint shadow of stubble… like he accidentally walked out of a “small-town courthouse wedding” indie movie.
He looks up. Freezes.
“…hi,” he says softly.
The way he says it, like you just knocked the air out of him, makes your stomach flip.
“You look…” he trails off.
“Don’t say bridal,” you warn.
“I was gonna say beautiful.”
You swallow.
“Good. Stick with that.”
He steps closer, hands sliding around your waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of the dress like he can’t believe it’s real.
“You look like you,” he murmurs.
“That good or bad?”
“The best.”
He kisses you. Slow. Warm. Like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you absolutely don’t.
***********
The courthouse is only ten minutes away. Early evening light spills gold across the sidewalk. People are still out, walking dogs, grabbing coffee, living their normal Tuesday lives. And you’re sitting in the passenger seat thinking: I might have a husband in an hour.
Your hand is laced with his over the center console. He keeps squeezing your fingers like he needs to check you’re still there.
“You nervous?” you ask.
“A little,” he admits.
“Regretting your impulsive life decisions?”
“Never.”
A beat.
“Okay maybe a little but in a hot way.”
You laugh.
God, you love him.
The courthouse steps are quiet, almost empty. You step out of the car, heart suddenly thundering.
This is real.
This is happening.
Jack glances at the building, then at you. Then…
“…shit.”
“What?”
“I forgot something.”
Your stomach drops.
“What did you forget?”
“I’ll be right back. Two minutes. Stay here.”
“Jack…?”
But he’s already jogging down the sidewalk.
You blink.
“Jack!”
He waves without turning around and disappears around the corner. You just stand there. Alone. Outside a courthouse. In a white dress. About to get married. Possibly abandoned.
“…cool,” you mutter. “Love this for me.”
You check your phone. No texts. No calls.
Five minutes pass. Then seven.
Okay.
Now you’re spiraling.
Did he panic? Did this suddenly feel too real? Did you both just speedrun a proposal and now he’s having a crisis behind a vending machine somewhere?
Right when you’re about to march back to the car…
“Hey!”
You turn and there he is. A little out of breath, hair wind-tousled, grinning like an idiot. Relief slams into you so hard you almost cry.
“You absolute jerk,” you snap, marching toward him. “Where did you…”
He holds something up between his fingers. Two small velvet boxes. Your brain short-circuits.
“…what.”
“There’s a jeweler two blocks over,” he says, slightly breathless. “I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to not have rings.”
Your throat closes.
“I know we said courthouse quick and whatever,” he continues, suddenly shy, “but… I wanted something you could look down at during shift and remember we did this. That it’s real.”
He opens the boxes. Two simple bands.
Gold. Clean. Classic.
Nothing flashy, just solid. Forever.
Your eyes fill instantly.
“You ran to buy rings?” you whisper.
“Yeah.”
“You idiot,” you choke out, smiling.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But I’m your idiot.”
You throw your arms around him.
He laughs into your hair, hugging you tight. He presses his forehead to yours.
“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s get married before we’re late for work.”
***********
The courthouse doors open with a heavy, reluctant creak, like the building itself is tired.
Inside, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and old paper, the kind of scent every public building seems to share. The lights are too bright after the soft gold of outside, fluorescent and unforgiving, humming quietly overhead. Beige tile floors, plastic chairs lined against the wall, a corkboard cluttered with notices about parking permits and jury summons. It’s deeply, aggressively ordinary.
You look at Jack. He looks at you.
And something about the sheer lack of romance makes you both start laughing under your breath, like kids who snuck into somewhere they shouldn’t be.
“This is it, huh?” you murmur.
He squeezes your hand. “Five-star venue. Very exclusive.”
Your fingers stay threaded together as you check in at the clerk’s desk. There, a tired woman with reading glasses squints at you both.
“Marriage license?” she asks.
Jack nods.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looks between you, then down at your dress, then at his shirt.Then back at you with the faintest, knowing smile.
“Night shift?” she asks.
You both freeze.
“…how did you-”
“Honey, I’ve worked this desk twenty years,” she says. “I can spot hospital people a mile away.”
You laugh. She slides the forms under the glass.
“Fill these out. Ceremony room’s at the end of the hall. Judge’ll be free in ten.”
Ten minutes. Your heart flips. Ten minutes until he’s your husband.
While Jack finishes the paperwork, you wander a few steps away, suddenly jittery with energy. There’s a tiny vending machine nook down the corridor.
And next to it…
A sad little stand. Plastic buckets. Half-wilted carnations. Baby’s breath. And one bunch of small white daisies wrapped in cellophane. Probably leftover from someone’s graduation or something.
You stare at them.
They’re imperfect. A little messy. A little crooked. You love them immediately.
Three dollars in coins from your scrubs pocket. That’s all they cost. You peel the plastic off and hold them in your hands.
Simple. Soft. Enough.
When you walk back, Jack looks up. Sees the flowers. His entire face melts.
“Where did you get those?” he asks.
“High-end floral boutique,” you say seriously. “Next to the vending machine.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They were three dollars.”
“Still beautiful.”
He says it like he means you. Not the flowers. You feel heat climb your cheeks.
Your last names get called and you walk inside. The ceremony room is tiny, smaller than you expected, just a little office with folding chairs and a state flag in the corner. A fake ficus plant. A desk pushed against the wall.
That’s it.
No music. No aisle. Just you. Him. A middle-aged judge with kind eyes and sensible shoes.
She smiles gently.
“Just the two of you today?”
Jack squeezes your hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just us.”
Perfect.
Two courthouse employees linger near the wall with clipboards, polite and detached. Witnesses, apparently. One of them gives you a small smile, like she’s seen this a hundred times and still finds it sweet. It makes everything feel oddly real.
Not a dream. Not something private and imaginary. Official. Documented. Witnessed.
The judge says a few simple words. Nothing flowery, nothing long, just talk of partnership and commitment and choosing each other every day. The ordinary miracle of building a life side by side. The language is plain, almost practical, which somehow makes it land harder.
You barely hear half of it, because you’re too busy looking at Jack. At the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars yourself. Eyes soft. A little glassy. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, or that this is actually happening.
There are no vows. No speeches. No promises you rehearsed in the mirror. Just the judge glancing between you and asking, gently:
“Do you take this man to be your husband?”
“I do,” you say, voice steadier than you expected.
“And you? Do you take this woman to be your wife?”
“I do,” he answers, just as quick, like there was never any other option.
He reaches into his pocket, fingers fumbling slightly as he pulls out the small velvet box from earlier. For the first time since you got here, he looks nervous.
Not scared. Just… careful. Like this matters more than anything.
He slides the ring out and takes your left hand, his touch warm and familiar. You feel the faint tremor in his fingers as he guides the band over your knuckle. It’s simple gold, nothing fancy, but when it settles into place it feels strangely right, like something that’s always belonged there.
Like it was waiting for you. Your throat tightens.
“Okay,” you murmur softly, blinking fast. “My turn.”
You open the other box and take his hand. His skin is warm, pulse steady under your fingertips. You push the ring down slowly, feeling the shape of his hand, memorizing the moment. He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.
When the band slides into place, he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
Like relief.
Like home.
The judge smiles at both of you, satisfied, and closes the folder with a soft clap.
“Well,” she says gently, “that’s it.”
A tiny pause. Then:
“You may kiss your wife.”
The word hits you both at the same time. Wife.
His breath catches. His hand slides up your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye, gentle and reverent, like you’re something fragile and holy and he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast.
And then he kisses you. Slow. Deep. Not rushed. Not messy. Just warm and sure and full of everything you don’t have words for. It tastes like toothpaste and coffee and him. Like early mornings driving home half-asleep. Like shared granola bars at 3 a.m. Like every shift you’ve survived shoulder to shoulder.
Like home.
When you pull back, your foreheads rest together and you’re both smiling like idiots, a little dazed.
Married.
Just like that.
No music. No aisle. No big moment. Just love. And fluorescent lighting.
You huff out a shaky laugh, tears threatening anyway. “We really just did that.”
“Yeah,” he says softly.
He turns your hand slightly, brushing his thumb over your new ring like he needs to check it’s real. “Hey,” he adds, quieter, almost shy. “My wife.”
Your heart does a little jump.
“My husband,” you say back.
You check your phone out of habit and immediately grimace. “It’s 6:18.”
He snorts. “Of course it is.”
There’s no dramatic rush, no sprinting for the door. Just the two of you exchanging a look that says yeah, that tracks.
You grab his hand, bouquet tucked against your hip, and he squeezes your fingers once before leading you back out into the hallway.
“C’mon,” he says, already walking. “If we’re late, you’re explaining it to Dana.”
“That’s not fair, this was your idea.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it though.”
And together you head back to the car, rings catching the last light of the evening, two slightly underdressed, newly married idiots on their way to clock in for night shift like nothing monumental just happened at all. Like this is just another day.
Only now, you’re his. And he’s yours.
***********
Inside the ER, the familiar sounds hit immediately; phones ringing, someone laughing too loudly at the desk, the squeak of stretcher wheels, the constant low murmur of controlled chaos. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee wraps around you like muscle memory.
Lockers first.
The white dress gets folded carefully into your bag, softer now, like it belongs to another life entirely. You pull on your scrubs, tie your hair back, wash your face quickly.
For a moment, you just stand there looking at your left hand. The ring catches the fluorescent light when you flex your fingers. Simple gold, nothing flashy. But it feels heavier now. Warmer.
You turn it once around your finger, just to feel it there. Still real. Still yours.
When you step out, Jack’s already finished changing. He bumps your shoulder lightly as you pass each other, an unconscious touch, the same as always, except now it sends a little electric current up your spine.
Your husband.
Jesus.
You’re going to lose your mind if you keep thinking that.
Dana is at the nurses’ station when you walk out, flipping through charts with the kind of focus that suggests someone’s personally offended her with bad handwriting.
“Nice of you two to join us,” she says without looking up. “Thought you called out together or something.”
“Tempting,” you reply, logging into the computer beside her.
“Yeah, yeah. You can rest when you’re dead.”
It’s normal. Completely normal. The same start to every shift you’ve had for months, which feels surreal, considering you got married less than an hour ago.
Report rolls on. Room numbers. Admits. Staffing gripes. Someone already asking about coffee. You jot notes automatically, brain sliding into work mode like muscle memory.
Across the station, Jack leans beside Robby, talking through bed assignments, one hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed. Calm. Focused. He looks exactly like he always does at the start of shift.
No one would ever guess. Your gaze drops to your hand as you type. The ring catches the fluorescent light. Just a small flash of gold. It sends a stupid, giddy warmth straight through your chest.
Your husband.
God.
You look down too long, and Dana notices. She pauses mid-sentence, eyes narrowing slightly at your keyboard.
“…hold on,” she mutters.
You instinctively still.
“What?” you ask, too quickly.
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at your hand resting on the desk. Then at your face. Then back at the ring. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“You were not wearing that yesterday,” she says slowly.
Your heart leaps into your throat. Across the station, Jack glances over at the shift in her tone. He watches you lean closer to her, shoulder brushing hers, like you’re about to share gossip.
You whisper, “Don’t react.”
Dana immediately reacts. Her hand clamps onto your forearm.
“You didn’t,” she breathes.
“Shh,” you whisper, already smiling. “Just- keep your voice down.”
“You didn’t,” she repeats, louder this time, eyes going wide and shiny. “You two did not-”
“What?” Robby calls from across the desk.
Dana looks between you and Jack like her brain can’t decide who to yell at first. You try to shush her, but it’s too late. She turns fully toward both of them.
“Are you kidding me right now?” she blurts.
Jack straightens. “What did we do?”
Dana points dramatically at your hand.
“Explain. The ring.”
Everything goes very still for half a second. Robby looks at your hand, then automatically at Jack’s… Because of course he does.
And there it is. Same simple gold band. His eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his hairline.
“…no way,” he says.
Jack exhales through his nose, caught, like a kid who just got busted sneaking candy. You and him lock eyes across the station. There’s that tiny, helpless smile again.
“Well,” you say softly, because there’s no point pretending now, “we had the afternoon free.”
Dana makes the most offended noise you’ve ever heard. “You got married and then just came to work like it’s nothing?!”
“Courthouse,” Jack says, shrugging like you’re talking about grabbing groceries. “Took twenty minutes.”
“TWENTY-” she chokes. “I hate you both.”
Robby lets out a low whistle. “Before shift? That’s… actually kinda badass.”
“It was impulsive,” you say, laughing.
“It was insane,” Dana corrects, but she’s already tearing up. “Oh my god. You idiots. That’s disgustingly romantic.”
She grabs your hand to look closer at the ring, then immediately grabs Jack’s wrist too, comparing like she’s inspecting matching tattoos.
“They match,” she says, voice wobbling. “I can’t deal with this. I’m too tired to be this emotional.”
Jack looks mildly alarmed. “Please don’t cry at the desk.”
“No promises.”
Robby claps Jack on the shoulder. “Congrats, brother.”
Jack just nods, a little bashful now, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Then he looks at you. Not big. Not dramatic. Just soft. Private. Like the rest of the room fades out for a second.
“Guess we’re stuck with each other,” he says.
It’s the most Jack thing he could possibly say.
You smile back. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
Dana sniffs loudly. “Okay, great, beautiful, love wins, whatever. Trauma room two is waiting and you’re both still on the schedule, married or not. Move.”
And just like that, the moment folds back into the noise of the ER, monitors beeping, phones ringing, someone calling for transport.
Life continuing.
Only now there’s a small band of gold on your hand when you reach for gloves.
And every time you catch Jack’s eye across the department, there’s that quiet, stunned look between you both.
Like you’re sharing the best secret in the world.
