the pitt is really just about how shit sucks. it sucks so bad. there is this deeply entrenched, intentionally unempathetic dysfunction baked into the fabric of all of our institutions. we are at the mercy of these forces that are incomprehensible and insurmountable.
and yet, we gotta try.
we gotta get up everyday, face the darkness, and find balance if we can.
and we don’t have to do it alone! in fact we shouldn’t. we can’t. but we can find people to make all of the helplessness and suckiness a little more bearable. we can find people to stand on the roof with us, we can find people to hold us, we can find people to who stay when we’re mean and flippant and can’t give anything back.
the message is hope, even in the depths of despair.
for all those empty journals you may have and don’t know what to do with.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ COMMONPLACE JOURNAL — a journal that travels with you wherever you go. it typically contains quotes, writings, research, thoughts, ideas, etc. this journal can help you spark your creativity, record important thoughts, and declutter your mind.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ MEDIA JOURNAL — a journal where you can keep track of and record your thoughts on media such as movies, shows, books, etc. this is great for delving more into media analysis and understanding what you consume.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ “BEST DAY EVER” JOURNAL — a journal used for writing down things that happen through your daily life that could make it the best day ever. this helps to shift your mindset and make you more receptive to positivity and gratitude.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ SHADOW WORK JOURNAL — a journal meant for answering shadow work and reflection prompts. shadow work is said to have many benefits for healing, growth, and self-acceptance.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ “ALL ABOUT ME” JOURNAL — a journal dedicated to you. you can keep track of everything and anything about yourself such as your likes and dislikes, fears and aspirations, things people may not know about you, etc. you can also take a variety of personality tests such as the mtbi and enneagram and record your results here. this can strengthen your sense of identity and grow self-love and acceptance.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ RESEARCH JOURNAL — a journal for you to delve further into anything that piques your curiosity. you can take notes, answer questions, and even write essays on whatever topic you’d like. this builds your knowledge and helps you explore new topics.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ GRATITUDE JOURNAL — a journal where you reflect on three to five things you’re grateful for every day. this helps you become more present and thankful for the things in your daily life and focus more on the positives.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ DAILY JOURNAL — otherwise known as a diary. you can use a daily journal to record and reflect on your day-to-day life and important memories. having journals from the years to look back on can be very nostalgic and eye-opening.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ “JUNK” JOURNAL — a journal that helps you create artistic pieces using everyday items such as receipts, stickers, labels, and other finds. it can help boost creativity and allows you to make art of keepsakes and memories.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ MENTAL HEALTH JOURNAL — a journal for you to record your thoughts and experiences with mental health. it can also be used to vent and write out your feelings unabashedly. this can help regulate your emotions, understand patterns and triggers, and is great to have if you have a therapist you can share it with.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ EVERYTHING JOURNAL — similar to a commonplace journal, this is a journal that can be used as a collection of anything and everything. some examples are recipes, lists, quotes, thoughts, research, etc. if you tend to save a lot of posts on social media, you can also go through those posts and write down anything that inspired you to save them. this can help keep you organized and clear your mind.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ BOOK JOURNAL — a media journal but specifically for books. this journal can help you keep track of the books you have read as well as your ratings and reviews. you can also keep track of the genres, amount of pages, and authors you read. additionally, you can partake in reading challenges such as the alphabet challenge, where you read a books with titles that start with every letter of the alphabet. this adds a creative touch to reading and helps you better understand the books you read.
★ˎˊ˗ “ME IN DIFFERENT UNIVERSES” JOURNAL — this journal focuses more on creative writing. after watching a new movie or show or reading a new book, you can use this journal to write about what you’d be like in its universe. this can help strengthen your imagination and writing as well as better grasp the media you consume.
★ˎˊ˗ DREAM JOURNAL — a journal where you record as much detail of your dreams as you can. this is said to help grow your awareness in your dreams.
★ˎˊ˗ MANIFESTATION JOURNAL — a journal to record all of your manifestations. this helps you to align your mindset with your desires.
★ˎˊ˗ VOCABULARY JOURNAL — a journal where you can keep track of new words you come across in daily life or from media and their definitions. this allows you to grow your vocabulary.
★ˎˊ˗ WRITING JOURNAL — a journal for any form of writing such as poems, short stories, and essays. this is perfect for those who enjoy writing or want to practice their writing skills.
★ˎˊ˗ MUSIC JOURNAL — for those who love music, this journal can be used to record the songs that you enjoy. you can also write about what you think the song or its lyrics mean or how it may relate to you. this is great for analyzing music and understanding yourself more through it.
★ˎˊ˗ COMPLIMENT JOURNAL — a journal for you to write down all of the meaningful compliments you receive. being able to look back on them over time and reread them may help to increase confidence.
tipping point — michael robinavitch x reader | part 2
Since the incident, things are different between you and Robby. Something has to give.
(Something finally does.)
Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader
Word count: 15k+
Tags: Reader is multilingual; Yearning; Injuries; Stalking; Justice systems; Inaccurate legal proceedings; Jealous Robby; AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral receiving; P in V sex); Gun violence; Shooting.
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou.
Notes: I fear I lost reader’s personality part way through writing this. Hopefully it’s not noticeable idk. This isn’t my best work and I’ve been trying to rework this so long that I’m lowkey hating it now. TP2 is now my least favourite child lmao
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 TBD | Series tag.
Cross posted to AO3.
Three days into your mandated time off from work, Robby shows up outside your apartment.
You look through the peephole before opening the door for him.
You both blink at each other—you hadn’t been expecting him, and somehow, he looks surprised to see you on the other side of the door.
“Dr Robby,” you exhale. You feel incredibly dressed down, even though you’ve never once been dressed up while in the Pitt. Varying levels of barefaced, tired, and hair up. It’s different when you’re lounging in your ratty loungewear than your scrubs, you think.
“Hi. And it’s just Robby,” he says, a little breathless. You live on the third floor to an at least 70 year old apartment building—there are no elevators. But it was cheap, and the landlord treated the apartment like dead weight; happy to unload it onto some unsuspecting tenant.
“Uh—come in.” You shuffle back, inviting him into your place. “Oh, um, shoes off, please.”
“Sure.” He toes off his shoes while you nudge some spare guest house slippers towards him.
It feels awkward, the strange song and dance of work colleagues outside of work. He’s known you for a little longer than six months now. Through work, he feels somewhat he’s well acquainted with you, yet somehow, knows very little about you.
“How are you?” Robby asks.
You head over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle to boil. “Bored, mostly. Feels like I’ve been given all the time off in the world, and I’m just… bored.”
Robby grins, following you. “Sometimes I think our brains aren’t wired for not working. Too much adrenaline.”
You chuckle. “You want tea?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
“Probably chamomile.” You take out the box of tea bags you’ve stashed in your cupboard. “It’s supposed to help you sleep.”
Robby pauses, studying your face. “Is it working?”
You duck your head. “Not really.” Brain too preoccupied with resurgent fears to sleep. And when you do manage to welcome the unconsciousness, it’s fitful. You’re never able to remember the nightmare that’s startled you awake. Only the dreadful feeling that you can’t outrun anything.
The only sound is the kettle boiling.
“You change your bandage yet?” he asks, after a moment.
“I am also a doctor, Dr Robby.” You’re more than capable of the aftercare of stitches and bandages. Have sent patients home with the list of care instructions multiple times in a day, across the week.
“It’s just Robby,” he says again. It feels weird to upkeep the titles when he’s not in the hospital, even though he’s worked relentlessly for it. “Can I see?”
“Just—give me a second.” When the kettle’s done, you pour out two mugs, dunking the tea bags in. You let them steep. Shuffling towards your first aid kit, then to the stool that he’s parked in, sitting in the one next to him.
“Have at it,” you say.
“Thank you,” Robby says, maybe a little too earnestly. Not seeing you at work after waking up from a hazy dream that reminded him that your heart had stopped—despite the knowledge that he saved you—brought upon a sense of impending doom. He needed to see you, needed to make sure that you’re still alive under his hands. He hasn’t told you that you died. It’s not something that he wants to relive.
It’s quiet as he works, like he’s back in the ED. This time, without all the bright lights and the machines and the bustle of nurses and doctors.
His thumb is a gentle thing, digit gliding over smooth skin under the wound.
You shiver.
“Does it hurt?” Robby asks.
“No,” you manage to utter out, barely breathing. Head angled up so he can work. Examining every inch of his face while his attention is on your neck.
“You sure?” There’s a furrow between his brows, moulded by worry from the tremble to your frame. He looks down to meet your gaze.
You feel frozen. Staring, drawn into those expressive brown eyes that carry the world within them.
You rise and he falls.
Lips almost touching.
Robby’s thumb absentmindedly strokes back and forth over your pulse.
Your mind is filled with buzzing static; white noise. Hovering closer to him. Your breath hitches.
The sound disrupts the moment.
He remembers himself. Clearing his throat as he rights his posture. Avoiding eye contact as he busies himself, rifling through the first aid kit. “You’ll have to come in to get the stitches out.” He takes a bandage, sticking it over the sutures.
“I know,” you say, impossibly small and quiet. You’re not sure he even hears it.
Harried motions, a whirlwind that takes him towards the front door. Guest slippers off, his own shoes on. “I’ll—I’ll see you. Around. At work.”
You don’t move from the kitchen, watching him flee like this is—like you are—something terrifying. “Yes, sir.”
Robby opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but closes it. Nods. “Okay. See you.” Door opens, stepping out. Then, softly, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Attention drifting back onto you. Lingering.
The door closes.
You sigh, turning back to the kitchen counter to pack away the first aid kit.
You empty out one of the mugs of chamomile tea, keeping the other for yourself.
Your first day back is accompanied by a message from Dr Ellis. You send off an hours late response and pocket your phone, coming in from the stairwell to head into the ED. You’re at least 30 minutes early.
“Nuh uh, I get first hug.” Ellis bodily shoves Shen as soon as she sees you, wrapping you into a hug.
“What the fuck?” Shen demands, mouth parting in a betrayed expression.
“She messaged me as soon as midnight hit,” you explain, arms awkwardly wrapped around Ellis. Your bags swing—your usual tote bag, and your care packages of extra food to make up for the fact that you weren’t in. They’re filled with an increased amount of tupperware and thermos.
“Some of us were busy working at midnight,” Shen scoffs.
“You snooze, you lose, loser,” Ellis says.
Shen, at least, has the decency to wait until Ellis detaches herself before he also latches on.
“I missed my boba buddy,” Shen says.
“You couldn’t get it yourself?” you ask.
He stretches back, lifting you.
You don’t want to admit it, but you’re sure you’ve let out some kind of undignified sound. Your feet don’t touch the ground for a solid three seconds.
“It’s not the same, pookie.” He lets you back on your feet, taking your tote bag from you.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” He’s rifling through your belongings like a raccoon.
“You’re a grown ass man.”
Shen makes a victorious sound, grabbing the boba. “I knew it.”
