dilf town's mayor

Jack was the one who noticed it first, which is considerably amazing since you'd think his sense of smell was fucked up as a veteran.

"No, I can't smell it. What?"

He tilts his head towards the baby. Oh. Now you get why.

"Maybe she finaIIy pooped. Did she?"

You pick her up, nose instantly regretting it as a wave of nausea hits you. Jack stands at your left.

"Yeah, I think you may be right."

Upstairs, in her bedroom, you place the baby over the changing station. You cover your nose out of habit.

"It's not that bad. Just a weird smeII, right?"

"It is," he replies but looks about to throw up, which again, as a veteran, you'd think he has a little more resistance. "Go ahead then."

Your turn to face him.

"What? Why me? Because I'm the girI?"

His eyes darken with annoyance.

"Don't go there. You're the one who loves kids here, where did that love go?"

You exhale heavily through your nose.

"I never said I loved changing diapers, which by the way, I've never done before in my life!"

Jack shrugs, "It's never too late to learn."

Without thinking, you grab his hand. You feel him tense under your unexpected touch.

"Take the tabs off," you instruct, ignoring how he volunteered you before. "See? These little, yeah-"

For some miracle, he obeys under your tight grip. As soon as he removes them and pulls down the diaper, you gasp. Abbot gags.

"Don't do that," you protest, "you're gonna make me throw up."

"She didn't eat enough to produce that. Just a banana," he mutters with disbelief. Then, looks away, "Oh, she's getting it in her toes."

"Okay, give me the wipes."

He pulls a chunk out, frantic. You wipe her feet hastily.

"Give me another one!" you bark, extending your hand.

The doorbell rings. Probably the food you ordered earlier.

"Oh. I got it."

"Abbot," you call in between gritted teeth, "don't Ieave me in here."

But he's already running downstairs, moving as fast as his body can take him.

"Jack!"

"Can't leave the Doordash guy waiting!" he calls back.

You look back at Diana, who softly coos.

"Who'd say such a tiny thing can make all... These," you whisper, then groan. "Oh, it's burning my eyes."

After what feels an eternity, you come down to find Jack sorting out take out. He looks up instantly, only to go speechless, mouth open slightly.

"What? She's fine. In fact, perfect. And I did all that without your help."

"No," he walks out of the kitchen towards you, "it's not that-"

"You're a coward," you scoff. "You think you're off the hook because your shift starts soon?"

"No, it's just-"

"What?!"

"Sweetheart," Jack's whole face threatens to break into a grin, "you have shit on your face."

Your eyes widen.

"Take her," you practically shove the baby into his hands, "I'm going to wash my face."

Both shame and his laughter follow you into the bathroom, your reflection mocking your bad luck with the clear stain in your cheek. You feel yourself gag.

"It's official," you say as you come out of the bathroom, "I'm skipping lunch."

"But sweetheart," Jack's voice is laced with mockery, "you worked so hard to clean her up. Accept your prize."

She gurgles, slamming her hands against the kitchen island's surface like it's the most entertaining game in the world.

"You're crazy if you think I'll eat a burrito full of beans after having shit streaked across my face. In fact, I think I'm never eating beans again."

He sets his food down.

"In fact, I think I lost my appetite too."

You smirk, "Can't handle the sight of a little shit, Abbot?"

"I'm handling you," he answers without looking up.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

"Try for about a year or the time we have left together."

He looks at you before answering flatly:

"Can hardly wait."

Without bothering to wait for another reply, he gets up, groaning.

"Since lunch is postponed, I might as well take a nap before I leave."

And here comes the other problem. Maybe changing a diaper isn't the worst thing. No, scratch that.

It's the horrible realization that there is only one bed. In the house you share. With Jack Abbot. The man you hate.

"Yeah, about that..."

"What?" he chuckles, "still keeping up the diaper grudge?"

You roll your eyes. "I don't hold grudges."

"Is that right?" Abbot's tone drops a shade meaner than his usual sarcasm. "Yeah, then your reason for switching to the day shift must be shallow."