By the time you get home, the sun is fully up and the world is already loud again; traffic, neighbors, someone mowing a lawn down the block. It feels wrong, somehow, after the strange bubble of the night. You barely make it through brushing your teeth before you both collapse into bed, still half damp from the shower, limbs heavy and boneless with exhaustion.
Jack falls into you automatically, like he always does, one arm slung over your waist, his face tucked into your neck. You tangle together without thinking, sheets twisted around your legs, his thumb drawing slow, sleepy circles against your side. Neither of you says anything. There’s nothing left to say.
A few minutes later, just before you drift off, he presses a lazy kiss into your shoulder and murmurs, “Night, wife,” like it’s the most normal word in the world. You smile into the pillow, pull him closer, and finally let sleep take you both.
***********
a/n: So... what I meant is... I know you probably can't just go and get married right away, but for the sake of the story let's pretend you can 😆
The problem isn’t that Michael Robinavitch falls for his med student.
The problem is that he assumes—like he always does—that love is something you escape before it hurts.
So when he decides to leave first, you let him.
No dramatics. No ultimatums. Just a quiet thank you and the certainty that you have better things to do than wait for someone who can’t decide.
Only Robby doesn’t recover the way he usually does.
Word count: 23K (both parts)
Tags/Content warnings: age difference, power imbalance, emotional avoidance, patient death, alcohol use (minor), consensual sex, mutual pining, doomed situationship, second chances, angst, smut, happy ending, self-sabotage, fear of commitment, (not actually) casual sex, yearning.
comment or DM to join the taglist
AN: I really like how this story has turned out! I am also between learning for finals, my research and I got engaged (yaaay!) so my head is full—full. So I'm sorry in advance if I'm slow replying to comments, asks or DMs, there's a lot going on at the moment 😭 Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one, part 2 should be already posted as well 💚
The Pitt hits you like a physical force.
Noise first—layered, relentless. Monitors chirping in arrhythmic protest. A trauma bay curtain snapping open and shut. Stretchers rolling over floors polished to a dull, exhausted shine. The air smells like antiseptic, old coffee, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite leaves a place like this, no matter how often it’s scrubbed.
It is, unfortunately, exactly what you expected.
You stand just inside the staff entrance, badge freshly clipped to your hip, trying not to look like someone who would rather be anywhere else. You like structure. You like protocols that live in binders and stay there. You like quiet rooms where the loudest thing is the hum of a centrifuge and the most dramatic event is a pipette tip box running empty at the wrong moment.
You have absolutely no idea why you chose an ER rotation.
Maybe you wanted a challenge.
Maybe you were sleep-deprived to the point of poor decision-making.
Maybe someone said, “It’ll be good for you,” and you didn’t have the energy to argue.
Eight weeks, you tell yourself. Eight weeks and then you go back to a world where bacteria behave badly but at least do so in predictable, publishable ways.
If you survived the months spent in the lab trying to coax phage assays into reproducibility—only to discover they worked exclusively when the incubator was slightly too warm and Mercury was in retrograde—you can survive eight weeks of clinical chaos.
Probably.
A man with the posture of someone perpetually bracing for disaster strides toward you. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired in a way that suggests he gave up fighting the gray a while ago. His scrubs are already wrinkled. His expression says he’s had exactly one coffee and it was insufficient.
“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, sharp and decisive. “Let’s get this over with.”
You blink.
So this is the tone.
“I’m Michael Robinavitch,” he continues, already turning and walking as if assuming you’ll follow. “Everyone calls me Robby. This is my department. If you’re here to learn, great. If you’re here to coast, you picked the wrong place.”
He stops near the central desk and gestures vaguely around him, as though the chaos itself is part of his resume.
The residents gather with the weary efficiency of people who have done this before and know better than to look too awake. Introductions follow, brisk and clipped.
“Dennis Whitaker,” Robby says, nodding to a man who looks like he’s still adjusting to the concept of being called ‘Doctor.’ “Intern. Don’t scare him too badly.”
Dennis gives a tight smile that suggests he has already been scared quite badly.
“Trinity Santos.”
She offers a quick grin, sharp-eyed and alert, the kind of person who looks like she thrives on momentum.
“Cassie McKay.”
Calm, assessing. You clock the way her gaze flicks to your shoes, your hands, your posture. You suspect she’s already decided what kind of problem you’ll be.
“Mel King.”
She lifts a hand in greeting, expression open, friendly. You like her immediately, which is probably a trap.
“And Samira Mohan,” Robby finishes, pausing just a fraction longer. “Senior resident. If you don’t know what to do, you ask her.”
Samira meets your eyes steadily. There’s authority there, earned and unbothered. You file that away.
“Dana, our charge nurse, the most important person here,” Robby adds, gesturing to the charge nurse, who looks like she could run the department single-handedly if necessary. Which she probably has.
Then his gaze swings back to you and the other students.
“Med students,” he says, tone flattening. “Names.”
“Joy Kwon,” says the woman beside you, deadpan. “Here to be useful or at least not actively harmful.”
You glance at her. She doesn’t look at you, but the corner of her mouth twitches. You like her too.
“James Ogilvie,” the other student says, cheerful and earnest in a way that sets off your internal alarm bells.
Robby turns to you last.
“And you?”
You straighten automatically, years of presentations and defenses ingrained too deeply to ignore.
You give your name.
You add, “MD/PhD.”
Robby’s eyebrows lift just slightly.
“What’s your thesis?” he asks, and to your surprise, there’s real interest there. Or at least professional curiosity. The kind that wants to know if you’re about to be a problem.
You don’t dumb it down. You never do.
“CRISPR–Cas mediated resistance as a determinant of phage therapy efficacy in Pseudomonas aeruginosa.”
There’s a pause.
Not an awkward one—more like the silence after someone drops a heavy object and everyone waits to see what broke.
Robby tilts his head.
“That sounds,” he says carefully, “ambitious.”
You can’t tell if he fully understands what you just said. You suspect he understands enough to know it’s complicated and likely to ruin your life for several years.
“It mostly sounds like a bad idea if you want to graduate,” you mutter.
Joy snorts outright.
Dennis coughs, poorly disguising a laugh.
Robby’s mouth twitches. He schools it back into neutrality with effort, but something shifts in his gaze when he looks at you again. Curiosity, maybe. Or the resigned interest of someone who recognizes a particular flavor of masochism.
“Good,” he says finally. “You’ll fit right in.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment.
The department surges around you as he launches into logistics—assignments, expectations, the unspoken rule that you stay out of the way unless invited closer. You listen, cataloging everything automatically. Your heart beats a little faster than usual, mixture of fear and anticipation.
This place is loud. It’s chaotic. It is aggressively opposed to everything you find comfortable.
But you adjust your scrubs, tighten your grip on your notebook, and step forward anyway.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
By the time the students are assigned patients, the department is already running hot.
Robby watches it the way he always does—from the center of the storm, half a step removed, coffee cooling forgotten on the counter. Trauma bay doors slide open. A monitor alarms and is silenced with muscle memory. Dana says something about bed availability without looking up. It’s controlled chaos, the kind that only looks unmanageable if you don’t know where to stand.
“Alright,” he says, clapping once again because it works and because it gets their attention. “Students don’t hover. You get patients. You report back. You don’t do anything heroic.”
Samira steps in smoothly, already dividing the board with quick efficiency. “Joy, chest pain in four. James, abdominal pain, bay twelve. You—” her eyes flick to you, assessing, “—shortness of breath, room seven. I’ll be nearby.”
Robby watches you nod. No hesitation. No wide-eyed panic. You already have the tablet in hand, scrolling through it as you walk.
Good, he thinks. At least one of them won’t need babysitting.
Hours pass the way they always do—not as time so much as momentum. Robby fields questions, signs orders, jumps into a procedure, pulls Dennis back from a well-meaning but catastrophic plan. He checks on the students when he can, expecting the usual spectrum: eager incompetence, terrified silence, the occasional dangerous confidence.
What he doesn’t expect is how often your name comes up.
“She’s fast,” Trinity says at one point, handing him a tablet. “Picked up the respiratory acidosis before the ABG came back.”
Robby hums, noncommittal. Plenty of students are fast. Fast doesn’t impress him. Fast just means they haven’t been wrong yet.
Later, Cassie corners him near the med room. “Your MD/PhD student—she’s thorough. Annoyingly so. Asked about home oxygen adherence and social support like she had all the time in the world.”
“Did it matter?” Robby asks.
Cassie shrugs. “Turns out it did.”
That earns a raised eyebrow.
He finally shadows you himself, leaning against the doorframe of room five while you talk to an elderly man with COPD exacerbation. Your posture is relaxed, voice even, pitched low enough not to overwhelm. You’re not rushing him. You’re not interrupting. You’re listening in a way that isn’t performative.
“So you’ve been using the inhaler more,” you say gently, “but it’s not helping the way it used to.”
The man nods, embarrassed. “Didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Robby watches the way your expression shifts—not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just a subtle softening around the eyes.
“You’re not bothering anyone,” you say. “But we need to know when things change, okay?”
You explain the plan clearly. Steroids. Nebs. Observation. No jargon unless necessary. You answer the same question twice without irritation.
Huh, Robby thinks.
Outside the room, Samira meets your eyes. “Thoughts?”
You launch into a concise summary. No wasted words. No grandstanding. When she asks why you want a chest X-ray now instead of later, you answer without defensiveness, citing specifics. You’re confident, but not brittle.
Robby clears his throat. “And if he worsens?”
You glance at him, startled for half a second, then recover. “Escalate oxygen, repeat gases, consider non-invasive ventilation early rather than late.”
You don’t look at him for approval. You look back at the patient board, already thinking ahead.
Sharp, he admits reluctantly. Annoyingly sharp.
But it’s later—much later, when the shift has blurred into that exhausted stretch where mistakes like to hide—that he really notices.
A teenage girl comes in, panic attack masquerading as something worse. You sit with her longer than strictly necessary, even as the department strains. Robby watches from a distance, ready to step in if you drown.
You don’t.
You ground her. You explain what’s happening in her body without minimizing it. You don’t dismiss her fear. When she finally calms, you don’t take credit.
“She did the hard part,” you tell her mother quietly.
Robby exhales slowly through his nose.
There it is.
Not the performative empathy. Not the rehearsed concern. Something steadier. Something earned.
When you finally report back to him near the end of the shift, you look tired in the way that suggests you’ve actually been working, not just standing around pretending.
“Good job today,” he says, before he can stop himself.
You blink, clearly not expecting it. “Thank you.”
You don’t smile. You don’t preen. You just nod and tuck the words away like data.
As you walk off toward your next task, Robby watches you go, feeling something settle into place—an unfamiliar mix of interest and respect.
Great, he thinks dryly. Another one who’s going to make this rotation interesting.
He drains his cold coffee and grimaces.
This is going to be a long eight weeks.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
By the end of the first week, the residents stop watching you like you’re a live grenade.
Which, you decide, is progress.
You move through the department with a rhythm now—still cautious, still observant, but no longer stiff with the effort of not doing the wrong thing. You know where the gloves are without asking. You know which monitors lie. You know Dana’s expression well enough to tell when now is not the moment to ask a question unless you enjoy public humiliation.
Trinity bumps your shoulder lightly as you pass each other near the trauma bay. “You’re ruining the curve,” she tells you.
You don’t look up from the tablet. “I live to disappoint.”
She laughs, sharp and quick. It feels earned.
Cassie trusts you with more autonomy than she probably should. Mel explains things without condescension, drawing quick diagrams on scrap paper like you’re a colleague, not a student. Samira watches you closely—not hovering, but attentive—and occasionally asks you questions that feel less like teaching and more like rehearsal.
You answer them all.
You don’t answer perfectly, but you answer honestly, and when you don’t know something, you say so without flinching. That, more than anything, seems to buy you credibility.
Joy is your natural ally.
You gravitate toward each other the way people with matching cynicism always do. She stands next to you during downtime, leaning against the counter, sipping terrible coffee with the air of someone enduring a mild but constant disappointment.
“This place is loud,” she says one night, watching a stretcher roll past at speed.
“It’s a design flaw,” you reply. “If they really wanted efficiency, they’d introduce noise-canceling headphones and a mandatory nap schedule.”
Joy hums. “I’d settle for chairs that don’t feel like a personal punishment."
You share a look. Mutual understanding achieved.
You trade observations in low voices—who’s competent, who’s dangerous, who means well but shouldn’t be allowed near sharp objects. Your humor is dry enough that it often slides under the radar, but when it lands, it lands clean.
James, unfortunately, is always within earshot.
He’s eager in the way that makes your teeth ache. He presents cases like puzzles, eyes bright, voice animated, thrilled by the elegance of differential diagnoses. He talks about patients as cases even when they’re sitting three feet away.
“Isn’t it fascinating,” he says once, after a man with unexplained weight loss is admitted, “how the constellation of symptoms fits so neatly with—”
You cut him off with a glance. “He can hear you.”
James blinks. “Oh. Right.”
You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is that curiosity without compassion is just heartlessness.
Later, Joy mutters, “He’s like if PubMed learned how to speak.”
You almost smile.
You’re cordial with James. You are not warm. You keep your distance—respectful, careful, unwilling to trust it near anything important.
The residents notice.
“Good instincts,” Cassie tells you quietly after James leaves a room, frustration etched into their face. “You clocked that too, huh?”
You shrug. “He treats suffering like a Sudoku.”
Cassie snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”
You spend your shifts doing what you do best: observing, synthesizing, caring in ways that don’t announce themselves loudly. You remember names. You notice when someone flinches at touch. You pull up a chair when conversations turn difficult, even when no one explicitly asks you to.
You pretend it’s habit.
You tell yourself it’s efficiency.