“Uh uh, and who said that was yours?” Ellis asks.
He turns to you, smug. “Is it?”
You sigh loudly. “I hate proving you right.”
Shen cackles, poking the straw into his drink. Who else would want matcha flavoured boba half an hour before their shift ends, despite the fact that they have yet to sleep all night?
“Still distracting my doctors, I see.” Dr Abbot, again. He looks a little more amused, entertained by the antics of his doctors. And it’s good to see you back—everyday that you weren’t in was a reminder that the PTMC almost lost one of their own.
He saw you briefly when you came in during his night shift, needing your stitches out. He can’t remember exactly, but he’s sure that Dr King had been the one that had taken them out. If he found it weird that you hadn’t come in during the day shift, he didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, well. You know me,” you say.
Abbot’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here wouldn’t shut up about missing you.”
“Is that so?”
“Dibs on being Tweedledee,” Ellis says.
“I can’t be dumb,” Shen gapes, crestfallen.
You grin, shaking your head. Part of you wishes you could transfer into night shift just to keep up with their tomfoolery. Alas, replacing Dr Langdon means sticking to his day shift schedule. “Dr Abbot, before you go—” you pipe up, just as the older attending turns to leave, “I have dumpling soup for you.”
“What the fuck?” Shen asks. He stares at you.
“For me?” Abbot asks at the same time.
With Shen still holding onto your bag, you grab one of the insulated food jars to pass over to Abbot.
“Seriously?” He gingerly takes it from you, disbelieving.
“This one’s for you, specifically. And the lovely Dr Ellis gets—” You take out another food jar.
Ellis opens up the container, mouth dropping open in delight. “Stir fry noodles. Hell fucking yes, dude.”
“This is a hate crime,” Shen sighs dramatically, shaking his head.
“I’m two seconds away from showing you a real hate crime,” you tell him, staving off a large grin.
He makes a face at you, because he’s five years old.
“Go stick to your boba, kid,” Abbot laughs. He holds the food jar to his chest, like it’s something precious.
You spy Dr Robby over Abbot’s shoulder, watching from a distance. You think he seems tickled by whatever the hell is happening, but he’s better at hiding it. He starts towards the direction of the break room.
“Um—give me a second to put everything away,” you say. You’re early, but you have food that would fare better in the fridge. You quicken your pace to fall next to Robby. “Dr Robby.”
He greets you as you do him. “It’s good to have you back,” he says. Even he has to admit that the atmosphere in the Pitt has been different when you’re not here. In six short months, you had made everyone value your presence.
When you enter the break room, he beelines towards the coffee machine, and you to the fridge.
You take out the large tupperware container. “I made fried rice for everyone on day shift. If you don’t have any dietary requirements.” You briefly hold it up when he looks your way before tucking it into the fridge.
“I’ll be sure to let everyone know.”
“It’s for you too, Dr Robby.” You stick in your other containers. With your bag mostly empty, you close the fridge door.
Robby’s watching you, leaning against the counter.
You idle by the fridge, unexpectedly feeling insecure under his analytical gaze. Especially when it flickers to the side of your neck. You shift, tugging the collar of your shirt up like it can hide it. If you could have gotten away with a turtleneck underneath your scrubs, you would have. Alas, the weather’s too warm for that.
“I should—um, go. Lockers,” you manage out.
“Okay,” Robby murmurs. You can’t parse out the expression that he has on his face. Pinched, maybe.
You pass by, and he straightens from the counter. His hand on your shoulder, burning. His proximity reminds you of the two of you in your kitchen, some nights ago.
Your mouth dries at the memory.
“Just—” Robby starts. Licks his lips; your eyes inexplicably drawn to the movement. His thumb strokes against the bone of your shoulder. Even though it’s over the layers of your clothes, you’re certain you feel it scorching against your skin. “Ask if you need help, okay? A second opinion, diagnoses, extra pair of hands, more eyes. Anything. Please.”
You blink, nodding. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”
His fingers flex against your shoulder, before he lets go. “See you out there. Thank you for the food.”
“Yeah. Yes, I’ll… see you.” You’re not sure if you exit the break room before or after the end of that sentence. Fuck, you’re so awkward.
Lockers—your belongings stashed away, stethoscope around your neck. Then into the ED, where Robby is now conferring with Abbot.
You hear your name called.
Then Javadi is propelling towards you. “Hi!”
“Hi—oof.” You manage to catch her before she bowls you over. You rub her back. “It’s good to see you, Dr Javadi.”
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
“It’s good to be back.”
Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker get in at the same time. When they see you, they head towards you. They hover—close, but not going in for a hug. “Thank fuck you’re back,” Santos says, her arms crossed over her chest.
“That bad?” you ask.
“Yes,” Javadi agonises, where she’s still attached to your side.
“It’s only been ten days,” you say.
“Ten days too long,” Whitaker says.
“They didn’t get an acting senior resident in,” Santos says, pitching her voice lower. Eyes skate towards Robby and Abbot.
“Dr Ellis pulled a few doubles. Same with Dr Yeo.”
“Good thing you like Dr Ellis,” you note, grinning as you fix your gaze on Santos.
Santos rolls her eyes as Whitaker chuckles into his fist. “She’s a good doctor.” Santos elbows her roommate.
“She is.”
“I’m missing something, here,” Javadi mutters, low enough that only you can hear.
You rub her back again.
“No love for the old gal, huh?” Dana’s voice from somewhere to the side.
“Dana! Come join the hug,” you say.
Dana squeezes into your other side.
“Is Dr Collins in today?” you ask.
“Yeah. You’re still at least 20 minutes early. She’ll probably be another five.”
Santos and Whitaker take that as their cue to head towards the lockers.
You’ve give yourself time to settle in.
Robby hears you first, before he sees you.
“What?” You blink, a furrow between your brows as you mingle with Dr Santos at the desk near south.
Robby has the belated thought of wanting to smooth it away, thumb against the grooves on your skin.
“Dude, your heart fucking stopped,” Santos explains. “It was so weird seeing you like that—”
Robby interrupts both of you, calling both your names. “If you have time to chat, you have time to check on your patients.” He looks at Santos—an easier target to face.
Santos salutes him, making herself scarce. She knows the disapproving dismissal when she hears it.
You, on the other hand, feel like you’re reeling. You were dead. Sure, you knew you had been injured. You knew you lost consciousness. But they never mentioned anything about losing your pulse. Robby never mentioned anything about it.
Your gaze gravitates towards him, to find that he’s already looking at you. “Robby, I—”
“Don’t,” he says. Pleads, really. “I can’t have this conversation.” As much as he is expounds upon fated timing on the mortal coil when he reassures his students that they’ve done all they can after losing a patient, he can’t broach this with you.
With God given hands, he would have pillaged the afterlife to bring you back.
And he did.
And for some reason, he doesn’t want you to know.
Your lips part like you want to say something, disagree, maybe. Demand your right to know what happened to you.
“Please,” he whispers.
Your mouth shuts, teeth sinking into the plush of your lower lip. Face creasing. “Okay.” With a nod, you make your rounds down to the rooms in south.
In the down time after a few more traumas, you head back up to the nurses’ station in north, using their computers to look at your chart. Robby is less likely to hang out up here—more inclined to busy himself in near central.
“You sure you want to do that?” Kim’s voice. Her hand over yours, stopping you from moving the mouse any further.
“Kim,” you sigh. You tilt your head, turning to her instead of the computer monitor in front of you.
There’s a frown on her face. “What are you trying to find out? You survived. That’s all you need to know.”
“I died.”
“Yeah. And it sucked. For everyone. Like—really, really sucked.”
You turn away, staring at the keyboard instead. Kim’s hand is still over yours. “I don’t—I just wanted to know.” And you’re not even sure why.
“Talk to Dr Robby,” Kim suggests.
You snort. “I’ve tried. He shut me down.”
“Because it sucked for him too.”
You dip your head into a nod. If Kim isn’t willing to let you take a peek into your file of what happened that day, you’re sure the other nurses have already been tasked to keep an eye on you. “Sure,” you agree, even though you have no intention of talking to Robby about this, specifically. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to push him into it.
Kim pats your back, taking your hand to lead you away from the desk. “Back out there, Doctor.”
In another attempt, you find Dr Collins by the central desk. She’s typing notes on the computer.
You inch over.
“Yes, Doctor?” Collins asks, when you’re close enough to her. She’s been watching you not so surreptitiously try to vie for her attention.
“You were there,” you say. Not quite posed as a question. “When I… when I got hurt.”
Her face softens, less guarded. Eyes flicker down to the side of your neck, where you know she observes the raised scarring. It’s been a point of focus—subjected to unspoken looks by other staff, questioned by patients that think there’s a cool story involved. “Yeah, I was,” Collins says, despite the non-query.
“I died. Right?”
Collins draws in a breath. “I shouldn’t really—”
“Because of Robby?”
Lips press into a line. She sighs, a slow nod in response.
“Tell me. Please. Kim wouldn’t let me check my file. And Robby’s probably scared all the other students from telling me.” You know Collins would be exempt from that. “I want to know.” You don’t quite know why. Some kind of morbid curiosity, a sick fascination with the knowledge that you escaped death. Maybe something deeper, needing the secure knowledge of your survival.
“You were gone three minutes,” she says, eventually. “Robby did compressions.”
You swallow.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A quick response.
“Does it hurt?” She gestures her chin towards your neck.
Your fingers are running over the healing scar. You didn’t even notice; your hand drops. “No. No, nothing hurts. I’m okay. Alive.”
Collins looks sceptical, but doesn’t probe any further. “You know,” she starts, “you’ve got the whole hospital to talk to if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” you say. Earnest.
By the end of the work day, Robby finds you before he leaves. You know he has a tendency to disappear after a shift. You don’t quite know where he runs off to, and you haven’t yet explored the hospital of all of its hiding spaces.
“Can we talk?” Robby asks, leaning against the locker next to yours as you shove your things into your bag. His own backpack is already strung across his back.
“Depends. What about?” You click the locker shut, making your way to the break room.
He falls in place next to you, matching your strides. “You wanted to talk. Before. About… when you were—hurt.” His words are almost gritted out, like it pains him to acknowledge what happened to you.
You take the empty containers from the fridge, leaving behind the larger tupperware of fried rice. Surprisingly, day shift hadn’t finished it. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you.”
“Kim told me you tried to look at your file.”
You close the fridge door, harder than necessary. You let out a sigh. “And?” You’re already suspecting that Collins told him as well.
“And Collins told me you talked to her, too.”
Great. It’s not a fair judgement to make, but you feel a little miffed at her loyalty to Robby. It makes sense—you’ve only known these people for a little over six months now. They’ve been working with each other for years without you.
“Why do you want to know so badly?” Robby asks. His arms are crossed, peering down at you. Scrutinising.
“I… I don’t know.” You suck in a breath, casting your gaze elsewhere. “Would you believe me if I said I want to know how much time he took from me?”