Something flares in your chest, both the shame that comes from recognition and the rage that follows after it washes into something wounded.

You don't feel like poking at old scars that have healed. You don't feel like talking to Jack Abbot at all.

But he's here, as stated by Noelle and his duty to his old friend, maybe, so you need to be water when his fire meets your rage.

"There is only one bed," you deadpan.

The guest room Robby never used, avoiding its fate of turning into a storage room only because the previous owners had a bed in there he never bothered to sale or get rid of.

He blinks before running a hand through his greying locks, choking out a sound that can be a snort or a huff.

"Can't this day get any better?"

Even when he's being a douche (to you), he strays back to his manners. Jack, ever the gentleman, offers it to you.

Be it your pride or a certain guilt of letting a war amputee sleep on the couch, you deny it.

"We're obviously not sharing a bed" you anticipate before he comes up with one of his lines. "You're always free to take Robby's old room."

"So his ghost can berate me for stealing his favorite resident?" Jack coughs up, "damn right."

You can't tell if the recoil of your stomach is because you're irritated at his joke or the implications of it. You also can't tell if his voice is heavy with mockery or something else.

"Disrespecting the dead? Wow, there goes another reason to hate you on my list."

He smirks, looking the type of smug you've come to hate. You remember last week, the same loathsome cheeky attitude he used when he met Dr. Al-Hashimi for the first time. Talked about drinks after finding a common ground.

You were annoyed at how it always seemed to work. Only that. Because it didn't work on you, so it was annoying to see it do its magic on others.

"If you keep a list, I don't think you hate me as much as you say," he retorts, amused. "Boy pulling girl's pigtails type of situation."

"And who is who?"

He doesn't reply but gifts you with a boyish grin.

When you feel heat up your neck, you decide it's time to get back on track.

"We should decide on it fairly."

If it's to not contradict you or appreciation over your supposed concern, you'll never know, his expression settled into his usual stoicism.

"And how will we sort it out?"

Turns out deciding by Rock, Paper, Scissors feels childish for two indecisive grown-ups forced to live together.

"We can spin a bottle," you suggest, "I'm sure it won't be hard to find an empty one."

He smirks. "If you wanted to kiss me, you could've just said."

That earns him a slap on his arm.

Jack sighs, "we should just flip a coin."

"No," you insist, "it has to be earned."

"So you suggest we hold a rally because you feel sorry for me or can't handle some skin?"

You grit your teeth until your jaw hurts.

"I can handle you, Abbot."

You had.

One year of putting up with his silences when the shift got heavy, of being able to dodge the coldness of his interactions with others. Of suppressing the rush of heat to your face whenever he got too playful for your liking. It had to account for something.

He just smirks. "I'd like to see you try."

You don't think you can survive another year like this.

"The bed should be mine just because of what comes out of your mouth."

"And that is?" he taunts.

"Crap," you throw blankly.

"Oh," he crosses his arms, "but I thought that's what came out from-"

"Okay!" you interrupt, feeling your skin burn where the streak used to be in your cheek, "I get it."

You look around the room, trying to figure out if sleeping on the couch would be better than enduring one more second of Jack's nonsense.

It's like throwing darts in the dark.

Wait.

"I have an idea."

You remember one Saturday you had the rare, free weekend. Because of some small talk with Robby and having nothing better to do, you ended up volunteering to help him do some "Spring Cleaning" on his garage, or in Dr. Garcia's words, free labor for some dick.

"Then it wouldn't be free," you answered, several shades red. She never confirmed her suspicions nor did you deny them.

That's why you remembered it, obviously. Not because the garage had meant hours trapped inside with your boss under the unbearable heat, sweat mixed with his musk and perfume lingering in the air. Or every time you teased him when boxes filled with crap kept showing up, asking why he had many or moved to such a big house.

"Your idea of a sad bachelor pad is pretty warped, Robby."

"It's because this is an update."

You find a cobweb the size of America and sneeze.

"Whatever you say."