But late one night, after the department briefly exhales, Robby passes you at the desk and pauses.
“You settling in?” he asks, tone casual but eyes sharp.
You don’t look up. “Against my better judgment.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re doing good work.”
You glance at him then, just long enough to register sincerity. “So I’m told.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, then nods and moves on.
You go back to your notes, to Joy leaning over your shoulder, to the hum of the Pitt that no longer feels quite as hostile as it did on day one.
You still prefer labs. You still crave quiet.
But you’re starting to understand the appeal.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Robby watches you the way he watches everything in his department: indirectly, from the corner of his eye, while doing three other things at once.
It’s a skill you develop or you drown.
You’re at the foot of a bed in fast track, tablet balanced against your hip, posture relaxed but alert. The patient is a middle-aged man with vague abdominal pain and a history long enough to qualify as its own novella. You’re listening—actually listening—not nodding while waiting for your turn to talk. You ask questions in a sequence that makes sense, each one clearly informed by the last.
Good, Robby thinks. She’s not fishing.
You synthesize information quickly. Not hastily—there’s a difference. He sees it in the way you glance at the monitor, then back to the patient, then down at the chart. Lab values, vitals, story—click, click, click. Pieces sliding into place without drama.
Most students narrate their thinking like they’re auditioning for an oral exam. You don’t. You only speak when there’s something worth saying.
Under pressure, you don’t flinch.
A nurse snaps at you because she’s overwhelmed, and you absorb it without ego. A family member raises their voice, frightened and angry, and you lower yours instead of matching it. When a monitor alarms, you don’t jump—you look.
That, Robby admits grudgingly, isn’t teachable.
You also have a dry sense of humor that appears sparingly, with precision. A single line, flat delivery, gone before anyone can respond. It takes the edge off the room without making light of it.
Then there’s James Ogilvie.
Robby clocks him early. He always does. James is bright—too bright for his own good—and eager in the way that mistakes enthusiasm for care. He talks in differentials and probabilities like the patient is a whiteboard problem waiting to be solved.
You're in a room together now. Young man. Chest pain. Anxious, sweaty, clearly terrified even if the vitals are stable.
James launches into it. “Given your age and lack of risk factors, it’s statistically unlikely that—”
You cut in before Robby can.
“He’s not an abstract,” you say, voice level, not unkind. Just final. “He’s scared.”
The room stills.
James blinks, thrown. “I was just—”
“I know,” you say. “But he doesn’t need statistics right now. He needs to know what’s happening to him.”
The patient looks at you like you’ve just translated something important into a language he understands.
Robby feels something sharp and familiar spark in his chest.
James recovers, nods, mutters something about reassessing. You don’t gloat. You don’t soften it either. You turn back to the patient and continue, steady and calm, explaining the plan in plain terms.
Robby doesn’t step in then. He doesn’t need to.
He does, however, step in later.
At the desk, James starts to frame the encounter again—pathophysiology first, human second. Robby interrupts, casual as you like.
“Focus on what the patient needed in that moment,” he says, glancing briefly at you, then away. “Not just what impressed you.”
James nods, chastened.
You don’t look at Robby. You keep writing. But he sees the flicker—awareness, recognition. You don’t thank him. You don’t have to.
You noticed.
Robby leans back against the counter, folds his arms, and watches you disappear into the next room with the same quiet competence.
He files it all away: your speed, your restraint, your refusal to let people become problems instead of people.
That one, he thinks, dryly, is going to be trouble.
The good kind.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Charting is the closest the ER ever gets to quiet.
Which is to say: it is still loud, just in a more passive-aggressive way.
You sit at one of the workstations tucked between two pillars, monitor angled just enough to block your screen from curious passersby. The chair creaks every time you shift your weight. Someone down the row is dictating a note with the enthusiasm of a man who loves the sound of his own voice. A monitor alarms in the distance, then stops. The smell of bleach lingers like a threat.
You type quickly, fingers moving on autopilot, your brain already three steps ahead of what you’re writing. Assessment, plan, differential. Clean. Concise. No poetry. This is not the place for poetry.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You hesitate. You know better. Phones in the ER are rarely bearers of good news. Still, you fish it out and glance down.
Nothing important.
No missed calls. No replies. No “sorry, been in the field, signal’s bad.” No reassurance that your thesis advisor is alive, well, and not currently being held for ransom in some mosquito-infested jungle.
You groan, softly but with feeling.
“I got ghosted,” you say, mostly to yourself.
Joy swivels in her chair beside you, movement smooth and economical, like she’s been waiting for this. “By a guy?”
You don’t look up from your screen. “By my thesis advisor.”
She blinks. “Wow.”
“Would honestly prefer a man,” you add. “At least sex would’ve been an option.”
Joy lets out a short, startled laugh and clamps a hand over her mouth. “Jesus.”
You lean back, rubbing your temple with two fingers. The words spill out now, contained but relentless, like pressure finally finding a crack.
“He vanished. Fully disappeared. No emails, no texts, no calls. Last I heard, he was doing ‘field research’ in rural Latin America, which is academic code for I will not be reachable and also I might die.
Joy’s eyes light up with interest. “Okay but like—dies how?”
“Best case? Malaria,” you say flatly. “Worst case? Kidnapped by a cartel because he wandered somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have.”
Joy hums. “Classic.”
“For all I know he’s face down in the jungle or being held hostage or decided enlightenment was more important than answering my emails,” you continue, lowering your voice as someone passes behind you. “I have samples degrading in a freezer and a dissertation that requires, at minimum, a living supervisor.”
Joy shakes her head. “Academia really is a horror genre.”
A laugh comes from behind you.
Low. Familiar. Annoyingly amused.
“Not nice to eavesdrop,” you say without looking up.
“You’re in my ER,” Robby replies easily. “That’s implied consent.”
You glance back then, eyebrow raised. He’s leaning against the counter behind you, arms crossed, coffee in hand, looking entirely too entertained.
“I was under the impression implied consent required at least a waiver,” you say.
He smirks. “We ran out.”
Joy swivels back toward her screen, lips twitching. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of this,” she says. “For plausible deniability.”
“Wise,” you tell her.
Robby tilts his head. “So your advisor’s missing.”
“Emotionally? Academically? Physically?” you ask. “Unclear.”
“Have you considered,” he says mildly, “that he’s just ignoring you?”
You stare at him. “That is objectively worse.”
He laughs again, softer this time. “Fair.”
You turn back to your chart, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The frustration is still there—sharp, insistent—but it’s tempered now, diluted by the absurdity of saying all of this out loud in the middle of an ER.
“I just need him to exist,” you mutter. “Briefly. Long enough to sign things.”
Robby takes a sip of his coffee. “Academia’s like that. Survival is optional. Paperwork is not.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself.
The monitor blinks. The note waits. The ER hums on.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
The monitor goes flat in a way that feels almost polite. A straight line. No drama. No warning. Just—final.
Someone says the time out loud. Someone else repeats it, because that’s what you do, apparently. Words get said so they exist on paper later. Your hands are still on the bed rail when it happens, fingers curled into chipped plastic, knuckles pale.
The room smells like antiseptic and something sour underneath it all. The patient’s chest is still exposed. Sweat beads along their collarbone, glistening under fluorescent lights that suddenly feel too bright, too clinical, too indifferent. The resident gives instructions in a voice that is already moving on. Tubes get disconnected. Someone pulls the sheet up with practiced gentleness, covering a body that looks profoundly wrong now that it is no longer doing the bare minimum required of it.
Alive had been work. Dead is stillness.
You step back because someone brushes past you and you realize you’re in the way. Of course you are. You always are at the worst possible moment. Your badge feels too heavy against your chest, swinging slightly when you move, the plastic tapping against your sternum like a reminder: you are here, you are watching, you are not essential.
Your mouth opens like you might say something—thank you, maybe, or I’m sorry, or something that acknowledges that a person just vanished from the world—but nothing comes out. Your throat closes around the words before they even form.
“Excuse me,” you hear yourself say instead. Your voice sounds wrong. Thin. Too calm.
No one looks at you when you leave. Which is a mercy.
The hallway feels longer than it should. You keep walking because stopping feels dangerous, like if you pause you’ll tip forward into something messy and public and humiliating.
You make it as far as the breakroom before your body betrays you entirely.
The door swings shut behind you with a soft click. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space immediately, loud and intimate. You slide down the wall without ceremony, landing on the floor with your back against the fridge, knees pulled up because there’s nowhere else to put them. The tiles are cold through your scrubs. You welcome it. Cold feels appropriate.
You press your forehead briefly to your knees and breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
Your chest stutters on the second breath like it’s forgotten the rhythm. That’s annoying. You grit your teeth and try again. You’ve always hated when your body decides it knows better than you do.
Get it together, you think, not kindly. You knew this would happen. People die. That’s the whole premise.
Still, your hands shake. Traitors.
You stare at the motivational poster taped crookedly above the microwave. TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK. You almost laugh. It comes out as a sharp huff instead, halfway to a sob before you choke it down. God, you’re dramatic. You can practically hear your own internal commentary, dry and unimpressed.
Congratulations, it says. You have discovered mortality. Gold star.
The truth presses in anyway, heavy and unwelcome: you didn’t do anything wrong. You know that. The team did everything right. You can recite the steps if you have to, list the interventions, the doses, the timing. It won’t change the outcome. It won’t change the image burned into the back of your skull—the way the patient’s eyes had been open at the end, unfocused, staring past everything.
You swallow hard.
Maybe this is why people like you aren’t supposed to do this. Too empathetic. Too affected. You’d always known you felt things deeply, but it had seemed like a manageable flaw in lecture halls and laboratories. A theoretical inconvenience. Not this.
Not a dead weight settling in your chest.
The door opens.
You don’t look up at first. You consider pretending you aren’t there, that you’ve simply become part of the architecture. But then a pair of shoes stops in front of you—scuffed sneakers, familiar. The door clicks shut again.
There’s a pause.
Then Robby sits down beside you, slow and deliberate, his shoulder a solid presence a few inches from yours. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t say your name. He just settles, knees bent, back against the same humming fridge, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. It shakes on the way out, embarrassing and loud in the small space.
“Hey,” you say eventually, because silence stretches and you feel obligated to acknowledge reality. Your voice is steadier now. At least there’s that.
“Hey,” he replies. His tone is quiet. Not pitying. Just… there.
You stare at the floor between your shoes. There’s a faint smear of something dark near the baseboard. Coffee, probably. Or blood. It could go either way in this building.
“He died,” you say. Brilliant observation. Truly.
“I know,” Robby says.
“It was so fast.” You pick at a loose thread on your scrub pants. “One minute we were—” You stop, jaw tightening. You don’t finish the sentence because you don’t want to hear it out loud.
Robby doesn’t push.
For a while, the only sounds are the refrigerator’s steady hum and the distant echo of a code alarm somewhere else in the hospital. Life continuing. Other people’s emergencies overlapping neatly with your small breakdown.
“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” you admit finally. There’s a sharp edge of annoyance under the honesty. At yourself, mostly. “I mean. I knew it would be bad. I just didn’t expect to feel so… useless.”
He turns his head slightly to look at you. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel the weight of his attention.
“No one is useful the first time,” he says. “Or the tenth.”
You snort despite yourself. “That’s comforting.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I try.”
You lean your head back against the fridge and close your eyes. The cold seeps into your scalp. You welcome the sensation because it anchors you, keeps you from floating off into the worst version of your thoughts.
“I don’t even know if I’m going to do clinical work,” you say, the words tumbling out faster now that you’ve cracked something open. “Like—actually do this. Day after day. I thought I wanted it, but maybe I just liked the idea of it. Or the challenge. Or proving I could.”
There it is. The arrogance, laid bare and a little ashamed of itself.
You add, more quietly, “I’m really sensitive. Which feels like a stupid thing to admit in a place like this.”
Robby is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is low, thoughtful.
“It doesn’t get easier,” he says. “You just learn how to carry it.”
You open your eyes and look at him then. He’s staring straight ahead, not at you, jaw set, expression stripped of its usual sharpness. The words don’t sound rehearsed. They sound earned.
“And sometimes,” he continues, softer now, “you don’t carry it well. That happens too.”
Something in your chest loosens at that. Just a fraction.
He turns to you finally. “Medicine needs people who feel,” he says. “For what it’s worth—I think you’ll be a great doctor.”
You blink. Once. Twice. The compliment lands awkwardly, like something heavy set down gently in your lap. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it from someone who wasn’t obligated to be kind.
Your mouth twists. “You barely know me.”
He shrugs. “I know enough.”
Silence settles again, different this time. Less sharp. More companionable.
Robby shifts, then extends his hand toward you, palm up, an offer without pressure. It’s a simple thing. Stupidly simple. And it nearly undoes you.
You hesitate for half a second—because of course you do—then place your hand in his. His grip is warm and steady, grounding in a way that makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.
You breathe. In. Out. Then you let him pull you to your feet.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
After that, something shifts.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. There’s no grand declaration, no meaningful look held a second too long while orchestral music swells somewhere off-screen. It’s subtler than that—annoyingly so. The kind of change you only notice in retrospect, like realizing a room is warmer than it was an hour ago.
Robby starts hovering. Not obviously. Not enough that you could accuse him of it without sounding self-important. But he checks in, in that casual, offhand way that suggests he’s been paying attention long before you noticed.
“You good?” he asks one morning, pausing by your workstation with a coffee in hand. Not handing it to you. Just holding it. Menacingly.
You glance up from the chart you’re pretending to understand. “Still alive.”
He snorts. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Bold assumption,” you say, but you don’t tell him to go away. Which is new.