Robby’s attention still remains on you, despite the fact that you refuse to look at him. “Is that the truth?”
You shrug, shouldering your other bag. “Maybe.”
The door opens—Mateo comes in, failing to fight a yawn. “Oh—hey.”
Robby waves, hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hey,” you say. “There’s still food in the fridge if you still want some.”
“If I want some? Of course I do.” Considerably more energetic, he heads for the fridge.
You and Robby step away from it, heading for the door.
“You’re literally an angel,” Mateo says.
“Please make sure it gets finished,” you add.
“That would be my absolute pleasure.”
You grin, calling out a farewell before you exit the break room. Again, Robby follows as you make the parade of goodbyes with your coworkers. It’s silent between you two as you head to the underground staff parking lot.
“I moved because of him,” you finally say. You’re idling at your car, next to the driver’s door, car keys in hand. It chirps as you unlock it. You hadn’t realise he’s been walking you to your car.
“You said,” Robby says, voice low. There’s that pinched look on his face again.
“I uprooted my whole life—left everything I knew. Everyone. Because I was… scared,” you admit. “And I don’t know—maybe knowing that he took three more minutes of my life means nothing—”
“17 seconds,” Robby interrupts.
“What?”
“It was three minutes and 17 seconds,” Robby says.
You swallow past a viscous thing in your throat. “You counted,” you realise. Down to the last second.
Robby gives an exhausted twitch of his lips. “Of course I did.” He would have counted to the last millisecond, if he could. Noted it down, internalised those moments.
“Robby,” you breathe.
“I…” He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision to move closer, but he does so, fingers pressed against your pulse point. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he murmurs.
You wonder if he knows the racing of your carotid is because of him. “I’m still here.” Your voice comes out equally soft.
“Yeah.” Stepping further into your space, fingers shifting. Palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing against warmed skin.
You let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his hand.
His eyes flicker between yours, gaze diving down to your lips.
Oh, you want him to kiss you. So, so badly.
Impossibly close.
You hear the click of the car door opening behind you.
Lips brush against your forehead before Robby steps back. “Get home safe,” he says, quiet.
You look at him, more than an arms length away. You can’t help feel the disappointment clog your throat. You’re sure it reflects on your countenance—you’ve never been much for poker faces. Instead, you nod, lips pursing. “Yes, sir.” You get into your car.
He doesn’t move until you drive away.
You’re about a third into your fourth shift back when Gloria arrives in the ED.
At first, everyone assumes she’s there for Robby. Her presence in the ED always means some kind of discussion or review with an attending. Shen talked to her once in his newly established role as an attending, and she now actively avoids him. Robby kind of wants to know what Shen did.
“Dr Robby,” she says, finding her stride beside him.
Robby tries not to sigh too loudly. “What can I do for you, Gloria?” He’s eyeing the rooms, the trauma bays, trying to find someone that needs an extra pair of hands. Anything to get him away from the impending conversation, really.
“I need to borrow one of your doctors.”
Robby frowns. “Who?”
When she says your name, Robby pauses, pivoting to look at her. “What for?”
She stops, raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dr Robby.”
Robby sighs, looking up at the board. “Central 14,” he says after seeing your name attached to the patient. He leads the way, where you’re talking to a young child on the bed, her mother sitting to the side.
Robby knocks on the opened door, drawing your attention.
“Dr Robby,” you say. Your expectant gaze wavers when you see the chief medical officer accompanying him. “Gloria.”
“Gloria wants to talk to you,” Robby says.
You feel like a student being called up to the principal’s office, with no knowledge of what you’ve done wrong.
Robby looks just as confused about the request.
“Sure. Let me…” You turn back to your patient. “Lily, I have to go, but I’m going to leave you with Dr Robby, okay?” You stand from the stool, but Lily snags your hand, something fearful crossing her face.
“Don’t…” she whispers, horrified.
“It’s okay,” you promise, voice soft, sinking back into your stool. You smile at her. “Listen, I’ll come back, but I have to go. Dr Robby looks grumpy but I promise, he’s just a soft little teddy bear inside. He’ll take really good care of you, okay?”
Lily looks over your shoulder, no doubt scrutinising him. Her dark brown eyes turn back to you. “You’ll come back?” she asks.
“Yes,” you say.
“Promise?”
You hold out your pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”
She wraps her respective digit around yours. “Okay,” she says, still sullen, but willing to let you go.
You stand from the stool, and Lily’s mother, Mrs Tran, stands with you.
“Thank you,” she says in Vietnamese. She shakes your hand. “Really, thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” you assure, responding in the same language. “It was really nice to meet you, Mrs Tran. Please, take a seat.” You usher her back into her chair.
At the door, you press the chart into Robby’s hands. “Lily Tran, six years old. Came in for severe abdomen pain.” You go through your differential diagnoses. Then you nod towards her mother. “And Huong Tran, Lily’s mom. I’ve been calling her Mrs Tran. She can understand you more than she can speak. Slow down, use less complex words.”
“Got it. Thank you, Doctor.” There’s something soft in his eyes as he regards you.
You feel yourself falter at it. The whole—whatever it is—has been confusing. Moments where you’re close, moments where you think he might finally make the first move, and yet. Nothing. Professional camaraderie maintained at work, whilst he gets close and personal in between. Walking you to your car; brief moments in the break room when you stock up the fridge, ensuring no one else is in there.
You walk with Gloria. “Am I in the doghouse?” you ask.
“No. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She leads you to the elevator. Presses the button that takes you up to admin and records, where her office resides.
You see Princess eyeing you as she passes by. You make a face at her. Send help.
Princess’ look says, You’re on your own.
The door slides closed.
You feel blank, weighed down by nothing and everything all at once. Staring at Gloria from where you’re perched on the opposite side of her desk. The office chair creaks as you shift.
“We’re doing what we can to increase the security team around here. More staff. More roaming,” Gloria says.
“But you can’t do anything about him.”
“Unfortunately, we can’t. We’ve looked at our avenues while you were away. Your best option is pressing charges against him. Under Pennsylvanian law, it’s a felony to assault a healthcare worker. We’d be with you, every step of the way.”
It’s a step, you know. Reports, court, lawyers—a long process. And then what? The maximum he’d get is 10 years, or a fine, depending on how his lawyer argued the case. Based on how shit transpired in LA, there’s no evidence to prove this was targeted. Texts, notes, phone calls—none of it meant anything to the police when there was no way of proving his identity behind it all.
This would be tried as a random attack.
“I’ll think about it,” you finally say.
Gloria slides over a card. “This is our legal’s team contact information. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”
You pocket it without looking. “Thank you, Gloria.”
“I wish there was more we could do,” she adds, apologetic.
You smile, wry. “We both know men like him don’t face legal consequences. Not really.”
Something aged and pained settles in Gloria’s eyes. She’s seen it all—vulnerable people slipping through the cracks while men like Matthew remain untouched by a system that protects their own. “I’m sorry,” she offers.
You haven’t interacted with her much outside of the hiring process, and you’ve heard everyone bemoan her presence in the ED. An easy target to aim ill will towards. But right now, seeing her commiserate with you, you think she seems just as human as you. Worn down, tired of a society that protects only those that look like them. Everyone else cast aside. You and her, regardless of your contribution or hierarchy.
“It’s not… it’s not on you, Gloria.” You know it’s the truth, even though you both wish more could be done. The hospital could ban Matthew Williams from accessing their other services and flag his name, but if he came through the doors of the PTMC as an emergency patient, everyone would have no choice but to attend to him. The most they could do is ensure you and him never crossed paths while he was present.
“Let me know what else we can do for you. Whatever your choice is.”
“Even if…” You pause. “I left?” It’s not something you’re heavily considering, but you know it’s a choice. A backup plan. Running, again. Another state. Another country. Across the sea.
“Even then,” Gloria promises. “Recommendation letters, references—you name it. You have our support.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s head back down.”
Robby notices that you’re gone for almost the whole hour.
He finds Princess and Perlah by the desk near the elevator that you had taken up with Gloria. “You heard anything?”
Princess looks up at Robby, sharing a look with Perlah. “Nothing yet,” she says.
“Probably talking about important stuff,” Perlah adds.
And that’s concerning to him. He’s worried, yes, but he also needs you back on the floor. They didn’t expect to suddenly be down a senior resident in the middle of their shift.
He doesn’t know when you come down with the elevator, but you and Gloria round the corner. You head to the bathroom. Gloria hovers by the door.
Perlah narrows her eyes, studying.
Princess nudges Robby towards Gloria, intentions clear. “Go,” she hisses.
“What’s going on?” Robby asks as he shuffles forward.
“Just give it a minute,” Gloria says.
“I can’t have you going around upsetting my doctors, Gloria.”
“I am not—” Gloria pauses to take in a breath. Like she’s centreing herself. “I cannot tell you anything.” But if you want to tell Robby yourself, then that’s your prerogative, she ends up relaying.
You come out of the bathroom, a little surprised to see Robby outside as well.
He frowns. “Are you—”
“Robby!” Dana calls, across the north nurse station. “Two traumas incoming!” She’s got a phone in hand.
“Alright! Get set up! Let’s go, people.” The ED comes alive. He looks back at you, still with that furrow between his brows.
“Put me in, coach,” you say. There’s no way in Hell you’re sitting this one out.
Robby hesitates. Then, “Trauma 2. Take Dr Santos with you.”
“Yes, sir.” You take a second to meet Gloria’s questioning gaze, nodding. Then you’re off, snagging Santos from central.
You’re okay. You’re going to press charges against Matthew Williams. Even if it takes a year from now, you’re going to push.
“You know,” you say, grabbing your containers from the fridge. Every end of shift, a routine. You taking your tupperware home, Robby accompanying you to the walk to your car. “Gloria told me you volunteered to walk with me.”
What you don’t say, is that you felt stupid after she told you. The pieces clicked into place. Robby wasn’t walking with you every night because he realised his feelings after almost losing you, or whatever dumb fantasy you were entertaining. It was because this was a safety plan that the hospital enacted after realising you had an active stalker.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “She said they’re upping the security guards. They can walk me.”
Robby shoots you a look, like he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I can walk you.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It’s not,” Robby agrees. “But I want to.”
And—seriously. What the Hell are you meant to say to that? “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The conversation ends awkwardly, and again, you make your rounds to say goodbye to everyone before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Sub-basement level—swipe card access only.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Robby starts, “but you can talk to me. About anything.”
You nod. “I’m… pressing charges,” you say, once you reach your car. “Against Matthew Williams.” You might need Robby on the stand, you realise. A doctor’s opinion on what happened during the attack. On the severity of the injury that was inflicted onto you.
“Yeah?” Robby keeps his face impassive. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s—” you chuckle, humourless. “It’s for violence against an on-duty healthcare worker.”
Almost imperceptible, a frown on his face. Corners of his lips tugging down. “And nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” you confirm. “Nothing else will stick in court. Not against men like him.”
“What do you mean?”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like that. You’re a smart man, Dr Robby.”