He gave you a cryptic smile, enough to make your heartbeat pick up.

"It's never too late."

You try not to cry over some stupid darts.

"You want us to play that?" Jack laughs, but it's not, for the first time in a while, to make fun of you. No, he looks like just the mere suggestion is entertaining to him. "I hope you're not thinking of stabbing one through my heart."

The baby laughs from the carpet like the thought of a dart piercing through Jack impenetrable Abbot is the funniest idea in the whole world.

Your voice drips with sarcasm as you grab the darts, "Wow, it's like you can still read my mind."

"Old habits die hard."

You try to brush by the real intention behind his tone and not think about it.

"I can still win."

What you need is to focus on the dartboard. And if you feel your stomach recoil, that's breakfast, not nerves of him. Never. Maybe nerves at the prospect of losing; you're a sore loser. "

"Not to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but you're playing against a veteran. My aim is literally better than yours."

"It's not all about aim."

Abbot laughs―actually laughs, loud and unapologetic, as if you're friends drinking on a bar and playing darts, not strangers trying to sort a dumb decision out in the name of avoiding the hassle of sharing a bed.

"It is all about aim."

You're determined to prove him wrong. Like some cheap guru or self-help book you'd buy last minute at the airport: It is all in the mind.

"I will win this bed from you."

"Out of spite or because you'd like to sleep well?"

"Whatever annoys you more."

You take down a frame that clearly still has the default picture it comes with. In the nail left, you hang the dartboard.

"Ladies first," as he makes an obnoxious reverence.

"You're giving me an advantage?"

Jack smirks. "It's cute you think you can still win, sweetheart."

He's being annoying on purpose, like he always is with you. Short fuse, he called you once (you weren't the type of person who went through someone's phone, but alas, you found out through his and Robby's chat).

"I can. Move."

Jack got off on provoking you, since that was his way of getting under your skin―your sensibility always made you react; an easy target.

Speaking about targets.

Whizz.

Thump!

It lands on a single.

Fuck.

Okay, maybe picturing his face as the target on the dartboard isn't a good strategy.

"It's your turn," you dare, but when you see him, your courage dies.

Suddenly, it's not Dr. Jack Abbot in front of you, but that war veteran he never talked of yet sometimes haunted over how he moved through the ER and life: practical, logics over heart, sharp eyes, detached; nothing but an impenetrable mask with one goal in mind.

He plants his feet like he's never been more sure of anything on his life and takes a deep breath.

Swish.

Thwack!

Inner ring, effortlessly.

"Guess I'm a little rusty," he smiles a little bit sheepish, totally not distracting.

Nor were the muscles of his back, flexing with effort. Or the same force on his voice reflecting on the sole move, authority oozing from his hand, coming from years of saving and taking lives both alike. He commands a certain energy that makes it sure you doubt you can win this.

This, obviously, you won't tell him.

"It's my turn again, move."

He chuckles, doing as told. "Eager?"

Since imagining Jack doesn't work, copying him could. So you squint your eyes until they are on the brink of closing, focusing on a spot. Below his dart, on the lower half of the inner ring. Your body fails to imitate his rigid posture, almost like it's allergic to the discipline that's forged the man in front of you.

Swoosh.

Thwick!

Just one breath away from landing on the sad single section again. But it didn't.

"Did you see that? I did it!," you clap, jumping up and down with excitement, "It landed on the perfect spot. Ha! Take that, Abbot!"

He shrugs, "Beginners luck."

You feel like a toddler who's been told by the big kids they aren't cool enough to play.

"Never " you mock, "or just jealous?"

"Of your bad throwing skills?"

Is Robby watching from somewhere the two people he loves the most, settle silly bed arrangements with the dartboard he doesn't even know how it ended on his garage? With his forehead lines and mouth pressed into a flat, annoyed scowl?

"I'm a natural, landing so close on my first game and-"

Swish.

Plock!

He cracks his knuckles as you swallow your heart, "Guess I'm not that rusty after all."