He starts explaining things without making you feel stupid, which might be the most seductive thing anyone has ever done to you. He leans over your shoulder to point out lab trends, close enough that you can smell his soap—something clean and unremarkable—and you tell yourself you are absolutely not cataloguing this information for later. You are a professional. Allegedly.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says once.
You don’t look up. “If you mean breathing, I need that to live.”
“No, the other thing. The squint. You do it when you’re thinking.”
You freeze for half a beat, then straighten. “That’s unsettling. Please stop observing me like a particularly interesting case.”
He grins. “Can’t. Too late.”
It becomes a rhythm.
You trade comments in the hallway, quiet enough not to get you scolded. You roll your eyes at the same consultants. You exchange looks across the room during rounds when someone says something egregiously stupid. He learns the exact tone of your I am five seconds away from committing a felony sigh and uses distraction accordingly.
Once, he deliberately asks you a question you already know the answer to, just to buy you time to collect yourself after a rough patient interaction. You notice. You pretend not to.
You’re not sentimental. You don’t do gratitude speeches. Instead, you say, “If this is your way of mentoring, I want you to know it’s deeply manipulative.”
He shrugs. “Effective, though.”
Annoyingly, he’s right.
The banter sneaks up on you. It’s light. Easy. A little sharp around the edges, the way you like it. You don’t have to perform or soften yourself. You don’t have to explain the joke.
“You’re smiling,” he says one afternoon, catching you off guard.
You immediately wipe the expression off your face. “Untrue. This is my neutral.”
“Your neutral looks suspiciously like joy.”
“Watch it,” you say. “I’ll ruin that illusion for you.”
He laughs, and you feel a strange, traitorous warmth bloom low in your chest. You squash it ruthlessly.
You’re not doing this. Whatever this is.
Except—sometimes the exchanges toe a line.
Sometimes he lingers a little too long when handing you something. Sometimes you catch him watching you with an expression that’s unreadable enough to be dangerous. Sometimes your retorts come out softer than intended, or sharper in a way that suggests you’re trying to provoke a reaction just to see if you can.
“You’re trouble,” he tells you once, not unkindly.
You arch an eyebrow. “That sounds like a personal problem.”
“Most good things are.”
You stare at him for a second too long. Then you scoff and turn back to your work, heart thudding in a way that is frankly inconvenient.
You don’t interrogate it. That’s your rule. You are here for a good time, not a long time. You’ve made a career—well, a personality—out of not getting attached, out of treating connections like something optional.
Feel things. Sure. Briefly. With boundaries.
And if the line between innocent and flirty gets a little blurry? Well. That’s practically a workplace hazard.
Besides, it’s not like you’re planning anything. You’re not imagining what his hand would feel like if it stayed on your arm half a second longer. You’re not wondering if he’s like this with everyone or if this—whatever this is—is specific to you.
You’re definitely not cataloguing the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
You’re just… enjoying yourself.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
After that, Robby starts noticing everything.
Which is inconvenient, because noticing is how things get complicated.
He tells himself it’s professional at first. Mentorship. Oversight. The quiet responsibility that comes with being the one who’s been here longer, who knows where the bodies—literal and metaphorical—are buried. He checks the board more often when you’re on shift, makes sure you’re not getting buried under scut work or handed cases that will chew you up and spit you out before you’ve had time to learn anything useful.
“You’ve eaten?” he asks once, too casually, like it just slipped out.
You blink at him. “Is this a trap?”
He exhales through his nose. “Answer the question.”
“Coffee counts,” you say.
“It absolutely does not.”
You grin at him—wide, unapologetic, irritatingly charming. “You’re very invested in my nutritional status.”
He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it again, because anything he says will sound exactly like what it is. He settles for, “You don’t think straight when you’re running on caffeine and nothing else.”
“Debatable,” you say, already walking away.
He watches you go longer than he should.
That’s the problem. The watching.
He becomes hyper-aware in the way you only are when something has already gone too far. How close you stand when you talk to him—just inside what would normally be polite distance, like you don’t even notice the boundary. How easily you smile at him, not the careful, professional version you use on attendings, but something looser. Private.
He notices the way you tilt your head when you’re thinking, the quick flicker of satisfaction when you nail a diagnosis. He notices how you talk about the future like it’s a temporary inconvenience.
“I’m not staying forever,” you say one night, leaning against a counter while he finishes a note. “This is just… a chapter.”
“A short one?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the screen.
You shrug. “Aren’t they all?”
That lands somewhere low and unpleasant in his chest.
He starts steering cases your way. Not obviously. Nothing that would raise eyebrows. The complicated differentials, the pattern-recognition puzzles, the patients that need someone sharp and fast rather than endlessly patient. He tells himself it’s because you’re good. Because you deserve it.
Which is true.
It’s also not the whole truth.
“You should take this one,” he says during sign-out, nodding toward a chart. “Plays to your strengths.”
You look at him, eyes bright. “You say the nicest things.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.
Too late.
The rationalizations stack up quickly, neat and convincing. He’s helping you grow. He’s protecting you from burnout. He’s making sure you don’t get lost in the machinery of the place.
He is absolutely not doing this because he likes the way your face lights up when he shows faith in you.
He is absolutely not doing this because it feels good to matter to you.
And he definitely, categorically, is not doing this because he wants you.
That thought arrives anyway, unwelcome and persistent.
He hates it.
The age difference sits heavy in his mind, an unignorable fact. The hierarchy. The way Adamson’s voice seems to materialize out of thin air, dry and disapproving: Don’t be an idiot, Robby. Don’t shit where you eat. He’s had this conversation before. He knows the rules. He knows the reasons for them.
He feels, not for the first time, like a walking cautionary tale.
Congratulations, his inner voice says sourly. You’re that guy.
A dirty old man with a stethoscope and poor impulse control.
Except—he hasn’t done anything. Not really. No lines crossed. No touches that couldn’t be explained away as incidental.
And yet.
And yet he feels it in his body when you stand too close. The awareness sparks hot and immediate, unwelcome. He notices the cadence of your voice, the way you swear under your breath when you’re frustrated, the way you talk like nothing here is permanent—including him.
That might be the worst part.
You don’t seem to care what happens. You say things like you’re leaving soon, like this place—and the people in it—are temporary scenery. You flirt with possibilities the same way you flirt with him: casually, like consequences are theoretical.
He envies you for it. He resents you for it. He wants you anyway.
“Robby?”
He startles slightly. You’re looking at him, eyebrows raised.
“You okay?” you ask. “You’re doing the thousand-yard stare thing.”
“Thinking,” he says.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It usually isn’t.”
You smile at that, small and knowing, like you’ve seen through him. Maybe you have.
He watches you walk away again, shoulders loose, unburdened by the weight of all the things he knows better than to want.
He stays where he is, jaw tight, telling himself—again—that this is mentorship.
It isn’t.
And the worst part is knowing exactly how this ends, and feeling himself walk toward it anyway.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
It happens in the resuscitation bay, of course. Where everything happens. Where egos are loud and mistakes are public and no one ever forgets an audience is present.
Robby is half-turned toward the monitor when James opens his mouth.
You’re outlining your treatment plan—clear, precise, already thinking two steps ahead—and Robby clocks immediately that you’re right. The organism’s sensitivities are still pending, but the clinical picture is textbook. You hedge where appropriate. You don’t oversell. You never do.
James clears his throat.
“I don’t think that’s indicated,” he says, casually, the way men do when they’re correcting women in public. “Standard algorithm would suggest—”
Robby feels it before he sees it: the minute stilling in you. The breath you take. The way your spine straightens, not defensively, but deliberately.
You don’t interrupt him. You let him finish. That, Robby thinks grimly, is already generous.
When you speak, your voice is even. Calm. Almost too calm.
“I suggested that regimen,” you say, “specifically because I’ve been researching Pseudomonas aeruginosa for several years now. Not because I memorized the algorithm.”
The room shifts. Robby can feel it—the attention snapping into focus.
James frowns. “Right, but—”
“And,” you continue, cutting in now, surgical and precise, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me like that. You wouldn’t assume you were more knowledgeable on this topic if I were a man.”
Silence. Thick. Electric.
Robby keeps his face neutral with the ease of long practice, but internally he winces in appreciation. Clean hit. No wasted motion.
James opens his mouth again, then seems to reconsider. “I didn’t—”
“You’re welcome to look through my research,” you say. Still calm. Still steady. “Any time. But please don’t default to assuming you know more than I do.”
You stop there. You don’t smile. You don’t soften it. You just hold the line.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Robby clears his throat. “Let’s proceed with her plan,” he says, tone final. “We can reassess once cultures are back.”
James nods stiffly and looks away.
The moment dissolves. The machine grinds on. Another crisis absorbs the oxygen in the room.
But Robby watches you as you step back, jaw tight now, shoulders squared like you’re bracing against something invisible.
God, he thinks. You’re good.
Not just smart—plenty of people are smart. You’re sharp under pressure. Unapologetic without being reckless. You don’t need his defense, and that’s somehow both a relief and a problem.
He finds you later in the ambulance bay.
You’re standing just outside the automatic doors, arms folded loosely, staring out into the dim blue wash of early evening. Sirens wail somewhere distant, echoing off concrete and glass. The air smells like exhaust and antiseptic and rain that hasn’t fallen yet.
You don’t notice him at first.
He approaches quietly, stopping a careful distance away. Professional. Always professional.
“You okay?” he asks.
You huff out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting all day to escape. “Nobody here is okay.”
He smiles faintly. “Fair.”
You glance at him, then back toward the lot. “I’m just tired.”
There’s something about the way you say it—flat, stripped of irony—that makes his chest tighten.
“Tired how?” he asks, gently.
You hesitate, then shrug. “Every day after the ER, I go back to the lab. I don’t leave until late. I eat garbage. I forget what day it is. And then I come back here and get talked to like I just discovered bacteria last week.”
You laugh softly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
Robby shifts his weight. He wants to say something useful. Something that doesn’t sound like a platitude or a reprimand or—God forbid—condescension.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he says instead. “You handled it well.”
You glance at him again, this time holding his gaze. “I know.”
The confidence is there. Earned. Exhausted, but unbroken.
He hesitates, then reaches out—just briefly—resting his hand against your upper arm. It’s casual. Almost nothing. The kind of touch that could be explained away a dozen different ways.
Mentorship. Grounding. Support.
Your muscles tense under his palm, then relax.
There it is. The spark. Immediate and unwelcome.
He pulls his hand back a second later, pulse a little too loud in his ears.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head. “I know.”
The silence between you stretches, charged now. He’s acutely aware of how close you’re standing. Of the fact that you didn’t step away when he touched you.
You look tired in the way people do when they’re running on purpose and stubbornness alone. Brilliant. Burning yourself down to something sharp and dangerous.
He feels it again—that pull. That wanting.
And with it, the familiar guilt.
Jesus, his inner voice mutters. Get a grip.
He clears his throat. “You should go home,” he says, like a man offering sound advice instead of wishing he could do something far less appropriate.
You smile, small and crooked. “Probably.”
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
For a moment, in the open air of the ambulance bay, with plausible deniability hanging thick between you, he lets himself stand there and want you.
Then he steps back.
Because wanting you has never been the problem.
It’s everything else that comes with it.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
After finishing your ER rotation, you tell yourself that’s it. A clean cut. A neat ending. You turn in your badge, your eval gets signed, you make the appropriately reverent noises about “learning so much,” and you walk out telling yourself that you will not see Robby again.
Which is, in retrospect, a wildly optimistic assumption to make about a universe this spiteful.
The bar is loud in the way only bars full of exhausted graduate and med students can be: not quite drunk enough to be sloppy, not sober enough to be quiet. There’s a sticky sweetness in the air—spilled cider, cheap beer, citrus wedges crushed into the wood of the tables. Someone has put coins into the jukebox, and it’s cycling through a playlist that feels like it was curated by someone who peaked emotionally in 2012.
You’re wedged into a corner table with your friend, knees pressed against the underside of the table, a drink sweating onto a napkin you’ve already used once to mop up condensation. You’re halfway through listening to her monologue—something about a failed exam and a truly unforgivable question involving renal physiology—when your gaze drifts, unmoored, across the room.
And then you see him.
Robby is sitting at the bar, turned three-quarters away from you, elbow hooked over the polished wood like he belongs there. He’s in civilian clothes, which your brain takes a moment too long to process—no scrubs, no ID badge, no hospital-neutral expression. Just a dark jacket slung over the back of the stool, sleeves rolled up enough to expose his forearms. He’s laughing at something the bartender says, head tipped back slightly, mouth open in a way that is—annoyingly—easy.
You freeze.
Not dramatically. No one drops a glass. No music screeches to a halt. You just go very still, like a rabbit that has suddenly realized it is, in fact, extremely edible.
You look away immediately, because you are not drunk enough for this. You are dangerously sober. You have had exactly one drink and half a basket of fries, and there is no universe in which that combination ends with dignity if you attempt a casual run-in with a man you—sort of—flirted with in a high-stress clinical environment.
So you do the mature thing. You pretend he does not exist.
Your friend is still talking. “…so at this point,” she says, gesturing emphatically with her glass, “I don’t need an academic comeback. I need the academic equivalent of a resurrection.”
You snort despite yourself, the sound sharp and inelegant. “Honestly? Fair.”
She squints at you. “What?”
“Nothing. Just—yeah. Resurrection sounds about right.”
Your gaze stays firmly on her face. You refuse to let it drift back to the bar. You are very proud of this restraint, even as your brain does a constant, traitorous inventory: Is he still there? Did he move? Did he see you? Of course he didn’t see you. Don’t be narcissistic.
“I swear to God,” she continues, “if I have to explain the renin-angiotensin system one more time—”
“I will commit a felony,” you say promptly.