Robby relents. Quiet settles. Outside the parking garage, cars beep and roar among traffic. “What now?”
“It takes however long it takes,” you say. “Months. A year. Maybe longer. They might bury it. They might not. I—I don’t know.”
Disillusionment at its finest. He wishes he could provide more hope in his wizened years. But no. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.
You shake your head, a tired movement. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Let me know if there is?” Robby asks, and it sounds like you’d be doing him a favour instead of the other way around.
“Okay,” you say. It’s not sure thing, though. Even you don’t know what you need to commence the case.
“Thank you,” he says. His hands shoved into his pockets, standing aside.
You’re left staring at each other for the still moments that pass between. You feel embolden, maybe. You’re not sure what possesses you to take the two steps to get into his space.
You hear him inhale sharply.
You rise up, lips against his cheek. His beard scrapes against your skin. “Good night, Robby.” Back down, taking a step back.
“Uh,” he says, aptly. “Good—good night.”
You get into your car. Holy shit. You did that. You kissed him on the cheek. It’s a juvenile thing to be freaking out over, but you are.
He watches you get into the car, watches you wave through the window and drive off before his brain even rewires.
Weeks pass. You meet up with the PTMC’s team of lawyers and settle on a hearing in the meantime.
“Mr Williams made a generous donation to the PTMC last night,” Gloria says.
A few times a week, before the start of your shift, you’re up in her office with the lawyers assigned to your case. Annalise Keating and Wes Gibbins of K & G Law Firm—an adoptive mother-son duo that you have a feeling owe Gloria a few favours.
You think the proverb about the fury of a scorned woman describes Annalise. She’s extremely competent, and Annalise is as tenacious as Wes is empathetic. As long as you tell them everything they need to know, they can protect you, she had said. Of course, you folded, telling her about your experience with Matthew Williams.
“He’s trying to bury this,” you realise.
“We’re not saying that,” Annalise is quick to correct.
“Officially,” Wes adds. “But unofficially…”
Your lips purse. Even if they won’t verbally admit it, you know you’re right.
“Based on records we have access to, he’s also made several donations to LA General,” Annalise continues.
“How long ago?” you ask.
Wes rifles through a document folder. “They stopped six months ago. But he had regular payments spanning June to September this year.”
You feel your heart stutter. “That’s how long he was…” Texting and calling your phone with private numbers. Leaving unmarked notes at the hospital. Escalating to letters dropped off in your mailbox. Not to mention your parents—you ran as soon as your mother had called, asking about a strange man that showed up to their front door, asking about you.
Four years into your emergency residency, and it felt like the stars aligned when the PTMC were willing to take you in after losing their R4.
Four years worth of connections you made in the hospital, gone; your whole life upturned. You sold your car, trekked to Pittsburgh on your savings and spare cash your dad stashed into your suitcase after he accepted he couldn’t change your mind. When your mother concluded that the police really weren’t going to do anything to protect you.
You’re too scared to even text your parents, despite changing your number. The constant what if ringing in your mind. What if he somehow knew how to track their phones? What if he was still tracking them?
But he’s in Pittsburgh now. With you. Even though the thought terrifies you, you’re comforted by the fact that he isn’t in the same city as your parents anymore.
“We’ll do what we can,” Annalise says, as they shuffle their papers, getting ready to leave. Whatever favour they owe Gloria must be mountainous, since they get here earlier than your 7 AM start.
“Thank you,” you tell them, following them both. It’s nearing the start of your shift. “Really. I know you’re doing a lot for me. This isn’t an easy case.”
“There are no easy cases,” Wes remarks, grinning at you. The elevator dings. You all enter.
“That’s the fun of it.” Annalise adds. Her smile turns kind when she faces you. “You’re a tough one, Doctor. You’ll get through this too.”
You wish you could believe her words. You smile in response, anyway. “I appreciate it,” you say.
No one bats an eye when you walk out with them. Gloria had made her rounds on their first appearance, letting everyone know exactly who they were, and if any staff saw them wandering the hospital floors, they should be redirected to her office, no appointments necessary.
This is what Robby tries to keep in mind when he sees you. Annalise walks ahead towards the ambulance entrance, Wes lingers where you are, halfway between central desks and the doors that lead outside.
“Maybe when this is all over, we can get a drink,” Wes says.
Robby looks up from the computer he’s standing in front of.
You blink. Oh. Wes is cute, you have to admit. But you never considered him as anything other than your lawyer. “Isn’t this case supposed to take a while?”
“Lucky me, then,” he say, the corners to his lips tilted upwards. “Either way, I get to see you.”
You can’t help the responding grin that stretches across your face. He’s got a boyish charm to him. And sue you—you haven’t felt this kind of attention in a while. Open. Someone that’s directly asking you out. Not trying to woo you in the darkness, and treat you like a coworker in front of everyone else. “You’re still my lawyer,” you remind.
“My mom is your lawyer. Officially.”
“Pretty sure the G in K & G is for you, Counsellor.”
He smirks. Leans in close, lips next to your ear. “Maybe it has something to do with that old guy that’s staring at me like he wants to bury me six feet under?”
Do not look. Do not even entertain turning around to see if he means Robby. You’re pretty sure it is. “Um,” you say, head ducking a little, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Maybe. Sorry. It’s—complicated.”
Wes shrugs, easy. “Well, if you ever get sick of complicated, you do have my number.” He steps back, winking. “See you, Doctor.” Then he walks away.
You watch him leave. Shit.
Out of nowhere, Perlah sidles up to you. “So,” she says.
“Do not,” you say. You make the mistake of looking at her face—she looks exactly like a cat that has the cream. Like you’ve made her entire day.
“I’m not saying anything.” Perlah has her hands up. “But that smile on your face is definitely telling me something.”
“Nope. Goodbye, Perlah.” A quick turn of your heels, fleeing to the break room. From the corner of your eye, you definitely spy Robby at central. He had to have been listening. If Perlah knew what was going on, Robby would have too.
You don’t think you can survive his crabby mood on top of everything you’re dealing with.
The end of your shift, like routine, brings Robby walking alongside you. Lingering outside your car.
Robby reaches out like he’s going to cup your face again. Like so many instances before, of soft moments between you, stolen when no one else can bear witness to it. Days of this, weeks of this. Quiet and unknown.
You move away before he can make contact.
His lips thin out, fingers twitching.
“What is this?” you ask, soft and unsure and—tired, you think. Tired of the confusion. You’re running yourself ragged between work and meeting up with Annalise and Wes. Not sleeping well, forgoing attempts at sleep by pretending that you can live vicariously through the food you’re making to feed everyone else in the ED.
Convinced something has to give, floating in limbo. A forever lurch in your stomach in the downward trajectory of the rollercoaster. People treating you like you’re not able to take care of yourself—not able to walk to your Goddamn car on your own. You don’t want more uncertainty piled on. You’re exhausted. You feel it heavy within the hollow matrix of your bones. Weighted.
And this time, you’re the one that’s reached the tipping point.
“We don’t have to do this—” Robby starts.
“What is this, Robby? There is no this. What are we even doing here? What are you hoping for?”
He furrows his brows, like this is inconveniencing him. “I’m not trying to push anything—”
“Then figure it out!” Your raised voice echoes in the parking lot. You take a steadying breath. You’re usually not prone to outbursts; confrontation makes you cry—you tend to avoid authority figures. Somehow, Robby is incredibly adept at bringing it out in you.
You rub at your eyes, stemming the tears. “I’m tired, Robby. I’m not sleeping; I’ve got shit to deal with. I got asked out by someone that made it clear that he actually liked me, but somehow, I’m hung up on you, and I can’t even tell if you want—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
His lips are on yours.
Robby.
In your space, pressing you against the side of your car.
Finally. Fucking finally.
His weight and warmth enveloping you. One hand on your waist, the other slotted to the side of your face, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there, and you were only denying him his right.
The rough scrape of his beard, his teeth tugging your bottom lip.
Your breath hitches.
He shifts his leg between yours.
You sigh out a moan, thighs bracketing his knee.
“I,” Robby says, and his voice is hoarse. “Want. You.” Kissing, stealing your air. He had envisioned waiting for the right moment, whenever that was. Some kind of softness in your shared first kiss. Asking you out first, maybe.
Instead, you have a way of pushing his buttons, nudging him to the edge of his patience. Even now. Even here, like this. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Reminding him that that punk lawyer of yours asked you out? Yeah, of course he’s seething.
“Robby,” you utter out.
His hand drifting under your shirt. Across the skin of your belly. Hand roughened and warm. “You drive me insane, you know that?” Fingers dipping under the elastic waist.
You gasp, hand wrapping around the wrist of his straying attention. “Robby,” you say. Chasing air. Breathing heavily.
“What?” And by the darkening of his eyes, you have a feeling that he would have no qualms about having you right here and now, up against your car. In an echoing parking lot that any staff member could enter. Anyone could come in and out for shift change.
Lips attached to your neck, tongue wet and heated against your skin.
“Not here,” you pant. “Not—fuck, mmm, Robby—take me home.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care.”
He laughs, soft and proud of himself for reducing you, usually so smart and capable, into a mess that stutters through your thoughts. “Mine, then.”
You can’t get into your car fast enough.
You end up in his bed. Legs apart, his face buried between your thighs. “Robby,” you moan, fingers curling into his hair.
He groans, a noise that vibrates through you. Tone low and deliciously spent. Even though he’s the one enacting pleasure on you, he’s the one that feels on the edge.
“Fuck.”
His tongue doesn’t stop, alternating between rings around your clit, up and down, side to side. And his fingers, bigger and longer than yours, buried inside. Digits angled, massaging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
“You’re going to make me come—” Thighs squeezing, grinding up into his face. The sudden release of that feeling in your stomach that he’s been making you chase for the past 20 or so minutes. Moaning aloud, nothing bashful in the sounds you emit. You’ve seen his house—gated. Standing alone. You could be as loud as you wanted and his neighbours would be none the wiser.
“God, Robby, fuck, fuck fuck, you’re—” Bitten off moans.
He’s still going. Fingers sliding out. Mouth lapping at your entrance, tongue pushing into the sticky mess. Tasting you. He groans aloud. His thumb nestles against your clit, rubbing circles.
He’s going to kill you.
“Robby,” you huff. Bending your leg, foot against his shoulder. Pushing. “Robby, get up here and—mm, fuck—fuck me.”
Robby relents. Getting up from the bed, taking off his shirt. Cock straining under fabric. “Who knew the Pitt’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?” By the smug lilt to his question, you have a feeling he knew. Hoped, at least.
You can’t help but roll your eyes at the nickname. You’ve definitely heard it floated around, and yes, you’re very aware that it arose from you bringing food in for everyone. But what else were you meant to do when all everyone cared about was comparing you to their precious Dr Langdon?
You crawl towards where Robby’s kneeling on the bed. Help him with his pants. You look up at him, pushing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “You want to see what else I can do with it?”