Outer bullseye. He has to be kidding.

"But- How did you...?"

Jack chuckles, satisfied. "Like I said, you'd never beat a veteran."

You deflate a little, and yet say: "There's still a chance. There always is."

Here is the part where he calls you naive, to take off your rose tinted glasses. Instead, a tempting smile draws over his features.

"Okay, Lola. Double or nothing."

He sees the fire crackle in your eyes. Jack knows you love to put up a fight.

"Meaning?"

"Whoever hits closest to the bullseye, wins."

You go first.

You feel like you're about to kick a penalty for your team during a final.

"Don't worry, you've done pretty well so far for a beginner."

He doesn't give you time again to dwell on his words and feelings.

Swoosh.

Thump!

"Hey, it was my turn! Oh-"

Close, but not enough. Jack threw first and missed?

He gives you a certain look. "Well, it's over for me. It's up to you, sweetheart."

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You think of things that make you happy to gain strength from, or something like that had been said by those bullshit healthcare influencers who kept rehashing the same points in the name of self-growth.

Swizz.

Thwack!

"Holy shit!"

Directly into the bullseye. What is an anxious overachiever's steady pulse over a veteran's?

You giggle like you just won the lottery. The baby jumps into your happiness, cooing as she extends her hands.

Did Robby see that? How you beat Abbot for the first time?

"We won! You saw that? We won over uncle Jack!" you pick her up. She gurgles, little mouth curved into a grin. "We did it! He didn't believe in us but we did it!"

The baby extends her hand to the board as you prance around the kitchen.

"What? Wanna touch the board where I beat Jack's ass?"

"Language," he calls, leaning against the cool granite of the kitchen.

"She can't understand. She's not even one."

Jack's lips curve up, "but she feels."

You huff, absolutely hating he throws back your words to you. So you move to the board and let her touch it.

"You know, these have a pretty funny name in spanish," Abbot turns, unsure who you're speaking to but spellbound enough to feel it's for him. She extends her tiny hand to touch the material of the dartboard. "They're called Dianas."

Jack blinks, surprised. The baby keeps in trance, her mouth opening and closing. At the last sound, she giggles.

"D- D... D-"

You find it adorable how she clearly tries to imitate the sounds.

"Diana, baby. Like Wonder Woman, or Lady Di. Yes, Di! Don't you think it's cute? Di?"

She coos, like you just called her. Her eyes shine, and for a moment, the world stops: just cold burritos, six dusty darts over an even dustier dartboard, baby in your arms and Jack looking at you like you cracked the code to unlock the world's biggest fortune.

"I have her name," you mumble in awe, as if things have never been more clear before, "Diana."

Maybe it's your smile, or the warmth that crawls to his chest without permission. The way you look at Diana, eyes softening when she stirrs in your arms and laughs whenever you say Di, Di, Di.

Whatever it is, Jack Abbot, for the first time since this mess started, feels things can be okay.

To you, his face shows relief at another task completed. To anyone else, not in denial, it looks dangerously close to affection.

"Next case. The matter of Diana Robinavitch, Index Number 05893-01."

This is not how you pictured how your first free week in years would be. Certainly not sitting at court hearings and definitely not with your deceased attending's latest fling sitting as emotional support behind.

Robby's lawyer, a man on his sixties who only answers to Mr. Slater is next to both you and Jack, who carries Diana on his arms. She's busy gurgling and playing with the rubber duck that makes too much noise for a court hearing at seven in the morning.

You can tell Abbot is trying very hard not to fall asleep standing, but his eyelids keep on dropping every other second.

"AII right. I've read your submissions aIong with the wiII. Given that you foIks were named as guardians..."

Maybe that's why he doesn't realize the toy is a brisk movement away from falling until it hits the floor and squeaks loudly in protest. He jolts in a way that's too obvious to mask.

The clerk clears their throat and continues.

"...I see no reason to countermand the parent's wishes."