She laughs, relieved to have you fully back. “Thank you. Finally, someone understands me.”
You take a sip of your drink. It’s too sweet. Everything is always too sweet when you’re tired.
“At this point,” you say, leaning back, “I just need to either finish my fucking thesis or get laid.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Mostly the first one,” you add, because you are nothing if not responsible.
“Tragic priorities,” she says. “Do you even know what you’re going to do after you finish?”
You exhale, slow and heavy, like the question has physical weight. “No. Absolutely not. I oscillate wildly between something low-stakes, like pathology or radiology—where no one expects me to make eye contact—and disappearing into research forever.”
“Writing grants and passive-aggressive lab notes?”
“Exactly,” you say. “It’s a calling.”
She grins. “That is a serious skill.”
“It is,” you agree solemnly. “Though clearly I have more to learn, because my lab director laminates every single note and signs them with his full name and title.”
Her eyes widen. “Every single one?”
“Every. Single. One,” you say. “Name. Degree. Department. It’s like he wants future archaeologists to know exactly who to blame.”
She laughs, loud and unrestrained. “He wants all of you to fear his wrath.”
“Oh, we do,” you say. “We absolutely do.”
The conversation slides from there into its natural grooves: gossip about who’s sleeping with whom, which attending is quietly unhinged, which classmate is definitely going to end up running a cult disguised as a wellness clinic. You complain about med school, about your lab work, about the way time seems to be passing both too fast and not at all. You drink. You steal fries. You laugh until your face hurts in that good, loosening way that reminds you you are not just a collection of deadlines and stress responses.
And still—inevitably—you feel him.
Not his touch. Not even his gaze, as far as you know. Just the gravitational pull of his presence in the room, like your body has clocked him even if your eyes refuse to cooperate. Every laugh from the bar makes your attention twitch. Every shift of movement in your peripheral vision sends a flicker of awareness through you.
You tell yourself it means nothing. You tell yourself this is just what unfinished things feel like.
You order another drink. Your friend is halfway through a truly vicious impression of her least favorite professor when you risk it—just a glance, quick and careful.
Robby is still there.
He’s turned slightly now, talking to someone else, his expression more subdued but still easy. For one horrible, suspended second, you wonder what it would be like to just… walk over. To say hi. To be normal. To acknowledge that the ER rotation didn’t erase him from existence.
Then he laughs again, and something in your chest tightens—not longing, exactly, but recognition. And that’s worse.
You look back at your friend, who is mid-rant and entirely unaware that your internal organs are doing something deeply unprofessional.
“Sorry,” you say absently.
“For what?”
“Nothing,” you reply, automatically. “Just thinking.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s always a bad sign.”
You smile thinly. “Tell me about it.”
You stay where you are. You finish your drink. You let the night blur at the edges without ever quite tipping over. You tell yourself—again—that some things are better left untouched.
You almost believe it.
The bar is louder than it has any right to be for a weeknight—too many voices stacked on top of each other, laughter sharpened by alcohol, glasses clinking like punctuation marks no one asked for. Your elbows stick slightly to the lacquered wood of the table, the kind of sticky that suggests a lazy wipe-down sometime earlier in the evening.
Your friend checks her phone for the third time in five minutes, thumb hovering, already halfway gone.
“I’ve gotta head out,” she says, sliding off her chair and reaching for her coat. “You coming with?”
You open your mouth to answer automatically—yes, of course, let’s go, I’m tired, this place is loud—but you don’t say it. Instead, your eyes drift, unhelpfully, inevitably, toward the bar.
Robby is still there.
He’s sitting two stools down from where he was an hour ago, like he’s migrated slightly but not meaningfully, the way someone does when they don’t actually want to leave but can’t stand staying exactly where they are. His shoulders are hunched forward, forearms braced against the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass that’s been empty long enough to be a little sad about it. His jaw is tight, lips pressed together in that specific way that suggests he’s thinking very hard about not thinking.
You look back at your friend, buying time.
“I think I’ll stay a bit longer,” you say, surprising both of you. “Just… one more.”
She lifts an eyebrow, follows your gaze, and hums softly in a way that suggests she has already put several things together and is filing them away for later use.
“Suit yourself,” she says, not unkindly. “Text me when you get home so I know you didn’t get murdered.”
“Optimistic,” you reply.
She grins, squeezes your shoulder, and then she’s gone—swallowed by coats and cold air and the front door swinging shut behind her.
You’re alone now, or at least as alone as you can be in a crowded bar. The empty chair across from you feels accusatory. You take a sip of your drink, mostly to give your hands something to do, and glance back at Robby again.
He looks… bad.
Not dramatically bad. Not falling-apart, someone-call-a-doctor bad. Just—worn thin. Like a man who’s been quietly losing an argument with himself for hours. You’ve known him eight weeks, which is objectively not a long time, but it’s long enough to recognize the difference between his usual guarded, professional neutrality and whatever this is. His hair is slightly out of place, strands escaping the neat discipline he usually keeps them under. There’s a crease between his brows that doesn’t seem to go away, even when he lifts his glass and takes another sip.
You tell yourself, very firmly, that this is none of your business.
You also tell yourself, much less convincingly, that you should probably just finish your drink and go home.
Instead, you do neither.
It’s alcohol, you decide. Alcohol and boredom and the general erosion of your better judgment that happens after a long week. That’s the story you’re going with as you stand up, hook your fingers under the edge of the table for balance, and carry your glass with you.
You approach the bar, and for a second you hesitate behind the empty stool next to him. This is the moment where you could still retreat. Turn around. Pretend you were just getting another drink. Preserve the fragile equilibrium of whatever this is.
You don’t.
You lift yourself onto the stool beside him, sliding in close enough that your thigh brushes his. The contact is brief but noticeable, the kind that sends a small, traitorous spark up your leg. You adjust, crossing one leg over the other, deliberately casual.
Robby startles slightly, like he hadn’t realized how deep in his own head he was. He turns, recognition flickering across his face.
“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply. “You look like someone stole your dog.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, more air than sound. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” you say, signaling the bartender for another drink. “At least if someone stole your dog, you’d have a clear course of action.”
The bartender sets a fresh glass in front of Robby without being asked, which tells you more than you need to know about how long he’s been sitting here.
Robby watches the amber liquid slosh as it’s poured, then wraps his fingers around the glass again. “You always this encouraging?”
“Only when I care,” you say lightly, then immediately regret the phrasing. You cover it by taking a sip of your own drink. “Which, to be clear, is debatable.”
He glances at you sidelong. “Mm. That’s reassuring.”
There’s a pause. Not an awkward one, exactly, but a weighted one. The noise of the bar swells around you, filling the silence with other people’s conversations, other people’s laughter. Robby stares into his drink like it might offer answers if he waits long enough.
You study him openly. The slope of his nose, the shadow of grey in his beard and along his temples, the way tension seems to live permanently in his shoulders. He looks exhausted in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.
“So,” you say finally. “What are we drinking to? Bad decisions? Regret? The crushing inevitability of time?”
He snorts despite himself. “You really know how to set a mood.”
“It’s a gift.”
He hesitates, then takes a drink. “Just… a long day.”
You tilt your head. “Funny. You’ve had a lot of those lately.”
That gets his attention. He looks at you properly now, eyes narrowing slightly, not defensive so much as curious. “Have I?”
“Yes,” you say. “And before you ask, no, I’m not stalking you. You just have a face that gives things away.”
“Great,” he mutters. “Another professional failing.”
“Relax,” you say. “It’s only obvious if someone’s paying attention.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His knee bounces once, then stills. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost lost beneath the music.
“Why are you still here?” he asks.
You consider lying. You consider making a joke. You consider telling him it’s none of his business.
Instead, you shrug. “Felt like it.”
Which is true. In the loosest, most dangerous sense of the word.
He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if accepting that answer at face value—or at least deciding not to push.
“Thanks,” he says, eventually.
“For what?”
“For… sitting with me,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “I guess.”
You take another sip, letting the ice clink thoughtfully against the glass. “Don’t read too much into it. I’m still evaluating whether this was a terrible idea.”
A corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. “Let me know what you decide.”
“Oh, I will,” you say. “I’m very opinionated.”
You sit there together, thighs nearly touching, the space between you charged with something unnamed. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just proximity. Just alcohol. Just a bar, on a weeknight, with two people who are maybe a little too tired to keep pretending they’re fine.
Conversation, it turns out, slips into place with him like it's the most natural thing in the world. Uninvited, persistent, thrilling.
It starts innocently enough.
“So,” he says, after a moment of comfortable silence, turning his glass slowly against the bar. “What are you rotating through now?”
“Anesthesiology,” you reply, making a face. “Which means I spend a lot of time being very important and absolutely invisible at the same time.”
He snorts. “Ah. The gods of the drapes.”
“Exactly. If I do my job perfectly, no one remembers I was there. If I screw up, everyone remembers forever.”
“That sounds… stressful.”
“It is,” you say. “But also deeply satisfying in a control-freak kind of way.”
He glances at you, amused. “I had a feeling you might enjoy that aspect.”
You lift an eyebrow. “You saying I have control issues?”
“I’m saying,” he replies, leaning a little closer now, forearm brushing yours, “that you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys chaos unless it’s very well-managed chaos.”
Your mouth curves despite yourself. “Bold assessment for someone I’ve known, what, two months?”
“Eight weeks,” he corrects automatically.
You pause. “You counted?”
His ears pink, just slightly. “Habit.”
You hum. “Interesting habit.”
The bartender slides another drink toward you without asking, and you accept it with a nod, realizing belatedly that you’ve finished the last one. Time is doing something strange—stretching and folding in on itself, like it’s decided to stop behaving normally out of spite.
Robby takes a sip, then says, “How’s it compare to the ED?”
“Oh, it’s night and day,” you say. “No one’s screaming. Fewer bodily fluids in unexpected places. Everyone’s very calm right up until they’re absolutely not.”
“Sounds familiar.”
You grin. “I watched an attending lose his mind today over a blood pressure cuff.”
“A faulty one?”
“No, a perfectly functional one,” you say. “But it wasn't the one he usually uses.”
Robby laughs properly at that, head tipping back slightly, and the sound does something annoyingly warm to your chest.
“Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
You find yourself telling him about a case from earlier in the week—a trauma call that started in the ED and ended in the OR, messy and complicated and stupid in that very specific way only hospital stupidity can be. He listens closely, asking questions, filling in gaps without interrupting, and it’s… easy. Easier than it has any right to be.
“You know,” he says when you finish, “you talk about cases like you’re narrating a documentary.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is,” he assures you. “Very… focused. Like you’re already three steps ahead.”
You tilt your head. “And you?” you ask. “Any memorable disasters lately?”
His smile turns wry. “Depends.”
You wait.
“There was a guy who came in convinced he’d been poisoned,” Robby says. “Swore his roommate was trying to kill him.”
“And?”
“And it turned out he’d just taken three different supplements he ordered online and washed them down with an energy drink.”
You wince. “Ah. The organic approach to self-destruction.”
“Exactly.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Your knee brushes his this time, not accidental enough to be innocent, not deliberate enough to be obvious. Neither of you moves away.
Conversation drifts, the way it always does when people are relaxed—books first.
“What do you read?” he asks.
“Depends,” you say. “If I’m tired, trashy novels with low emotional stakes. If I’m not, things that make me feel superior.”
He smirks. “Such as?”
“Anything that makes me say, ‘Well, at least I’m not that pretentious,’” you reply. “You?”
“Nonfiction,” he admits. “Mostly.”
“Of course you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you say, leaning in a little, voice dropping conspiratorially, “that you’re exactly the kind of man who pretends it’s relaxing.”
He laughs again, softer this time. “I don’t pretend.”
“Sure,” you say. “And I don’t judge.”
He looks at you for a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “Liar.”
“Maybe,” you say. “But a charming one.”
Movies come next. Turns out you both like the same ones—the kind with sharp dialogue and morally questionable protagonists. He confesses to rewatching the same films when he can’t sleep. You admit you do the same, because predictability is soothing and surprises are overrated.
“You’re very particular,” he says, smiling.
“I prefer discerning.”
“Mm,” he murmurs. “That tracks too.”
There’s no mistaking it now. The space between you has shifted, thickened with something undeniably charged. His knee presses more firmly against yours. His hand rests on the bar close enough that if you moved even an inch, your fingers would touch.
You notice everything—the warmth of his body, the faint scent of soap and something sharper beneath it, the way his voice drops when he says your name. It would be easier if one of you said something overt, if he leaned in or you did, if the tension snapped instead of stretched.
But neither of you does.
Instead, you sit there, talking and smiling and leaning just a little too close, flirting in a way that leaves just enough room for denial if anyone were to call you on it.
You tell yourself it’s harmless.
You tell yourself you’re just enjoying the conversation.
You do not tell yourself what it might mean that you don’t want the night to end.
And when his thumb brushes your knuckles—casual, fleeting, but very much intentional—you don’t pull away.
You just look at him, eyebrows lifting slightly, and say, “You’re trouble, you know that?”
His smile is slow, unmistakably pleased. “Funny,” he says. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖
By the time you glance at your phone and sigh—soft, regretful—Robby already knows how this is going to go.
You slide off the barstool, boots hitting the floor with a dull, final sound. The movement exposes the length of your legs for half a second longer than strictly necessary, and his brain, traitorous thing that it is, files the image away with unnecessary clarity. He looks away, fixes his attention on the condensation ring his glass has left on the bar.
“Should probably head out,” you say, apologetic but not apologizing. “Early start.”
Of course you do, he thinks. You’re competent. Responsible. Still young enough to believe sleep fixes things.