Robby’s hand bunching in your hair, groaning. “Fuck, you drive me insane.” Tugging you up to kiss you again. Nudges you back onto the bed, his body laid atop yours. “As much as I would like to, not tonight.”
“Not going to last, old man?” you ask.
He laughs, something rough in his throat. “Definitely not.” Lips grazing, soft and almost reverent against the line at your throat, above your carotid. Gentle kisses against the scar on your neck.
You gasp, fingers digging into his hair. Flexing.
He hovers. “That okay?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Definitely.”
Kisses it again, once. Twice. Then detaches himself from you, reaching for the bedside drawers where he keeps his condoms. Rolls it on, returning himself to you. With one hand, he guides himself to your entrance. Rubs the tip of him against you.
“Robby,” you say. Voice bordering on a whine. Becoming desperate for it—for him.
“Yeah, I know.” He sounds so fucking smug. Pushes the fat head of his cock into you. His other palm flat next to your head, against the bed, leaning above you.
Your breath stutters. “Oh, God.” You grip his forearm, something keening in your throat. “Oh my God, Robby.” He’s fucking big. You feel him stretching your entrance.
“You’re—fucking Hell, you’re so tight.” He moves the arm you don’t have in a death grip, thumb circling your clit. “Relax, honey. I got you.”
Your hips buck up, taking another half inch of him inside you. You’re both moaning around it.
“Fuck me,” he breathes. He pulls back a centimetre, then pushes himself in, slowly. Torturously.
You’re groaning. “Robby,” you huff. “Fuck, you’re—you’re too—”
“You can take it,” he hushes, confident. Lands a kiss to the side of your neck, under the scar. Rolls his hips in again, then out.
“It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling your face flood with heat. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but you certainly hadn’t been too keen on trying your hand with dating since those messages started appearing on your phone. When you got to Pittsburgh, you did nothing but work.
Lips finding yours. Reassuring. His thumb still pressed to your clit. Unhurried, despite the desire that permeates, that heaves his chest with short bursts of air. “Been so long you forgot how to take good dick, huh?” he asks. Fucks his cock in further.
You moan—at his words, at the feeling of him stretching you out. “Robby.”
“You’ll learn. One of my best fucking residents for a reason.”
Fuck.
Robby grunts, his hips jerking forward on its own accord. You cry out; he stills, huffing. “Fuck, you liked that one, didn’t you?” Panting. Lips on yours again.
You feel like you’re going to combust, fire pooling under your skin. Exposed for Robby to see, to know everything about you like this.
“Need you,” you say in between kisses.
“I know,” he says. Slow thrusts, and then—finally. Cock fully sheathed inside. He groans lowly.
Squeezing his arm, hand on his chest. “Wait—just, hah, wait. Wait—mmh.”
He tries to pull out, but you’re grabbing hold of his waist.
“Wait. Stay,” you murmur. “Just give me a second.”
Robby lets out a ragged breath, forehead against your chest. The hand previously on your clit trails to the side of your thigh, rubbing up and down the length of your flesh. Patient. Waiting, just as you asked.
Your walls fluttering around him, accommodating the feeling of him inside you. “Jesus Christ, you’re big, Robby. I can feel you.”
He grips your thigh, nails indented into skin. “You gotta stop talking like that if you want me to wait.”
“But you are—”
Silencing you by claiming your lips. Pushing his tongue into your mouth. Exchanging air and spit. Robby trembles with the effort it takes to not fuck into you like this. Underneath him, sounding so pretty while you struggle with the size of him.
You grind your hips up into him, stuttering through a breath.
Robby makes an audible sound, half groan, half growl. “Jesus.” Control dwindling by the second.
“Okay okay, move, Robby, fuck me.”
You barely finish the sentence before he’s thrusting into your tight heat. One of your legs hooked around his back. It’s sloppy, not at all graceful or coordinated. His thumb circling your clit again. Your walls convulsing around him.
“Wanna feel,” he huffs, “how tight you get when you come around me.”
And that rising wave in your stomach again. Crashing tides, falling, lapping. “Coming, coming coming.” Breathy and drawn out. Robby keeps fucking into you until he grunts, low and strung out. You feel his dick twitch inside you, and then he groans something fierce, falling over the edge of his own release.
Bowed over you, forehead against your collarbone. “Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Robby.”
“Mhm?”
“Kiss me. Please—”
His lips are on yours again. Head lifted, pressing into you. Your hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against his beard. “Stay,” he whispers, when you part for air. “Please.”
So you do.
The next morning, you’re up earlier than your usual time.
“You don’t want to head in together?” Robby asks, voice rough with sleep.
“I have food in my fridge for everyone,” you say. You’re putting your scrubs on, from where they’ve been discarded haphazardly around the room last night. You’ll need to shower as well.
Robby chuckles, sitting up to watch you drift around his space. “Always taking care of everyone.”
“Someone’s got to.” You draw closer to the bed, intending on giving him a parting kiss.
He pulls you on top of him, into his lap. Fingers pushing inside your still wet warmth. Thumb against your clit. And makes you come again. Shaking apart on top of him, grinding into his hand.
“There we go,” Robby murmurs into your ear. Fingers still pumping in and out of you. “Told you you’d learn how to take it. Gotta teach you how to be used like this.”
You’re shuddering, gasping, your hips rolling down. “Robby,” you moan.
“My best fucking resident.” Robby mouths a line down your neck, focusing on the scar again. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Side of your head pressed to a broad shoulder. Catching your breath.
“You should head out,” he says, after you’ve ridden through the aftershocks. “Don’t want to be late.”
“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, barely coherent enough to gather your thoughts.
“Tomorrow.” You don’t even have to see his face to see that smug grin across his lips.
You snort. Grab his wrist to stop the movement of his fingers, lifting yourself off of him. Kiss him again. “See you in there.”
You don’t do anything that strays from your usual routine—you come in at a different time than Robby, after ensuring you showered and brought along food. Disperse among the night shift to hand them their goods.
And yet. Abbot narrows his eyes at Robby during handoffs. Looks at where you’re talking to Shen and Ellis at central. Then back to Robby. “Good for you, brother.”
“What?” Robby asks, blinking guilelessly.
Abbot just snorts, shaking his head. Continues with the handoff. If Robby won’t say anything, he won’t either.
The rest of the PTMC clock it within two days.
On the third day, during shift change, Ellis takes your elbow as soon as your arrive and drags you into the break room.
“Dr Ellis,” you say, surprised. You use the abrupt opportunity to place your containers of food in the fridge.
“You know I like you, right?” she asks, phrased as a question, but not.
“We’re friends,” you hedge. Outside of the food that you leave for her, you like to think that you’re actually friends. Have finally built a rapport outside of coworkers and co-residents.
“Exactly,” she says. “So, as your friend, I want to say this as a means of looking out for you.”
You frown. “Say what?”
“Dr Robby,” she says. Eyes moving between yours to ensure she has your attention. It feels like something she’s picked up from Abbot. “How much do you—?”
The door opens.
“There you are,” Shen says. He’s boba-less—Ellis had grabbed you before you could give him the drink.
“Get in. Close the door,” Ellis hisses.
“Oh, is it intervention time?” He does as asked, door shutting. He pulls out one of the chairs around the table.
“What intervention?” you ask.
“Dr Robby,” Shen says, somehow wisely and cryptically at the same time.
You’re so sure you look bewildered. Clasping your hands together, looking between them. “One of you guys need to start making sense. Right now, please.” You settle on Ellis, usually the rational, logical one to Shen’s antics.
She sighs. “We,” she says, giving Shen a pointed look, “just want you to be careful with him.”
You blink, mouth falling open. Turn to look at Shen. Then back towards Ellis. “Are you giving me the shovel talk right now?”
“No!” Ellis says. “Fuck, no. Look, he’s just… got a bit of a reputation. And we want you to be careful.”
Your mouth closes, lips pressed into a line. Trying not to laugh.
“What’s with that face?” Shen asks.
“You know,” you start, trying so so hard not to laugh in their faces. You don’t want to besmirch their good intentions, and whatnot. They’re so sweet. “Dana had this talk with me after my first three weeks here.”
“Oh, thank God,” Ellis breathes out, relieved. The burden lifted from her shoulders. This is not a talk she wants to be having about her colleagues.
“Thank fuck for Dana,” Shen says.
You end up laughing, shaking your head. “Aww, I knew you guys liked me.”
“I just want my boba.” Shen stands from the chair. His low effort intervention deed now done.
You take it from your tote bag, tossing it at him. He catches it before it hits him in the head. Then you pull them both into a hug. “I’m never letting you guys live this down.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ellis huffs. Her arm wrapped around you.
“Fuck off,” Shen says, but he accepts the hug.
You don’t bother trying to hide the grin that overtakes your face. Planting grandma-level of obnoxious kisses on their cheeks, despite their half-hearted complaints.
The door opens.
Robby pokes his head in to call out, “We’re doing rounds,” then stops. Taking in the scene with a questioning raised brow. “Everything okay?”
“Yep,” Shen is quick to answer.
“Totally.” Ellis, a beat later. Not suspiciously at all.
You cackle as you leave the break room. Robby shoots you a bemused look. You shake your head, grinning. “I’ll tell you later.”
Later ends up being at your apartment, where he insists on doing your dishes after the low effort dinner of leftovers.
“Are we casual?” you ask.
Robby looks over his shoulder from the sink. “No?”
“Wow. Are you asking or telling me?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”
“I don’t do casual,” you say. It’s something you’ve learned about yourself, when you were in your college years, attempting casual hookups for the first time. You always got woefully attached, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself. Your ego always telling you you were the exception, not the rule. “I realised I never really… clarified before—you know.”
“We’re not.” Clean dishes on the rack, drying his hands with the designated hand towel hanging on the cupboard below the sink. Robby folds his arms, leaning against the sink, hands cupping his elbows. “Where is this coming from?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile at the memory of Ellis and Shen from the morning. Idiots, you think, fond.
Head tilted, eyes narrowed, corners of his lips twitching. “This have anything to do with what happened in the break room?” Amusedly curious, not accusing.
You laugh out loud. “No,” you lie, poorly.
“Uh huh.” Stepping towards you, standing right in front of you. Looking down while you look up. His hand against your jaw. “Are my doctors feeding you bad intel about mean, old Dr Robby?”
You grin, kissing his palm. “Well. Depends what you consider bad.”
Robby snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a bunch of rumours and bets floating around.”
“They’ve been floating around for a while, Robby.”
He frowns. “Really?”
“Dana wouldn’t have talked to me about your seven weeks thing, otherwise.”
Robby blinks. “She—what?”
You’re not sure what prompted her to, but three weeks after starting at the PTMC, she told you to be mindful of Dr Robby. That he was a great doctor, and a good man, but he had a thing with relationships only lasting seven weeks, after Dr Adamson passed away. And you knew about Adamson, heard other nurses talk about him, saw his portrait in the hallway.
“You have a habit of seven weeks,” you relay.