Jack tries to retrieve it when Diana starts to get fuzzy. He bends quickly, the sudden movement making him wince and grab his right leg. Seeing her toy isn't coming back to her hands any sooner, Diana's mouth begins to quiver.

"However. Permit-"

You try to do it yourself, but the lawyer stops you before you even consider leaving your spot.

"Just Ieave it," Jack whispers at your side.

"But she's about to cry," you insist with a whisper-shout, kneeling again.

Slater rolls his eyes at your unprofessional behavior.

"Let's Ieave the duck. What do you say we stand up?"

You're under the table when you reply, "I'm almost done, just-"

The loud Squeak! cuts right through the awkward silence as your hands grab it.

"Stand up," Slater grits through his teeth, "and don't squish it too hard."

You nod, hastily. That's why, trying to gain back your dignity, you end up doing everything but that, bumping your head on the table.

"Sorry," you stand up, passing the toy to Jack. He catches it with one hand while the other carries Diana, who at the sight of the toy, stops her whimpering.

The clerk gives you a look. They sigh and decide to just wrap it up.

"Until now, I hereby grant joint IegaI and physicaI custody of Diana Robinavitch to Y/n L/n and Jack Abbot."

They pound the gavel, meaning it's over. You smile, knowingly, but Jack seems frustrated.

'That's it? You're not gonna ask us anything?" he protests. "How do you know we're not drug addicts or crazy people? You can't be that trusting."

You fake laugh loudly. "He's a funny guy, isn't he?"

"Are you drug addicts or crazy people?"

"No," he mutters, "we're doctors."

"Then that's even better. Don't you think, Mr. Abbot?"

And just like that, it's official: you're in for a long ride.

The worst part of living with Jack Abbot is finding out it isn't so bad.

Well, that being because you don't see each other that much―just the right amount. Now that you're back to work, him doing nights and you days, the time spent together is relatively short, especially because most of that time is spent taking care of Diana.

Two weeks: That's how long you've been able to live without killing each other. Sure, there's the sarcastic comment here and there, but nothing too bad to ruin the perfectly curated balance you've reached. As embarrassing as it is, you and Jack have fallen into a routine: the one written on a whiteboard, hanging at the entrance of the house.

Can't get any more domestic than that.

Or it could, if you take into account the last weekend where you three went into the park and an elderly couple thought you made the Cutest couple ever. Perhaps it's when you go to the supermarket, Diana in her basket, and realize you buy things you know he likes, as if, no matter the years you have of not being his subordinate, you still remember things as if you know him (like how he hates soy milk and prefers oranges over tangerines). Maybe it's when you passed out on the couch after a night trying to put Diana down and woke up on your bed, Jack back at his spot in there.

(At first, you insisted on rotating. He said it wasn't practical and that you'd won the room fairly. Also, the couch was comfortable, something you doubted after you heard him grunt while touching his back and found a receipt for painkillers on the trash can)

When you arrive at six thirty, he's already wearing his scrubs, clothes tight against his skin. If possible, what's even more tense than his uniform is himself. You don't know how you know it the moment you see him, you just do.

(Maybe is how his quiet feels forced; voice softer, like he doesn't trust what may come out of his mouth. His gaze turns unfocused; distant―frozen on a time ridden by guilt and ghosts. The lines deeper, almost carved into his freckled skin, making him look his age. How he repeatedly sniffs, like the scent of blood has followed him back home)

"Everything okay?"

He grunts in response. "Just a long shift ahead."

It could be that. Sometimes it's his past life, others his wife. Lately, it could be mourning his best friend; living in what used to be his house isn't certainly helping.

"Where is she?" you attempt to smile, "I want to see my little girl."

Diana coos in his arms, sucking her fingers. Abbot passes her to you without sparing her a second glance, making her little lip wobble.

"You aren't going to say goodbye to her?"

Jack doesn't meet your eyes, "There's food in the frigde."

You watch him go, burdened by weights he won't share. Your heart can't help but grow heavy as his car leaves the suburban street.