“Yeah,” he says instead. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
He watches you gather your coat, the practiced efficiency of someone used to managing herself. No fuss. No dithering. It shouldn’t feel like something is ending, but it does anyway, a faint tightening in his chest he very deliberately ignores.
You hesitate, just a beat too long, and look back at him.
“I can walk you,” he hears himself say.
The words are out before he’s fully decided to let them exist. There it is—the moment. The internal argument he’s been having all night loses, immediately and decisively. He knows it the instant your eyebrows lift, surprise flickering into something warmer.
“You don’t have to,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “I want to.”
That earns him a small smile, the kind that feels personal. “Okay,” you say. “If you’re sure.”
He’s not. But he nods anyway.
Outside, the night is cold and sharp, the kind that sobers you faster than coffee ever could. Streetlights cast long, amber streaks across wet pavement. The city hums softly around you—distant traffic, a siren far enough away to be theoretical.
You walk side by side, close enough that your arms brush occasionally. Each time it happens, Robby is acutely aware of it, like his nervous system is reporting directly to his worst impulses.
This is a terrible idea, he thinks, immediately followed by: It already was.
He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, partly to keep warm, partly to keep them occupied. He’s painfully aware of the age difference—not because you ever make it obvious, but because he does the math automatically, the way he does everything. He knows exactly how it looks. Senior attending. Med student. A walking HR seminar.
Dirty old man, his brain supplies helpfully.
Except you don’t feel young. You feel sharp. Grounded. Fully yourself. And that somehow makes it worse.
“So,” you say, breaking the silence. “Thanks for the company.”
“Anytime,” he replies, then winces internally at how sincere it sounds.
You glance at him. “You okay?”
There it is. Of course you’d ask. You always do that—notice things.
“Yeah,” he says. “Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime,” you remark.
He huffs a laugh. “You have no idea.”
You walk a block in silence. He’s aware of your presence in a way that’s almost distracting—the rhythm of your steps, the faint scent of your shampoo carried by the cold air. He keeps his gaze forward, because if he looks at you too long he might do something stupid, like reach out. Or say something he can’t take back.
He clears his throat. “You’re easy to talk to,” he says, then immediately wonders why he admitted that.
You tilt your head, amused. “Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It was,” he admits. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
Your building comes into view sooner than he wants it to. He feels an irrational spike of disappointment, followed by irritation at himself for feeling it at all. He stops when you do, the moment stretching awkwardly but not unpleasantly.
“Well,” you say. “This is me.”
“Right,” he says.
You look up at him, eyes bright under the streetlight. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—awareness, possibility, restraint. He’s acutely conscious of how close he is, how easily he could lean in.
He doesn’t.
“Get home safe,” he says instead, voice low.
You smile, softer now. “You too, Robby.”
He's is halfway through saying good night when everything goes wrong.
You don’t turn toward the door. You don’t step back. Instead, you step closer—into his space, close enough that the heat of you cuts straight through the cold. He smells you again, clean and faintly sweet, and his brain offers up a useless, traitorous observation about how easily you fit there.
You look up at him, eyes steady, unreadable in that way of yours that always makes him feel like he’s the one being assessed.
“Robby,” you say quietly.
The way you say his name is the problem. Low. Intentional. Like you already know the answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.
“Yes?” he says, and immediately hates how rough his voice sounds.
You tilt your head slightly, lips curving—not a smile exactly, more like a decision. “If you’re going to keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “you should probably do something about it.”
There it is. The point of no return. He feels it land in his chest, heavy and electric, dismantling every carefully constructed argument he’s been clinging to all night.
This is a terrible idea, his mind supplies automatically.
He doesn’t argue with it.
He closes the distance before he can think better of it, before he can remember his age or his job or the long list of reasons this ends badly. Your mouth meets his, soft for exactly half a second before it turns certain.
The spark is immediate—violent, almost. He makes a sound he doesn’t recognize, something low and involuntary, half surprise and half pure hunger. His hands move on instinct, one sliding to your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold you there.
Jesus Christ, he thinks dimly.
You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for it, like this isn’t a question but a conclusion. The kiss deepens fast—no hesitation, no testing the waters. Your mouth opens under his, and he tilts your head without thinking, chasing the sound you make when he kisses you deeper, slower, more deliberate.
He’s painfully aware of his body’s response, the rush of heat, the immediate, undeniable arousal that makes shame flare hot and sharp in his chest.
Get it together, he tells himself uselessly. You’re a grown man, not a—
Too late.
You sigh into the kiss, a soft exhale that goes straight through him. His grip tightens reflexively, thumb pressing into your jaw, his other hand firm at your back. The world narrows to this—your mouth, your warmth, the way you fit against him far too well.
When you finally pull back, it’s only an inch, just enough to breathe. Your forehead rests against his, breaths mingling in the cold air.
“Come inside,” you say.
It’s an invitation. Not coy. Not hesitant. Simple and devastating.
He should say no. He knows that. He can almost hear himself doing it—gentle, responsible, painfully sensible.
Instead, he hears himself say, “Okay.”
The word is out before he can stop it, before he can articulate exactly why this is a horrible, career-ending, self-sabotaging idea. You smile, satisfied, and take his hand like this was always the plan.
As you lead him toward the door, Robby has one last, fleeting thought—dry, resigned, and almost amused at himself.
Pairing: CEO!Wanda x Fem!Reader
Summary: Your boss and CEO Wanda Maximoff isn't too pleased with your performance at work. Luckily you're given the opportunity to make her happy in a different way.
Content Warning: Power imbalance, degradation, spanking (R receiving), fingering (R receiving).
Word count: 2.4k
A/N: thank you for 200 followers! i was captivated by the thought of CEO wanda but felt like i wasn't doing her justice. then suddenly, a couple of days later, inspiration hit me and i wrote almost the entire thing in one go. i hope you enjoy.
Wanda Maximoff was a meticulous businesswoman. She was known for never cutting corners, even if it would lead to higher profits, even if everyone else was doing it. No, she’d never let Maximoff Industries stoop to the level of its competitors, not even if it made her life easier.
That was why she’d called you to her office after hours today. Your performance lately has been… less than ideal. You’ve been forgetting important tasks, delegating them to your coworkers, who, though good-natured and willing, simply can’t keep up with both their workload and yours. You’ve honestly been quite a difficult employee for Wanda to deal with, but before making a decision on whether you were to stay on at Maximoff Industries, she’d decided to call you in. Just for a chat, she’d said.
When you step into her office, all floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal the deep blue of the city evening, you swallow nervously. Wanda is sitting at her desk, hands folded neatly, and her eyes look you up and down, sizing you up like a predator, before settling on your face.
“Take a seat.” Wanda’s voice is a soft rasp, and the sound makes you shiver.
It’s not every day the CEO of the entire corporation requests your presence in her office long after everyone else has already gone home. You don’t even think you’ve been on this floor before, let alone face-to-face with the woman whose face was published in magazines and articles, who had such an intense stare you felt like you might melt into the floor.
You heed her command, gingerly walking towards the empty seat on the opposite side of her own. Her desk is a deep black, polished so hard you can see your reflection in it, and completely empty save for the brass nameplate that reads Wanda Maximoff and then below in smaller letters: Chief Executive Officer & Managing Director.
You swallow nervously and sit. If you weren’t nervous in the elevator – all forty floors had filled you with dread – you definitely were now. You’re silent as you hesitantly take in your boss, trying to avoid her gaze.
She’s wearing a black blazer, something oversized that would look childish on anyone but her, and a heavy watch on her wrist that looks like it costs more than your car. Your eyes trail up her shirt, suddenly meeting her gaze, and you look away as if burned. Wanda smiles, though not kindly.
“So,” Wanda starts, her voice low and confident. You suppress a shiver as her fingers tap her desk absently. “I assume you’re wondering why I’ve called you here, especially at this time.”
You nod meekly. Before you can ask why, Wanda’s rounding the desk in long strides that make her heels click loudly against the tile floor. She’s standing behind your seat now, her presence doing the opposite of soothing your thumping heart.
“Your coworkers, and, well, myself included, have had some concerns about your ability to work effectively as of late,” Wanda muses. Her hand slips to your shoulder, the touch making you jolt, and if she notices, she pretends not to.
“I-I’m so sorry, Ms Maximoff,” you hurriedly whisper, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. “I’ve just been… um, busy.”
“And what, pray tell, could be taking up most of your time? It certainly can’t be your job, with how sloppy your work has been.” Her voice makes your throat tighten when you swallow. The hand clamped on your shoulder moves to your back, resting between your shoulder blades in a way that should feel comforting but isn’t.
Wanda leans down, as though talking to a child and not a woman in her employ. Your ears prickle with the softness of her breath. “Do you want me to tell you what I think, pet?”
The word should make you recoil. This is your boss, after all. Instead you find yourself nodding wordlessly. Wanda smiles, something sharp and cruel.
“I think,” she murmurs, her voice now a low rasp, “that you just need to learn how to concentrate.”
Wanda grasps the back of your chair, and then suddenly you’re coaxed out of your seat, forced to stand. You quickly pull down on the hem of your skirt, it having ridden up as you sat, and Wanda hums.
“Lean on the desk for me,” she says, casually, almost conversationally.
You gawp at her. Her gaze hardens.
“Now.” Her voice is steel, and you gasp softly, the command trembling through you.
You lean on her desk, a little awkwardly, and Wanda sighs. “Must I do everything?” and then a firm hand pushes down on your shoulders until your chest is pressed to the gleaming surface. Your knees are gingerly pressed together in this position, your hips almost at a ninety degree angle, and your face burns with something dangerous, heart beating in your throat.
Your skirt has ridden up a little with the position, something Wanda notices immediately. The coldness of her rings briefly brush against the boundary of skin between your skirt hem and the tops of your stockings. You shiver. Wanda smiles.
Then the cool air of the office is suddenly hitting your backside, Wanda pulling your skirt up over your ass in one swift, unbothered movement. You can’t hold back the little gasp from your throat. “M-Ms Maximoff, what are–”
“Do you know why I run such a tight ship, pet?” Wanda interrupts, like her hand isn’t stroking the smooth skin of your ass. You shake your head as best you can while bent against her desk. Her finger catches onto your underwear, examining it with a hum. “Because I like being in control. I like it, and I’m good at it. Those are the ingredients to being a successful businesswoman.”
Her fingers pinch, groping at your ass until your legs buckle. “I’m going to teach you how to concentrate, and you are going to count each one. Does that sound fair?”
You nod, though your throat trembles with desperation. A particularly cruel pinch at your thighs, already betraying Wanda’s temper, and you startle, remembering your words. “Y-yes, Ms Maximoff, it’s very fair.”
Wanda hums.
Then a hand comes down onto your ass, so harsh you feel the imprint of her rings, and you cry out in surprise. The sound makes your boss coo, almost mocking, and you try not to squirm.
“O-one…” you stammer clumsily.
Another slap to your other cheek, leaving your skin stinging in its wake. Your legs kick out in surprise, but Wanda’s standing right behind you, keeping you pinned down.
“Two, oh, please, Ms Maximoff, I’m sorry…”
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it, sweetheart,” Wanda says, delighted. She slaps you again, right over the last one that hadn’t had time to dull, and tears spring to your eyes.
“Three!” you bark out, almost a sob. If your brain was less foggy with both pain and arousal, you could almost swear you feel her fingertips straying to your underwear for a moment before pulling away.
She makes you count until twenty, each slap making you dizzier than the last. Your cheeks are stinging with the force of her spanks, like a fuse lit under your skin.
“There,” Wanda says, her voice an octave lower, almost soothing if you didn’t know her any better, but it’s gone in an instant. Her hand is stroking right where it smarts the most, and you swallow down a sob. “What do we say after a punishment?”
It takes a moment for your mind to grope for the right words. “Thank you, Ms Maximoff.”
“You’re welcome,” Wanda’s voice betrays just how pleased she is. “What a good pet you are, thanking your superior. We may make a useful employee of you yet.”
Without any complicated thoughts fogging your mind, you can’t help but notice the way your body has reacted to her touch, almost instinctual. Your underwear is sticking to your cunt, almost translucent with arousal.
You swallow. Wanda makes a little pleased sound. Oh, she’s definitely noticed.
“Did that turn you on, being punished over my desk?” she asks, though with the pleased curl in her voice, it’s most likely rhetorical. “Being bent over like a cheap whore in that short skirt of yours,” your skirt is the same length as everyone else's, but you moan anyway, “like you’re being paid to look pretty?”
She bends over, head close to your shoulder, voice hot in your ear. Her fingers press against your weeping cunt over the flimsy fabric, and you wish she’d just pull them down. “Answer me or I’m adding twenty more, and this time I won’t be so nice.”
“Yes!” you yelp. “I- yes, Ms Maximoff, it… it felt good.”
A long, throaty moan rumbles from Wanda’s throat, almost startling you with its unabashed arousal. “You have no idea,” she starts, lips just barely brushing your ear, “just how long I’ve wanted to do this. Do you think you were hired because of how clever you are, pet?”
You pant against the desk, arousal flaring in your stomach. Her fingertips rub slow, deliberate circles against your core, and even through your panties you’re clenching around nothing. With a painted nail, she hooks your panties, pulling them down past the ache of your ass, and they slide down your stockinged legs until they hit the floor with a damp thud.
There’s nothing between your weeping cunt and her touch now. A knuckle brushes against your entrance, testing your sensitivity, and your thighs twitch. “Oh,” you moan softly, almost muffled entirely by the surface of the desk, and Wanda almost purrs, a mean little sound.
“Maybe I should just keep you in my office all day.” Her fingers gather your arousal like lubricant, spreading it between your legs until she’s satisfied, and then two fingers push into you like they’re splitting you apart. Pain immediately gives way to pleasure, and you’re scrambling to grasp at something, but her desk is bare and you find no purchase. The angle allows for her to go deeper than you’ve ever taken anything, until you feel her cold rings bump against your entrance.