“Is that why you were so weird with me? Before—all of this?” he asks. Tipping your face up, pad of his thumb grazing the scar again. Proof of life. Again and again and again. As long as he needs the reminder.
“No,” you say, but all of a sudden, the room feels too hot. Too thick with something other than the banter. All you can think of is him in front of you, the rough skin as he thumbs the raised line.
“Robby,” you manage.
“Yeah?” Distracted. Eyes roaming around your face, taking in the sight of you south of him while he stands. He can’t really be blamed for his thoughts straying.
“I mean it,” you whisper, clearing your throat. “I can’t do casual with you.”
“We’re not,” he promises, soft. His hand moves to the back of your nape, fingers curling around the width of it. “Come here.” Gentle urge as he tugs you up.
And you go. Willing and soft, pressed against him.
His lips on yours. His kisses feel heavy. “Nothing about how I feel is casual,” he says.
You nod, eyes darting between his. Look at him like you’re begging him—the universe—for it to be true. Creases between your brows.
“You.” Lips to your forehead, on the grooves of furrowed skin. “Drive me insane.”
“They’re going to talk about us.”
“They already are. I don’t care. Even if Gloria made up some bullshit about how we shouldn’t be together—I’d choose you.”
You feel prickling behind your eyes, sweet words you want to believe. “Robby,” you sniffle.
“It’s true,” he murmurs. Delicate, like he wants for nothing else than for you to trust him, to find yourself worthy of this.
“Take me to bed.”
You’re leaving Trauma 1, Javadi on your heels.
“And I thought it was a date,” her voice settles somewhere in the breathless and high range. “I got there and he had all these people there, and I had no idea who any of them were, and I think I freaked out and tried to run away and—”
“Baby girl,” you say, resting your hands on both her shoulders. Wait for her eyes to meet yours. “You gotta stop.”
“Stop?” She blinks, wide-eyed and endearing.
“Everything that you’re telling me right now, is telling me that he’s not interested.”
“But—”
“Girl. Victoria,” you deadpan. “That man wanted someone to come cook while he hosted his friends. And you did that. For two whole hours.”
“Whoa, what’s this?” Santos asks, sidling up to the two of you. She’s leaning against the desk, interest piqued by drama.
“A date,” Javadi manages.
“A failed one,” you add.
“Ugh,” Santos says. “Men.”
“You,” you say, attention back on Javadi, “are not allowed to do any more swiping or meeting up without my say so.”
“Seriously?” Javadi asks.
“Yes, seriously. You just played mommy to some fuck ass who didn’t know how to use his grill. Ask more questions. Get more answers. Don’t be afraid to say no if his idea of a first date is to come over so you can just ‘chill’.”
“But what if I don’t get another date?”
“There will be plenty,” you say.
“Start dating girls,” Santos says.
“Not helpful, Dr Santos,” you add.
“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it be easier if we only dated women and left the men to fend for themselves?”
“Right. Was it easier for you when you moved in together after a month of dating, and then was left with a two bedroom apartment that you could barely pay the rent for?”
Santos’ mouth drops open. “I’m going to kill him. That’s not his business to spread.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault your roomie loves talking to me,” you say.
“Fuck you. You have a Pitt-wide bet about your current relationship, so the only actual long-term man in your life followed you from LA. The same one you’re pressing charges against because he almost fucking killed you!”
“Whoa!” Javadi exclaims, gobsmacked by the audacity. Her eyes are rounded, darting between the two of you.
You maintain the stunned silence for all of two seconds before you break. “Holy shit,” you wheeze out in between laughter.
“Whatever,” Santos says, turning her attention up to the board.
“Fuck, you really got my ass, huh?” You hold out a fist towards her.
She’s bites her lip, refraining from grinning as she fist bumps you. “Don’t ever come for me again.”
“Yeah, you got it, Dr Santos.”
“I’m still killing Huckleberry,” she says.
“Yep, totally. Have at it. We will not be missing him.” You would, but honourable sacrifices need to be made. You are not crossing Santos again.
“Doctors,” Dana says, slipping into the small huddle you’ve created under the board. By the grin on her face, she’s definitely heard what you guys were discussing.
“Hi, Dana,” you say.
“You guys parked in underground today?”
“Yeah,” you and Santos say.
“I—got a ride,” Javadi says. “My mom,” she adds at the look you shoot her. At least it wasn’t from her shitty date.
Dana peers down her glasses to read the registration scribbled on a sticky note, alongside the manufacturer and colour.
“That’s mine,” you say, frowning.
“Shit,” Dana huffs. “Someone busted your windows in, kiddo.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Dana nods towards Ahmad, who has been following Dana at a distance. “Ahmad was patrolling.”
“Fuck,” you say.
“I’ll come with you,” Ahmad says. He relays something into his radio.
“Thank you,” you tell him. Then, to Santos, “I’ve got a patient in Trauma 1. Get Dr Robby if it gets worse, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Dr Santos.”
“I got it. Get Dr Robby. Don’t do shit on my own.” She salutes you mockingly.
“Thank you,” you call out, following Ahmad down to the sub-basement parking lot.
“Any other cars get smashed up?” you ask as he leads the way.
“No. Yours is closest to the outside, though. Alarm could’ve scared them off. You have anything important in your car?” Ahmad ask.
“Just registration,” you say. Spare shoes, spare clothes. Nothing vitally important, outside of your car registration details.
Glass crunches under your shoes. Your car, just as you left it this morning, sans windows. Broken, shattered pieces scattered on concrete ground.
“Can I take a look?” you ask.
“Depends. If you want to press charges, it’d probably be better to leave it alone.” He gestures towards the roof. “We’ve got cameras. I’m sure police can run it back and see who did this.”
A random burglary in the PTMC staff parking lot registers as unusual to you. It doesn’t click until it’s too late. You’d think after being on edge for so long in LA, after fleeing to Pittsburgh and living in paranoia, you’d be a little faster, a little more conclusive, even if it’s not always correct.
But.
“Wait—” you say, pivoting on your feet to turn to Ahmad.
You hear the unmistakable click of a gun safety being pulled.
“Step away.”
“Get back.” Ahmad’s voice. Tight.
And Matthew Williams, with a gun pointed straight at Ahmad. “Don’t move,” he says, when he sees Ahmad going for the weapon on the side of his belt.
Fuck. The windows were a diversion tactic and you fell for it. It had been so peaceful, even with the meetings with Annalise and Wes. They were so sure, so confident that they’d be able to get something to stick on him.
“Hi, again,” Matthew says, grinning. His gun still aimed at Ahmad, but his attention on you.
You’re frozen, eyes flickering between him and the gun. Unsure where to look. You feel helpless with a weapon brandished in your proximity. You lick your lips, shuddering out a breath. “Matthew,” you say.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I’m right here,” you say. Your neck throbs, you feel sweat seeping through your pores. You remember Javadi calling for security, forcing his hand to act early. You can’t let that happen. Not when Matthew’s finger remains on the trigger. Reactive. “You want to talk, right? With me?”
Matthew’s face flexes, like he hadn’t been expected you to understand him. “Yeah. I do.”
“So let’s talk.”
“Don’t—” Ahmad starts.
“Shut up!” Matthew’s slowly flagging arm, straightened, pointed at Ahmad again.
“No!” Instinctual, reckless steps bringing you closer to them.
The gun aimed at you, now. Matthew’s nostrils flaring. Chest rising and falling faster. He’s getting agitated.
“Listen to me, if you want to talk to me, just put down the gun and we can talk,” you say. Hands up and out. “Please. I promise I’ll listen to you. You just need to put down the gun and let him go.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Matthew says.
“I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel your heart thudding away in your chest. The tears that burn your eyes.
You can tell Matthew’s wavering. Your gaze remains resolute on him. You don’t dare look anywhere else. “Please.”
The gun falters. His hand lowering.
You see a blur of the blue security uniform.
Ahmad.
A loud bang.
Echoing in the parking lot.
“Shit.”
“Ahmad!”
You’re on him, hands pressed against his upper right chest. Pressure. Ahmad groans under you. Blood, warm and viscous seeping beneath your palms. Blooming.
“Let me see your back. Ahmad, let me see.”
Ahmad lets out a concerted grunt as he rolls to his side with your guidance.
“No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside. Okay, back down.” And your hands are pressed against the wound again.
“Get off of him,” Matthew says, somewhere behind you. His voice is beginning to sound frantic.
“No.”
Footsteps stepping around. Matthew in front of you, gun pointed at you, now. “Stop that.”
“Come on, Ahmad, I’m going to get us some help.” One hand still on the bullet wound, the other unfastening his radio.
“Stop!”
Ignoring him. Maybe it’s a stupid gamble to take, but you don’t think Matthew would shoot you. Scare you, definitely, just as he is now. But not shoot you. He’d have done so already.
Blood coated fingers slipping against the black surface. You press the button. You know it goes to the small hospital dispatch room and to the radios the other security guards have. True to Gloria’s words, there were more guards in the hospital now.
“Mayday, mayday, hospital staff in distress. Gunman in sub-basement parking level 2, east side.”
“Stop that!”
“Shots fired. Security down. I repeat, Ahmad is down—”
“Stop touching him!” The gun shoved in your face.
You flinch. But you don’t budge. You can’t. If you do, Ahmad dies. He bleeds out. You cannot let that happen.
The radio crackles. “We’re coming to you.”
Radio discarded, both hands on top of Ahmad again. “Just hang in there. We’re getting you help.”
“Get off of him!”
“No!” Face upturned, glaring. Chest heaving. Tears, angry and bright. Tracking from your eyes. “You’ll have to shoot me too,” you say, staring down the barrel of the gun. He won’t do it, you think. As twisted as it is, you don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. Your neck feels raw.
Ahmad makes a protesting noise.
Matthew’s jaw tightens. He aims behind him.
Another loud bang.
You flinch at the noise, hunching over Ahmad.
The muzzle of the gun, fiery hot.
Jammed against your cheek.
You cry out.
Heated metal pushed into flesh. Twisting.
Dermal layer burning.
Yelling.
Do not move. Hands on the wound.
Ahmad reaching, swatting weakly at Matthew’s ankle. It does nothing.
Matthew moves away, pacing. “Look what you’re making me do,” he says, frenetic. “I just wanted to talk.”
You’re sobbing. Tears clouding your vision, stinging your cheek. Second degree burn, maybe. Hard to tell the severity. It stings. Your whole cheek feels like it’s on fire. Heaving breaths. Trapped.
“Drop the case,” Matthew begs. “I just wanted you to drop the court case.”
You shake your head. You can’t see if Ahmad eyes are opened or closed. “Ahmad, come on, stay with me. They’ll be here soon.”
“Look at me!”
“You need to go!” Gaze turned up again. Glaring. “If you’re not planning on getting caught right now, you need to leave.”
If security comes up with more guns, you know Matthew will start shooting. You can’t let that happen. No one else needs to get hurt.
The elevator dings. Doors sliding open.