Aside from the lack of sleep both because of the couch and Diana's piercing cries through the night, as well as your demanding jobs, you know Jack's frustrated he can't go out with the SWAT team anymore. Instead of being a SWAT physician, he's stuck playing house with a baby he didn't want and still doesn't, no matter how he watches every corner of the house when she crawls or how he smiles with a quiet pride when Diana eats all her food.

And he doesn't say it, but it's quite close to.

First, saying that you needed to sleep and balancing a baby with your R4 year was not healthy. Then, complaining when making Diana stop crying meant playing nursery rhymes on YouTube instead of his hockey games ("I know more Cocomelon lyrics than scoreboards this season"). Also each time the stress was too much to handle managing the midnight chaos on the ER and coming home to a tiny human who needed their help on everything.

But even then, he never lashed out on you. He shut out, and you let him. At least then, he had time for himself.

You're currently bathing Diana, secretly wishing it was you on the tub. Back at your apartment, if the one room place could be called that, you don't have a tub this big to take a nice, warm bath. One time, Robby let you use it. Safe to say, you fell asleep.

"We don't need Jack, do we?" you push some bubbles around idly, "we girls can manage just fine without that dummy around."

She giggles, clapping her hands. Dummy is her favorite word of the week, eliciting a cute laugh whenever you say it. Abbot, on the contrary, does not find it funny: he's always the Dummy.

"That's right, Diana," you giggle, "Jack Abbot is a dummy. Can you say that? No, too early for that."

She gurgles, attempting to replicate the sound.

"No, not like that. Di-a-na. Di, baby. Di-di."

Diana laughs at that last part.

"You like that don't you? Didi?" she coos, toothless smile on display. "Didi!"

She cheers, excited.

"That's right, look who makes you laugh. Not dumb, pricks whose idea of fun is stopping raiders," you grin. "who needs a co-parent? I'm doing just great without him!"

You pull her out of the water, her wet hair a little sticky swirl against her tiny head. That's when you notice it.

"Huh," you hold her closer to inspect. "What is that?"

It's a lump on her abdomen.

Your brain feels foggy, thoughts scattered. Maybe Jack was right and the missed hours of sleep were catching up to you.

It's not her beIIybutton.

You begin to worry, composed mind now running wild with scenarios and diagnosis. You remember the kids you've treated before, but this is nothing like it. No, this panic that makes you breathe through frantic puffs of air is very different. You don't like it.

It's enough to make you pull out the car and drive to The Pitt, the only place you trust yourself to go even if your hands tremble as they grab the wheel with white tight knuckles.

Lena spots you first.

"Oh, dear. Came to visit?"

"She's got a lump in her abdomen," you repeat, voice shaking lightly.

It probably isn't a big deal, and by the look on Lena's face, it most likely isn't. But you look like you might have a nervous breakdown, so to calm you down, she gets you in.

The thing about wanting to get a fellowship in Pediatry, is you meet all the Pedes team in the hospital you work in, whether for a procedure Robby let you join to see or holiday parties. Some you wave from afar, others you treat on a first name basis.

Like him: Derek Callahan, PTMC's Pedes attending physician. He works the day shift, but for some reason, he's here today.

"Hey, Lola. What do I owe the pleasure to?"

He's all smiles and warmth, comforting in a way and Pedes material all through and through. Obviously, he doesn't notice you're one sleepless night away from being admitted into a psych ward.

"It's- please, help me."

His eyes dart to the baby in your hands and your glossy eyes. Instead of asking what the hell happened or why the ER's favorite R4 is holding a baby, he extends his hand to a free bed.

"Go on, sweetheart," Lena encourages like she's talking to a scared child, hand on the low of your back. "You're in good hands."

You feel yourself calming down a bit, "I know."

"If you need anything else, I'm downstairs."

He leaves you and Derek alone, with the quiet humming of the AC and the occasional squeak from a nurse's shoes nearby. It's nothing like the ER: chaos. Here, you can actually breathe without tasting blood.

Aside from being encouraging whenever you had questions about the subespecialty you wanted to pursue, there was this one time, two years ago, at the Christmas party.