“M-Ms Maximoff!” you choke out, nails digging into the cool, black surface. Another moan bubbles from your throat when she curls her fingers just right, and then she’s pulling back out.
“Taking me like a good whore,” Wanda rasps, arousal evident in the slur of her words.
Her wrist twists, and then she’s fucking you slow and deep on her hand, fingers disappearing back inside your tight, wet heat. Every time her fingers reach as deep as possible, her rings bump against your clit, the cold sensation making your knees weak, and it’s like Wanda notices, because she kisses your ear any time you clench around her.
She fucks you with a slow rhythm, almost lazily with her strokes, and you whimper whenever her fingers leave you, though its never for long. Her fingers are deft, pushing against a dizzying spot whenever they’re buried up to the knuckle, and with the coolness of her ring against your clit, you can almost feel your heartbeat thrumming away in your cunt, heat spreading down to your thighs.
“You’re dripping down my wrist,” Wanda says, a mix of surprise and barely restrained awe in her voice, fingers picking up the pace. “All over my nice watch, pet. Did you let all of your bosses fuck you like this, or am I special?”
Your head spins. Every time her fingers curl, you lose your train of thought, words melting on your tongue like spun sugar. “N-n-no, Miss…” You’re interrupted by your own gasping moan, foreign to your ears, as Wanda scissors her fingers inside you, chasing the thrum of your pulse against your walls. “Ms Ma– oh, please, Ms Maximoff,” you beg between little gasps, warmth swelling in your stomach. You feel like you might burst.
“Are you going to cum?” Wanda asks softly, lips barely brushing against your skin, and you nod as best you can. Your hair is stuck to your forehead, cheeks hot with exertion, and you’re almost sure you’re drooling down your chin, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Wanda smiles, and then, only then, do her cruel fingers finally nudge at your clit, the swollen bud almost throbbing at the attention, and it’s too much, too much attention. You gasp, a moan broken in your throat before it can escape, and then your pleasure comes to a head like breaking the surface of a pool of water.
The world is hazy, your head feels like it’s full of cotton, and Wanda fucks you through your orgasm as the pleasure seizes your limbs, washing over you once, twice, and then you’re slack, cheek pressed to her desk, tears on the ends of your lashes. Wanda murmurs softly against your skin, one last curl of her fingers, and then she’s pulling out, leaving a wet trail of arousal on your thigh.
She allows you to catch your breath, pushing herself off the desk, though you’re still limp and panting for air by the time she’s standing behind you again. She nudges your legs apart with her foot, and you allow her to maneuver you like a doll. Your panties are collected with deft fingers, then swallowed into the pocket of her blazer. Wanda tugs your skirt back into place, and then her hands – one on the small of your back and the other on your waist – lift you upright.
Your legs are, predictably, as shaky as a fawn’s, though Wanda seems to have anticipated this with her vice-like grip, never allowing you to stumble. When you finally regain your balance, you look at her a little sheepishly, the situation having hit you.
“I… I’m sorry, Ms Maximoff. Um, I’ll really try harder at work next time–” but your words die down in your throat when she shakes her head. Oh god, were you about to get fired? Before you can scramble to plead with her, a curious smirk passes over Wanda’s lips.
“I don’t believe that position is suited for you, pet.” That word makes your throat tight again. “No, definitely not, now that I’m thinking about it.”
You look at her with something like shock on your face, your mouth hanging open. “I… um, are you firing me?”
Wanda laughs, deep and rich like expensive chocolate. She shakes her head. “No, no. Simply a… transferral of roles, I suppose.” Her gaze is intense as she takes you in, with your warm cheeks, arousal-bitten lips, your pupils blown wide, and she’s never been more sure of anything before.
“How would you like to work as my in-office assistant?”
hi my love ♡ could you do something about chronic sharp stomach pain but not diagnosed with anything cause she’s stubborn and scared to find out what’s been causing this her whole life? she’s with jack or frank—if this is the time that you’ll want to write him and they’ve been on her case about getting checked out so she started hiding her pain. one episode takes a dark turn at work with many more critical symptoms arising and results in urgent medical attention. love your chronic illness fics ❤️🩹
hiiii my darling, thank you for loving my chronic illness fics ❤️
I've been wanting to write a Frank fic for soooo long. This is my first one with reader x FL so apologies if it's not the best! <3
Summary: as above, reader x frank and reader is abbots sister because why not, small mention of mohabbot
tw/tags: medical setting, medical inaccuracies, mention of blood, vomit, mention of eating disorder (reader does not have this, people think she does), mention of weight loss
word count: 4.7k
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
How many excuses was it acceptable to keep cancelling dinner plans with your boyfriend and friends?
Five? Seven? Close to twenty?
Frank: I'm going to start taking offence...
You: i'm really sorry but you'll have to go without me 😭
Frank: is it because Jack will be there?
You: no...
It was because your stomach had once again, betrayed you. You were in bed, knees hugged tightly to your chest, fighting off awful stabbing, debilitating pains.
You: I don't feel too well
Frank: i'm coming over
You instantly pick up the phone, "Frank! You should go out. Go enjoy your night don't worry about me!"
"I'm obviously not going to do that?" he sighs, "i'll be over shortly."
You groan as you roll over in bed. What excuse could you come up this time?
The period excuse was getting old. Frank has also memorised your cycle, so you couldn't use that excuse. Not today. By the time he makes it over, you had freshened up, looked a bit more presentable and greeted him with a big smile.
"That's a fake smile" he says as you open the door. He pulls you against him, "Did you freshen up just for me?"
"Maybe" you mutter, "I couldn't let you see me... in the state I was in."
"Silly woman" he kicks the door closed. "So, shall we snuggle in bed and do nothing for the next twelve hours?"
"That is why I love you, Frank Langdon."
By the time you lay in bed, and had maxed out on pain meds, you were feeling somewhat better. And just being in his arms, made everything a tiny bit easier.
You also made the decision to hide your symptoms, and that will not be an easy task.
Why?
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
"Little Abbot!" Dana yells and you sigh in frustration. You mutter under your breath, "you might as well call me Stuart Little and slap on a pair of glasses!"
"Stuart Little doesn't wear glasses" Jack matches your step from behind.
"Hello" you say rudely, "well, someone in that movie does?" You then stop and look at him. "How do you know about Stuart Little?"
"I watched it, just like everyone else."
"I thought you were going to say you read the book..."
"The book was published in 1945"
"You were a teenager then, weren't you?" you smirk before running away from him.
"Bitch" he mutters, fighting a smirk.
"Big Evans, what can I do for you?"
"What's with the nickname kid?"
"You called me Little Abbot"
"Don't be cheeky with me Kid. You need to go help the kids in that room. Go!"
"Yes boss" you blow her a kiss as you walk away. The moment you step into that room, the smell hits you. Odour, BO, faeces, a mix of all the above. You slap your hand on your stomach, grab a mask and hope for the best. It was the quickest diagnosis you had ever given in your entire career. C.Diff.
The patient was quarantined, moved somewhere far away, and the room was cleaned, over and over and over again.
“Y’all need a shower” Dana clicks her fingers at the team that was in the room. “STAT”
“I’ll go first” you grumble under your face mask and walk over to the scrub dispenser. The nausea is now burning a hole in your stomach, and you knew that soon enough, you’d pay the price.
“What happened?” Frank says quietly from behind, as he puts one hand on your back.
“Oh I wouldn’t touch me if I were you” you say weakly, then point at yourself, "C.Diff.”
“Shit” he moves his hand but not quickly. “Do you need anything?”
A new stomach.
A pain free day.
A miracle.
“I’m good thanks baby”
He takes your mask off and leans in for a kiss.
“You’re brave” you smile as you kiss him.
“Anything for you” he winks before he runs off. “I’ll come find you later!”
While everyone else recovered, your nausea didn't go away. It always lingered anyway, and the C. diff was a cherry on top. Or should you say bottom?
You clock-watched the entire shift, and by the time it was home time, you’d sworn you could have cried happy tears. All you needed was rest and a good night sleep, only to do it all again the next day.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
What was your routine when you had your stomach pains?
“What now?!!” Would be the first sentence that comes to mind.
“For for fuck’s sake” would be the second sentence the moment you feel your stomach cramp in protest.
But then words sort of… disappear, the more pain you were in.
You opt for silence, a hot water bottle, hopes and dreams, a four leaf clover to make a wish and well…. You just power through it like you had always done.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
It was just after 5am, the birds were chirping, Frank was snoring and you were… vomiting. Over and over again.
Why?
No one knew, including yourself.
You hoped Frank wouldn’t hear you retch repeatedly, because that… would bring up questions.
The answer was always the same: I don’t know what’s wrong because no me knows what’s wrong.
Even for a doctor yourself, you had thought of all the options this could be and there were too many. You also knew that your doctor had ordered the right tests. You could go for more invasive testing, but you were too stubborn and too tired for yet another ‘no diagnosis’.
Frank knocks on the door before walking in with a glass of water. He sits on the floor next to you, ties your hair back as he helps you drink.
“Stomach’s hurting again?”
You nod.
“Is the sickness every morning?”
“I’m not pregnant Frank if that's what you're thinking” you say softly, “I test, regularly”
“That’s not what I mean baby I promise” he helps you stand up, “you need to get checked out. Please. This can’t keep happening”
“I promise I will” you certainly weren’t planning to. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“Let’s go back to bed.”
“No” you protest, “we start work soon.”
“And you’re in no state to work” he says, “I’ll cover for the both of us. Cmon.”
He puts you to bed, you decline a blanket because your entire body was on fire, he brings you an ice pack to put on your neck before he gets ready to work.
He hovers over your lips, "maybe I can call in sick too?"
"Yes please" you smile between kisses, "we can have a bed day"
Frank whimpers at the thought, "I do love bed day"
"But you love your work more?"
"Never" he kisses you again, "i'll be home soon before you know it."
He texted you, regularly on shift asking how you were. And in all fairness, you were somewhat… better. You hear the front door open and look at the time — he wouldn’t be back this soon?
“That key is for EMERGENCIES!” You yell as you see Jack walk through the doors.
“This is.. an emergency” he looks at you surprised.
“I could have been naked??? I could be in the middle of coitus???”
“Frank’s at work, I literally saw him a few hours ago.” He says, as he walks into the kitchen and starts making a hot drink. “He said you’re not feeling too great so I got us food!”
You sigh at his excitement, wishing you could match it.
Jack looks up at you from the kitchen, “So are you pregnant?”
“Ew no!”
“You are of age…” he states. “And you keep being sick”
“I’m as negative as a negative can be” you walk toward him, and sit up on the counter. “Also I’m feeling much better now.”
“Good because I need a favour”
You emphasise the word as you say “Nope”
“You’re my only sibling and that’s what siblings do. Did you not read the rules?”
“What do you want?”
“We need to meet up with Aunt Petal”
Your jaw drops wide open as you say quietly… “no”
“Yep”
“Nope”
“Oui”
“Non?”
“Si”
In sign language, you gesture, “no.”
He gestures back, “yes”
“Okay we can keep doing this — the answer is still no in every language.” You sigh, “she is the devil, on wheels!!”
“She had a hip replacement so she can now walk”
“Shame she woke up from that operation”
“She’s still family” he hands you a bagel.
“A nasty side of the family” you take a bite then instantly feel yourself gag. Jack doesn’t notice as you put it to one side and don’t touch it again.
And that unfortunately became a habit.
You noticed that if you were to eat too much, your stomach would start to hurt. And then you’d be in pain, then you’d cramp and eventually vomit.
So your eating habits became somewhat questionable. You opted for high protein snacks throughout the day, protein shakes, protein anything.
Frank was on your case about booking a doctor’s appointment, so one day, your symptoms ‘disappeared’. Or so he thought because you mastered the art of hiding them. You came up with ways, that even you didn’t think were possibly, to hide your issues.
But one thing you couldn’t hide was your weight, and so you started opting for baggier clothes, long sleeve tops under your scrubs, and hoped that Frank wouldn’t question it.
But he, of course, noticed how your eating changed. He saw the weight loss. He felt the weight loss.
But he thought of a million scenarios on how he would bring it to you, because he had suspected you had an eating disorder. Why else would you pick around your food? Or come up with an excuse to no longer cook? Or eat high protein snacks?
Frank watched you slowly fade, until one day he thought he’d go to your brother because you refused to speak to him about it.
But before he could, you had to see Aunt Petal first.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
You stood outside the restaurant, holding Frank’s hand. “They’re late”
“It’s Jack, he’s always late”
Few moments later, Jack gets out of the car, then walks over and opens the door and Mohan steps out.
“Oh God he brought Mohan as his plus one!”
“Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know if Aunt Petal is… shit never mind”
You wave at them as they approach. “Samira apologies in advance for what you might see or hear”
“Oh Jack already told me” she smiles, “he gave me a long debrief.”
“Let’s do this brother” you sigh as you brave yourself through the doors.
Aunt Petal greets everyone with open arms, and you frown at Jack as she takes you in for a bug hug. You mouth ‘what the fuck?’
“It’s good to see you kids” she says as she sits down.
You introduce everyone to her and to your surprise, she was nice. She treats everyone to champagne, courtesy of her expensive taste, and then orders multiple extravagant dishes that you had no intention of trying.
Unknown foods = unknown reaction.
As the food comes out and everyone’s devouring every drop, you pick around it, take small bites, hoping you wouldn’t be in pain approximately 60 minutes later.
She asks you about work, and of course praises Jack as the favourite ‘grandchild’ and says you’re following in his footsteps.