A gunshot, again.
Shouting.
You flinch once more, body lowering over Ahmad’s. Protecting. Ears ringing. Hands on the wound. You cannot move.
“Hey, hey hey, let me see. Let me see.”
Hands on you.
“No!” Recoiling away.
“Hey, it’s just me. It’s me. Look at me.”
Unfocused eyes. Landing. Then, “Robby.”
“We’ve got him.” Mohan across from you. Replacing your hands on top of Ahmad. Gauze packed onto the entry wound.
Falling back on your haunches, heaving out breaths.
“Jesus, honey, what happened?” Robby’s hands inspecting your cheek. Crouching before you.
McKay, Mohan, Jesse, Donnie, and Olsen hauling Ahmad onto the gurney.
“No,” you say, shaking your head. Dislodging Robby’s hand.
“It’s okay, I just need to look—”
“Robby. Ahmad. You need—I need you on Ahmad. Please. He can’t—he can’t die.” Robby had saved you. Before. When it was you that had gotten hurt. He has to save Ahmad, too. You can’t be responsible for Ahmad dying here.
“I—”
“Robby. Please. I need you to. Please.”
Robby’s jaw clenches. Nodding. “McKay, swap out.”
“Got it.” McKay’s by your side.
All of you into the elevator.
In the ED, Ahmad gets rushed into Trauma 2. McKay ushers you into an empty room. You don’t register which one.
You sit on the bed, numb. Empty. Staring at your hands, slick with Ahmad’s blood.
Robby knocks on the opened door but you don’t pay him any attention. Lost in your thoughts, probably. You had been conscious but mostly unresponsive when McKay fixed you up. Treated your third degree burn, used wipes to clean Ahmad’s blood off of you.
Dana’s already taken your name off the board and today’s roster. Disseminated your patients throughout the other staff. Scheduled days off with Gloria.
He’s in front of you. “Hey,” he says, softly.
You blink. See him. Then register what it means. “Ahmad—” Your voice is hoarse with disuse.
“He’s alive,” Robby says. “We got the bullet out. No organs were hit. He’s fine.”
Relief floods you with tears. You crumple forward, into yourself.
“Can I…”
You nod, and Robby’s in your space, arms wrapped around you. Your arms just as tight around him.
“Fuck,” he huffs. “You scared me. I heard your voice on the radio and I… Jesus. I was so scared.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
You have plenty to be sorry for, you think. “Is… is Ahmad awake?”
“Yeah. You want to go see him?”
You’re nodding before he can finish the sentence. “Please?”
“Yeah, honey.” Robby shuffles back, helping you up from the bed, even though you don’t need it. Only your cheek is hurt. “We moved him into South 17.” He guides you to the room.
Ahmad looks worse for wear, but alive. Alive. “There you are,” he says.
You try not to cry as you smile at him. Busy yourself with checking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I just got shot,” he says.
You snort, shaking your head. Feel tears loosen from the movement. “I’m sorry.” Sinking into the stool that one of the doctors probably used. Take his hand.
He squeezes back. “Not your fault, Doc.”
You give him a look that expresses how much you disagree with his opinion.
“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t drop the case.”
“What?” Robby asks.
You look over to where he’s by the door, frowning.
Oh. Outside of you and Ahmad, they don’t know. You had said a gunman on the radio. Never specified who it was. The last shot he fired probably gave himself the chance to run before they could see his face. “Matthew Williams,” you say.
Robby stills.
Then pushes himself off where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb. Face stony. Jaw clenching. “This was him?” Eyes flicker down to the bandage on your cheek. “He did this to you? Both of you?” Gaze slicing towards Ahmad on the bed.
You nod. “My windows.”
Robby furrows his brows, confused.
“Dana said there was a car that had its windows smashed in. It was mine. Ahmad took me down to see. And then we—he—um, he had a gun.”
“Jesus Christ.” The gut sinking knowledge that this wasn’t some random attack. It never had been. Everything had been premeditated. You were targeted specifically. “Fucking Hell.” Robby hovers behind you, close. A hand on your shoulder like he’s reminding himself. Alive. Here. Wants to never let you out of his sight. To keep you safe from whatever the fuck is going on out there.
There’s a knock on the door.
Gloria says both yours and Robby’s names. “If you have a moment,” she says to you, after Robby steps to the side. “The police would like to take a statement.”
You look at Ahmad.
“You need to,” he says. “Hell, I’ll make one too.”
You nod before you can second guess yourself. Proof. At least there are cameras in the parking lot. “Okay.” You get off the stool, bumping your fist against Ahmad’s offered one.
Robby remains a steady presence beside you.
“They need you down here,” you tell him.
Robby shakes his head. “Jack’s already here.”
You blink. You check the time on the clock on the wall. It’s still an hour until night shift starts.
“Police scanner,” Robby says, in lieu of explanation.
“Oh.”
“He doesn’t know how to rest.”
“Probably why he’s so grumpy.”
“I’m telling him you said that.”
You shake your head, exhausted grin on your face.
Robby smiles back, soft and worried.
You take his hand, giving it a squeeze, and head out with Gloria. There are two police officers stationed outside the room, waiting for you. The ED bustles like usual. You spot Abbot breezing past.
“Is this something we need to fill paperwork on?” Gloria asks, gesturing between the two of you.
“I have a feeling you’re going to make us sign something anyway,” Robby says.
“At least you’re smart enough to know that.”
He’s your attending. Chain of command dictates that you report to him. There’s bound to be some kind of power imbalance that HR needs to get ahead of. It’s worth it, he thinks. Promises made in your kitchen—he’d choose you.
“I can’t go home,” you say. Your fingers digging into your thigh, breathing through your nose. Agitation in your movements. Shifting. Leg bouncing where you’re sitting.
All the symptoms of a panic attack, but you’re not slowing down. Not giving yourself a moment to breath.
“He could be there,” you continue.
It shatters something inside of Robby. Noticing. Wanting to reach out. But you’ve already sunken into the furthest corner of your chair, refusing any contact. It’s clear—do not touch.
“We don’t know that,” one of the officers say.
You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no idea where he is. And I know he can find out this kind of information. He knew about my car. If he took my registration from there… he’ll have my address.”
“We’ve taken your car into evidence. We’ll see if anything’s been taken.”
You nod. “Can you—if I give you the name of a detective in LA, can you organise a check-in on my parents? I just—I need to know he hasn’t been near them again.”
Again. He wonders how long you’ve suffered this alone. It’s not happening to him, but it’s terrifying, feeling helpless. He can’t do anything to keep you safe.
“You can’t call them?” the officer asks.
“I can’t risk it.”
Robby’s fingers curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out.
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Your hand reaches for the scar on your neck. Scratching. Pinching the skin. “Whatever evidence you get, can we inform my lawyers too?”
“Of course,” Gloria says.
“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quick goodbye, stumbling out. Opening a random door into a dark room.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re having a panic attack—”
“I know. I just—I just need a minute.” Heaving breaths, collapsing into the corner of the room. Facing the wall. Making yourself as small as possible.
He inches close. A hand on your back.
You shrug him off. “Don’t. Please—don’t touch—”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back here.” Robby’s chest aches for you. He wonders how many times you’ve been alone like this, in your apartment. Too scared to call your friends and family back home. Too new to make connections with everyone here.
He lowers himself to the ground, back against the wall. Waiting. He’s been here before, in the Pedes room during PittFest. Wonders what went through Whitaker’s mind when the student saw him like this.
Eventually your breathing slows to your regular pace. You shift from the corner. “Sorry,” you whisper, ragged.
Robby only shakes his head. Lifts an arm. And you slot yourself next to him. Head on his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He knows exactly what it feels like; the lack of ability for control when that composure finally fractures. It’s been a long day, for you especially.
“Ready to go home?” he asks, instead.
“I can’t go back to mine,” you remind him. Tired.
“Come home with me.”
You give him a sidelong glance. It feels different, somehow. This isn’t born from cavernous exhaustion but still wanting to see each other after a shift. From staying the night because you had dinner together, and it’s already getting late, so there would be no point of going back home after.
Creases between Robby’s brows. A silent plea etched between lines.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Robby nods. Groans as he stands, then holds a hand out for you.
Taking it, you let him haul you up. His thumbs brushing across your cheeks, careful of the bandage. Swiping through the tear tracks. Lips to your forehead, like he’s trying to impart all the care and gentleness he can.
“Home, first,” he says.
Home. Somehow, that included Robby, too.
You refused to take more than a week off of work. Even though some part of you froze at the idea of seeing the PTMC again, you hated the idea of not being there even more. You couldn’t let Matthew Williams take anything else from you.
Your first day back is met with less fanfare. A quick “Good to see you” from Ellis just as a trauma bursts through the ambulance bay.
It’s a change of pace you welcome.
Ahmad comes back to work a week after you. Gloria meets you in the break room with Annalise and Wes. Usually it’d be up in her office, but they didn’t want to pull Ahmad too far from the ED.
Wes eyes the scar on your face, something saddened in his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.
“Depends what kind of news you’re here to give us,” you tell him. Half joking, half not.
The expression Wes makes lets you know it’s nothing good.
Annalise looks between you and Ahmad. Sighs. “They’re going to argue for a misdemeanour.”
You freeze.
Ahmad had gotten shot. Had to take two weeks off of work. You almost died—Hell, you did die in that trauma room. And they’re trying to write it off as a misdemeanour. Jail time for less than a year, a fine, or community service. One or the other, not all.
“That’s bullshit,” Ahmad seethes.
“I’m sorry, Mr Zidan,” Annalise says, sincere.
“That’s not good enough,” Gloria says, cold.
“We’re doing our best, Dr Underwood.” Annalise’s tone clipped. It’s the first time you’ve heard her professionalism slip. You can’t tell if it’s anger at the situation, or at Gloria for questioning their competency as lawyers.
“We’re going to do whatever we can,” Wes addresses you, figuring the best way around the iciness is to talk to you instead.
But you’ve heard these platitudes before—said them yourself. To patients and their families when you can’t predict the outcome of a procedure. We’re going to do everything we can. One of the first things you learned as a doctor was not to make any promises.
It feels like you’ve dedicated your life to being here, to being a doctor, and this is how they churn you out. You died, and this is how they deem the value of your life.
You’re shaking your head. This case… what the Hell were you thinking, pursuing this? That you could set a precedent? That you could pave a way for other medical professionals by pushing this? That you could finally get some peace?
Instead you feel sick, exhausted, and small. So fucking small, in this break room, with Gloria and Annalise and Wes and Ahmad.
“Hey,” Wes starts. An attempt at a comforting hand on your shoulder.
You need to leave. You can’t be here. You’re out of the break room before you even realise it. Into the rest room right next door.
Not five seconds later, the door opens. Dana inside with you.
“Hey,” she says, gentle.
“There’s a new rule that says I can’t be alone, now?” you ask. You’re by the sink, running cold water over your hands, your wrists.