You force a smile and nod.
She says, chewing with her mouth open, “you’ve lost weight you have, and you’ll never find a man if you look like this”
The table falls silence and you look at Frank, who clears his throat and reaches for your hand under the table.
But she doesn’t stop there.
“You’re like one of them models on the TV with an eating disorder.”
Frank drops his fork on the plate then mutters “sorry”. Mohan chokes on her champagne then quickly pats her mouth dry. You shoot Jack a look of get me out of here.
He shakes his head in disappointment at the comment.
You reply back softly, “Thanks for calling me skinny, Aunt Petal.”
If you had one last bit of appetite left, it was gone.
She continues to talk, blabbering on about something inappropriate, and Frank holds your hand the whole meal, gently tracing his fingers up and down your palm.
At one point, he texts you: I can fake an emergency so we can leave.
You reply: she’s gonna be the emergency in a minute if she doesn’t stop talking
Frank snorts just as Aunt Petal announces,
“Im dying”
You spit your water out, then cough loudly and Frank quickly pats your back.
“What!” Jack replies,
“I said I’m dying” she says.
You mutter under your breath as you roll your eyes “Aren’t we all?”
“And you two are the only ones left in the family so you need to meet up with a lawyer and me to finalize the will.”
The meal turned out to be eventful, knowing you’d be inheriting a big block of money from someone you hated so much. Jack reminded you to have a bit of sympathy, but your sympathy, along with everything positive in you, had evaporated.
As you get home, you are again in pain and cramping, so you excuse yourself to have a hot bath.
This time, you had the water tap running on full blast, along with the sound of the tub getting filled up, and music playing as you hug the toilet seat and vomit the dinner you had just eaten.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
“Little Abbot” Jack calls out, “we need to discuss a patient”
You nod and approach him.
“No comment? No sarcastic reply? Are you well?” He asks.
“Yes Abbot I’m fine.”
You weren’t fine, of course. You were tired, and starved, and your body was in survival mode.
“You don’t look fine”
“Thanks Jack”
“Seriously, are you— okay. I’m no gonna say somethings and—“ Jack stops himself and finds an empty room. He grabs your arm and pulls you inside. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Are you eating? There’s… ugh okay. You’ve lost so much weight and I mean this in the best way—“
“Jack stop” you interrupt, “I’m working through it”
“Can I help? Is Frank helping?”
“Frank is too polite and kind to say anything.” You mumble.
“Go find him, we can talk about the patient later.”
You couldn’t locate Frank, so you grabbed your jacket and walk outside to find Dana having a cigarette.
“Can I try one?” You ask her.
She smiles and hands you one.
“This tastes disgusting” you laugh, “but it feels really fucking good.”
“Bad day?”
“Bad year” you say, feeling your body relax at the amount of nicotine you’ve just inhaled.
“It’s not my place kid, but there’s a timeline”
“What?”
“You’ve been dating Frank a year, and you’re not yourself. Haven’t been for a while.”
You didn’t think you had the energy to be angry, or even better, the self restraint to not yell at her. You throw the cigarette away, say bye to Dana before running inside with tears streaming down your face.
Your illness had nothing to do with Frank. If anything, Frank was one of the very rare things that were positive in your life.
The illness was there from a young age but seems to be getting worse.
And if people were suspecting that, then you sure as hell won’t stay quiet.
You find him in the break room, talking to someone.
He sees your red eyes and puffy face, instantly purring his coffee down before rushing over and pulling you against his chest.
“Who upset you?”
“It’s no one” you sob, “it doesn’t matter”
“It’s okay I’m here” whispers against your hair and you gasp for air through sobs, “sympathy or solutions?”
That was one thing you did with him frequently. Whenever one of you was having a bad day, or after a long shift, instead of misunderstanding each other, you’d opt for a simple question.
“I need answers Langdon” you cry, “on how I am the way I am”
He cups your face in his hands as he rests his forehead on yours, “you’re beautiful and kind, and mine, more importantly. But let’s find out answers, one at a time? And i'll be there, for every single appointment, blood test, scan. Whatever you need”
Langdon didn’t know what answers he was looking for, because he didn’t know there were questions asked to start with, because you never told him anything.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
You were in the shower when Frank was over at your apartment, and Jack joined after he received a concerning text from Frank.
"Cupboards are empty, all she has is protein snacks. The pans look like they haven't been touched." Frank points at the cupboard. "What do you think?"
"Are you thinking an eating disorder?"
"What else could it be that she doesn't want us knowing?"
"She was in the hospital a lot when she was younger, but I wasn't around much to know the ins an out." Jack clicks his teeth as he opens your fridge. "Empty."
"Was it stomach related?"
"Mostly yeah. Always in pain, some doctors said it was anxiety. They all say that. But she wasn't an anxious child really... And the weight loss, that's new."
You walk out of the bedroom and see the men in the kitchen looking through your cupboards. You don't think much of it, as you say "there's not much food if you're looking for a snack."
"I can see that" Jack bites back.
You frown but ignore him.
"We need to talk" Jack says.
You scoff and say, "you have your serious voice on. You sound like dad"
"Honey, we do... need to talk" Frank says. "We need to know what's going"
"Is this about what Aunt Petal said the other day?"
Their silence was enough of an answer.
"You think I have an eating disorder?"
Neither of them say anything.
"I don't, and you don't have to believe me" you say firmly, "but what I need you to do is both to get out of my apartment."
Maybe getting defensive would get them off your back.
"Hun, what happened when you were younger? with the hosp-“
"I don't talk about that" you say, voice raised, "that is a time of my life that I do not discuss with anyone!"
"Why?" Jack cuts in.
"Because Jack" you voice tremble, "You were never there! To see it! To support me! My parents, our parents, were awful when it came to my issues. Telling me it's all in my head! Doctors told me it was all in my head!"
You and Jack had now gone into a full argument, Frank standing in the middle of the two of you.
You feel your pains come on again, and you hold onto the back of a chair to steady yourself. "I can't do this right now. My problems are not yours to fix."
"We're in this together" Frank cuts in, "Why can't you just let me in!"
"Because Frank, I can't do that! I simply can't explain what I'm feeling or why I'm feeling that way. I can't explain my pains, or my vomiting habits or my food triggers."
Jack cuts in, "You told me numerous times this was all resolved! That you were getting better"
"I, of course, lied"
He mimics your tone, "you lied?"
"Don't be sarcastic" you bite back, "Frank can you have my back please?"
"He's my boss and-"
"You're sleeping with me"
"Oh hell no" Jack walks away.
"He's also right" Frank cuts in. "You lied to both of us!"
"Get out, both of you" you point at the door, "now!"
The tactic of getting defensive did not work, so maybe giving them the silent treatment would get them to stop asking questions.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
By the time your shift was about to start, you texted both of them to say you won't be coming in. Not because you were angry with them, or embarrassed about what was said. Because you were so incredibly ill, with pains, aches, cramps, nausea and shivers to the point you knew you had to go to the ER.
That was rare, for you to end up in the ER asking for help.
You typically fought off the illness for the longest time.
You were too scared to admit that you indeed had medical PTSD. Years of mistreatments, of misdiagnosis, getting admitted to the hospital as a child but then to be told 'there was no reason for that.’ Maybe that's why you became a doctor, to prove to yourself that you were not scared.
But if you weren't scared, then you would have let people in. Instead, you fought this alone.
By the time you made it over to PTMC, you were drenched in sweat, your chest was aching terribly, with pains radiating to your arm and jaw, and you were convinced you were having a heart attack.
You stumble out of the car, forgetting to thank the driver as you vomit your guts out onto the pavement.
The vomit burns your throat, like it always did, but this time it was different. It tastes metallic.
As you open your eyes, you see a pool of blood on the ground in front of you.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
"I need help!" One of the paramedics rushes in, with you on a gurney, knees hugged to your chest as you cried in pain.
Mohan was the first one to run over then as she sees who it is, she yells, "trauma one!"
She initially works alone, as she attaches monitors on you before people start to quickly come in.
"Someone needs to find Langdon and Abbot”
"They're both in the same trauma call" Perla says.
"Little Abbot how are we doing?"
"I think i'm having a heart attack" you mumble as they lay you on your back and cut your clothes open. You feel yourself starting to cry as you await the dreaded comment, 'it's just a panic attack'. But the comment doesn't come from Mohan.
"Not a heart attack," she says as she looks at the ECG, "But you vomited a lot of blood so we'll give something for the pain and then need to examine your stomach. Wanna tell me what's going on?"
But before you can say anything, Jack storms into the room yelling. "What the actual fuck has happened!"
"Hey!" Mohan yells back, "No yelling! My patient, my room. Got it?"
Jack is aback by her loud voice, and he does as she said. But before she can say anything else, Frank rushed in. He yells, "What's going? What the hell happened?"
Jack gestures for him to step back and keep quiet. "No yelling"
He tries to get to you but Jack pulls him back again. You watch as the two of them watch you from a distance, and how much it kills them to not be able to stand next to you.
But in this moment, you needed someone like Mohan to really find out what's wrong.
"Tell me what's been going on" Mohan says. "From the start"
You say weakly, "That will take a long time. It started when I was a kid. but all you need to know is i've vomited blood, my chest is on fire and I've not been able to eat for months"
"You vomited blood - was that the first time?"
"Vomit wise yes"
"Stools?"
"Always" you reply shyly.
"Are you fucking kidding me!" Jack yells.
Mohan's head snaps in his direction and says firmly, "Dr Abbot may I suggest you take five?"
Langon walks over to you calmly, pulls a chair and sits next to the bed. "What else?"
"Weight loss, that's obvious. Uh... headaches but I think it's because I've not been eating." You sit up straight, feeling pressure on your chest. "Can I have some water please"
But before anyone could react, you cough violently into your hands, bright red blood splattering everywhere. The shock of it makes you vomit more blood, and before you could react, the room goes dark.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
"O-neg, anti-sickness" Mohan barks as she lays you onto your side, while you vomit, “I need gastro down here!"
"I can help" Jack begs, and Mohan nods as the monitors beep loudly in the background.
"But i'm taking lead"
He says "yes boss" before helping.
"Push fluids and meds, keep on top of blood until we find where the bleed is coming from."
Frank starts scanning your lungs, which show all clear, before moving to your stomach. "Fuck that's a lot of blood"
"Most likely an ulcer" Jack says, "explains everything"
"No" Mohan cuts in. "Explains some. A small part. We fix the ulcer but we gotta find out why this has happened."
The endoscopist walks in, along with the gastro team, as they prepare for an emergency endoscopy. The room falls silent, the ER team standing against the wall as they watched a whole new team work on you.
Frank sat in the corner, hugging his knees to his chest, staring at the blood that splattered across the floor.
"It's not on you man" Jack whispers.
He shakes his head as his tears run.
"Don't blame yourself, no one would have known."
"I out of all people, should have pushed to get more answers" his voice breaks, "She's in this because I didn't do better."
"That's not true" Jack sits on the floor next to him.
Mohan looks over from the the makeshift operation table, and gestures for the both of them to keep quiet.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel as much pain. The burning in your stomach was somewhat manageable; the tiredness was, of course, still there, but not the headaches. You feel a tube sticking out of your nose, and too many IVs are poked in your arms.
The moment you start shuffling around in the hospital bed, Frank jumps up on his feet and rushes over.
"Hey you're up" he says softly as he sits on the bed, "you might feel a bit dozy because you're hooked up to a lot of meds"
"Oh I feel fantastic" you manage a laugh but you quickly regret it due to the pain in your stomach. "Are you okay?
"Me? You're worried about me?"
You nod. "That must have been scary?"
"Please don't worry about me" he rasps, "I'll be fine, if you're fine. Okay?"
You say quietly, "do you know what they said?"
"Not much"
You let out a disappointing laugh, despite the pain.
"But"
There was never a positive but.
"Mohan may... or may not have sent the gastro team a list of what investigations they should begin with, along with a list of diagnoses that they should look out for." He smiles, as he continues, "and the specialist was so impressed, not angry, literally speechless, at what she had done, that he ended up asking her if she wants to do a fellowship with him."
You smile, feeling somewhat happy, "What did she say?"
"She said she's considering geriatrics"
You mumble, "She does love the elderly"
Frank doesn't catch on the joke quick enough, and as Jack walks in the room, you say to yourself, "and here comes the elderly."
"Little Abbot" he says, "quite the scare you gave us"
"You sound too sympathetic my goodness" you reply back sarcastically, "i'm overwhelmed."
He walks over and gives you a kiss on the forehead. You wipe it off and mutter, "ew"
"You'll never see me be this nice ever again" he jokes.
"So" you say, "what's the plan?"
Jack says, "You're on high dose of Omeprazole, pain relief and antibiotics. Also a feeding tube, because your bloods showed malnutrition."
You give him a thumbs up and Frank chuckles.
"Don't laugh, this is serious" Jack snaps.
Frank ignores him as he looks at you, "permission to laugh?"
You nod, "of course my love"
Jack rolls his eyes, "so, you're off work for a while, don't protest, don't want to hear it. And once the ulcer in your stomach heals, then we will start the investigation process. Mohan has already started booking in appointments."
You say in surprise, "Are you kidding me?"
Jack smiles and blushes as she shakes his head.
Frank then catches on, then leans in and whispers, "The elderly as in...?"
You bite you lip, "mhmmm"
"She's even requesting they investigate for Gastric endometeriosis"
"But that's like exceptionally rare" you say, "but again, Mohan is exceptionally rare"
Jack smiles to himself again.
You say, a bit louder this time, "yep definitely geriatrics"
Frank bursts into laughter, you join in too, and Jack shakes his head and yells "assholes!" before he leaves the room.