“We’re just trying to look out for you, hon.”
Water on your face, over your eyes. On the still healing, itchy skin of your cheek. Down your neck, where the scar is. Proof of life. Proof of fucking bullshit. “I’m so tired,” you manage. “I can’t do this anymore, Dana. I can’t. I can’t—”
“Okay, hon, it’s okay. Just breathe.” She draws closer to you.
You back away, shuddering. Breath hitching. “No, don’t touch—it’s not—”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’ll be okay.” And somehow, Dana has her arms around you.
You don’t fight her. Can’t. You face against her shoulder. Her hand cupping the back of your head as she shushes you. You’re reminded, inextricably, of your mother. It makes you cry harder; you feel like a child, again.
“I want to go home,” you sob. “I miss my mom.”
“I know, honey. I know. I’m so sorry.” And Dana’s voice is a little wet, too. Arms tightening around you. Just you and her in this bathroom.
By the time you get out of the bathroom, most of the hospital staff have already heard what the unofficial verdict is going to be. Reactions oscillate between pissed off and resigned. This is the reality of the system they’ve grown up in.
“Hey,” Robby says, frowning. Folding you into a hug. Any notion of showing favouritism in the workplace can be damned. Kisses the top of your head. “I heard.”
“Yeah,” you sniffle. You hate this side of you. The one that seeks out comfort like you haven’t had to deal with this on your own. “They’ll keep—working on it.” You know Annalise won’t take this lying down.
“You okay?”
“I’m not leaving early,” you say.
“Wasn’t asking that.”
“I’m okay.”
You both know it’s a lie. That he’d probably do the same if he were in your shoes.
“Okay,” he says instead. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“A vacation,” you say, not missing a beat.
Robby snorts. “You’ve been hanging out with John too much.”
You rise up to kiss his cheek. Then back to work. Even though you’re falling apart, this is what you’ve signed up to do.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should take a should take a vacation,” Robby yawns from where he’s lounging on the couch.
It’s been two weeks since then. You’ve essentially been living together. Your car is still in evidence, and you’re still concerned about the safety of your apartment.
You’re on the floor, papers and files spread out on the carpet. A smattering of snacks on the coffee table—most of which he only started purchasing for you since he was never really the type of entertain them at home. In the hospital, yes, but not quite at home.
“When are you thinking?”
Robby hums in thought. “July.”
“I’ve got this case, Robby,” you say, albeit regretfully. Nothing sounds more appealing than disappearing from the world with just the two of you.
“When you’re done, then.”
You look over at him. He’s been watching the TV on its lowest volume, following along with the subtitles. “I don’t know how much longer this is going to take.”
“I can wait for you,” Robby says. He’s chewing on one of the gummy bears you put into the list for him to buy. He never made a habit of snacking, but you’re rubbing off on him.
“Don’t do that,” you say, underlining something on the document. “You should go.”
“On my own?”
“You deserve a break. Aren’t you due for a sabbatical? You get one every five years for long service, right?”
He blinks, something passing over his face—too quick for you to properly interpret. “Yeah. Last one I did… fuck. I cut it short because of the start of the pandemic. If I hadn’t gotten home early, I never would have been able to come back.”
Sympathy filling your features. “That sucks, baby.” Your papers set down. Knees across the carpet, shuffling towards the couch where he’s lying. “You could do something nice for yourself this time.”
“What? Like travel the world for three months?”
“Yeah, around the world in 80 days.”
Robby snorts.
“Yeah, of course you’d like that, you old man.”
“Hey, you made the reference. Not me.”
Chin on the cushion, his thumb brushing against the burn on your cheek. Healing. He’s been diligently taking care of it everyday until you didn’t need to keep it covered anymore. Every night, rubbing ointment on your wounds. Like traces of this mess can fade with time and healing.
“Or,” you grin, cheeky, “you could tell everyone you’re travelling. Then lock yourself in here for three months. And it’d just be me and you and my wily ways.”
Robby blinks, then laughs. Leaning down to kiss you. “You’re insatiable.”
“It’s good stress relief.”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us.”
Lips to your forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So that’s a no, then?” Faux disappointment. Pursed lips.
“I’ll think about it.”
Eyebrows raised.
“The sabbatical. The proper one,” he adds after seeing your expression. “Not your degenerate one.” He pulls you up onto the couch.
You sprawl on top of him, head pillowed against his chest. Breathing in each other’s company. “You’d deserve it. Taking a break.”
“Yeah?”
“Hm.” You close your eyes, feeling the rumble in his chest. “I’d miss you, but yeah. You deserve the break. You’re always working at 100%. You need to slow down or you’ll burn yourself out.”
“You deserve a break too.”
“I’ll rest when the case is over.”
Robby tuts disapprovingly, hands rubbing up and down your back. “How am I going to leave if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself?”
“I’ll be okay,” you say, even though you want to tell him that you wouldn’t want him to go for three months. The last thing you want to do is guilt him into feeling like he needs to take care of you. You’re not a lost cause. You wriggle up slightly to kiss his jaw.
“You would?”
“Mm. I’d miss you. But you can send me pictures of things you see that remind you of me.”
“I thought the point of a sabbatical was to take a break.”
“Not from me, asshole,” you say, without any heat behind it. Pinching where you think his nipple is.
“Oh—ow. You’re incorrigible.” Grabbing your wrist. Kissing your palm. “I’ll think about it,” he says again.
Things have been good.
It should’ve been your warning.
All of a sudden, it’s the 3rd of July, the night before Robby goes off on sabbatical.
You thought that once you had passed that seven weeks mark, you’d been in the safe zone. You remember promises of this not being casual. Of choosing you.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Good night everyone! You’re all valuable and good people and there’s people out there that care about you! You just don’t know it yet. I hope you have a good night’s sleep, but if you can’t, that’s okay too!
Soo I have a blood kink... someone reported a post about it like this one time and I got a message from tumblr asking if I was okay and how to get help if I needed it. Was actually cool I didn't know it was a thing that tumblr would do and until now didn't know exactly why that had happened other than something with that post but not that they had this whole set up
My husband’s job primarily employs adult men but there is one (1) teenage girl and my husband said originally he worried she might be a bit of an outcast but instead every man on the crew was like “huh guess I am a dad/older brother now.”
She was in a car crash on the way to work one morning and called my husband to let him know she’d be late and he was like wtf guess I’m gonna be late too because I’m coming to pick you up and then he told his team and they were like I think you mean WE are coming.
Imagine you are a teenage girl probably rushing to get to work and you crash your probably new car and feel absolutely miserable and now you’ll be late to work but then suddenly in the distance a car full of all the adult men you work with just pulls up and is like “we came all the way here to pick you up” the mental image right now is fr.
Apparently she tried to call her dad but it was 3am and he was obviously sleeping so she called my husband and he not only came to find her but fished her glasses out of the hood of the car (she’d dropped them while looking inside), drove her to the hospital, and told her to take the day off. She insisted on coming back to work so he used his lunch break to watch TV with her to make sure she didn’t doze off (concussion risk).
You’ve heard of the Mom friend but my husband is very much the Dad friend. He said when he answered the phone she said “hey please don’t be mad” and he’s never felt such powerful Fatherhood energy in his life.
if you’re staring down that looming heat wave and you don’t have ac, or your ac can’t keep up:
put your feet in a tub of water.
just regular tapwater. if you don’t have a bucket or washtub you can use, run a few inches in the bathtub and pull up a chair to the side of it.
this got me through a summer in a sunbaked attic apartment with no AC, in minneapolis, where highs in the 90s are pretty much guaranteed for at least a couple weeks every summer. it was at LEAST 110 in that apartment every day of that hot stretch. i cannot overstate how much soaking your feet helps.
you can also fill a plant mister from the cold tap and mist yourself.
So many TV shows/movies depict the Epi Pen as a total solution for anaphylaxis...it's not. The Epi Pen gives you 30 minutes to get to a hospital where they can save your life. TV makes it look like you just have to use the Epi Pen and then the crisis is over. Do people without allergies or a loved one with allergies know that an Epi Pen only buys you time? The more I see this on TV the more I worry...
**Maybe you should reblog this because I'm actually worried that most people don't know.
Omg so much this! I have to use my epipens about three times a year and my doctor recommends I shoot both of them in my thigh and then call an ambulance! They are a STABILISER not a cure!!
THROUGH A RAPIST’S EYES” (PLS TAKE TIME TO READ THIS. It may save a life, It may save your life.)
An Article from Neena Susan Thomas
“Through a rapist’s eyes. A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interview…ed on what they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting facts:
1] The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun! , braid, or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.
2] The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around to cut clothing.
3] They also look for women using their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.
4] The number one place women are abducted from / attacked at is grocery store parking lots.
5] Number two is office parking lots/garages.
6] Number three is public restrooms.
7] The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to a second location where they don’t have to worry about getting caught.
8] If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn’t worth it because it will be time-consuming.
9] These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas,or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands.
10] Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you’re not worth it.
POINTS THAT WE SHOULD REMEMBER:
1] If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: can’t believe it is so cold out here, we’re in for a bad winter. Now that you’ve seen their faces and could identify them in a line- up, you lose appeal as a target.
2] If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell Stop or Stay back! Most of the rapists this man talked to said they’d leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.
3] If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yelling I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY and holding it out will be a deterrent.
4] If someone grabs you, you can’t beat them with strength but you can do it by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm between the elbow and armpit or in the upper inner thigh – HARD. One woman in a class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the skin and tore out muscle strands the guy needed stitches. Try pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it really hurts.
5] After the initial hit, always go for the groin. I know from a particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy’s parts it is extremely painful. You might think that you’ll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause him a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble, and he’s out of there.
6] When the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible. The instructor did it to me without using much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked audibly.
7] Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don’t dismiss it, go with your instincts. You may feel little silly at the time, but you’d feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.
FINALLY, PLEASE REMEMBER THESE AS WELL ….
1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do it.
2. Learned this from a tourist guide to New Orleans : if a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you…. chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!
3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car: Kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won’t see you but everybody else will. This has saved lives.
4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping,eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON’T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side,put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU CLOSE the DOORS , LEAVE.
5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:
a. Be aware: look around your car as someone may be hiding at the passenger side , peek into your car, inside the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. ( DO THIS TOO BEFORE RIDING A TAXI CAB) .
b. If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.
c. Look at the car parked on the driver’s side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out. IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)
6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).
7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!
8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP IT! It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked “for help” into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.
Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it’s better safe than sorry.
If u have compassion reblog this post.
‘Helping hands are better than Praying Lips’ – give us your helping hand.
REBLOG THIS AND LET EVERY GIRL KNOW
AT LEAST PEOPLE WILL KNOW WHATS GOING ON IN THIS WORLD.
So please reblog this….Your one reblog can Help to spread this information.
it just makes me angry that women need this.. but we do and if you see this, PLEASE REBLOG. it doesn’t matter if you are a male or a female. by reblogging this, you might save someone’s life.