Garcia was bored of your mopping around, so to break your celibacy and seasonal depression, she dared you to speak to the hottest man in the room. A couple of eggnogs later, you accepted.

That's how you ended up in the bathroom with the newest fellow on PTMC: Derek Callahan, a forty-something with curly brown hair and equally auburn molten eyes. He was medical-tv-drama handsome, and as word got around, single. By the nurse gossip chain, sponsored by your favorite shit-stirrers Perlah and Princess, you also learnt he had recently divorced; no kids. Nothing screamed easier to get.

All you had to do was bat your eyelashes and say your name softly like an invitation, then find common ground, which wasn't entirely an act, as you expressed your interest in pursuing Pedes too once residency was done. He flashed you an easy relaxed grin and said you could keep talking somewhere more private.

It took a couple of seconds and some deliberate playful touches on his arm for him to corner you on the first stall you came across, needy whimpers drowned by music and small talk from outside.

But your brain betrayed you. Each time his lips kissed you, you went back to his, not gentle but demanding. The way his nose would brush your face as the kiss deepened, pouring all his frustrations and hunger on you. His stubble prickling. His hands finding the lower of your back to pull you flush against him. His heart fluttering wildly when you went still, like his touch could undo you. His groans when you moaned with both relief and satisfaction at having him, what he was willing to give.

You kept coming back for those scraps, understanding things he didn't say but where there when he made excuses or left early without a trace. Because you were willing to keep him in the way he allowed himself to.

God knows you did.

Until he closed the door after him one morning and didn't come back, letting you know it was over.

Holding someone like he held you. Jokes that used to be only yours now shared with others, like the weight he gave them, alike a secret, never mattered to begin with. Searching for eyes that weren't yours. Kissing lips that weren't yours.

Letting someone else hold him because you'd wanted more.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Derek sounded actually concerned, which made the guilt cloud your eyes.

You could have anyone. Why did your heart keep choosing him?

He didn't ask who or why you were crying, just held you close and let you wet his shirt with your hot tears that, embarrassingly, never seemed to stop flowing. That's who Dr. Callahan was: understanding, patient. Which is why right now he takes Diana from you slowly, placing her on the bed.

"I heard about the accident. I'm so sorry about Robby," he offers.

You suck in a breath and muster, "Thanks".

Diana begins to cry, probably at the strange environment, given she's been in the house for two weeks for the most part.

"It's aII right, Didi," you try to calm her down.

"Is she sIeeping okay? ReguIar boweI movements?"

"Not at first, but now very reguIar," you answer, remembering the cheek streak, "but she does have this protrusion on her stomach. I don't know, what it is-"

He sighs with a knowing smile that makes you flush.

"Diana's got an umbiIicaI hernia. It's nothing to worry about, most go away on their own. We'II watch it if you'd like."

You nod like you're the same clueless town kid back at medical school.

He starts writing something on the computer.

"Wait, you said it goes away."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "this is for you: One bottIe of Pinot Noir, one to two gIasses as needed. Or white, same dosage."

You snort, "Very funny. I'm fine."

"Y/n, you want to get into UPMC," Derek chuckles, teasingly, "you're supposed to know this."

You flush. "I did. I just... needed a second opinion."

"Right," he chuckles.

"From my favorite attending," you add.

He laughs, "Now I know you're just talking."

You feel better, at ease. Enough to attempt to joke. "Parenting nerves have me forgetting I'm about to finish my residency. I feel like I'm back at school and I forgot the answer of a question in front of the class."

Parenting nerves, as if you're an actual parent and not Diana's guardian.

"We don't judge here," he shrugs, "I forget some things too."

"The great Derek Callahan? Now I know you're just talking."

He blushes lightly, standing up from bedside.

"I'm glad sleepless nights didn't break your spirit."

"It takes more than that," you retort.

Derek moves to drop his gloves on the trash can. With his back to you, he speaking again:

"So it's true, huh? You and Abbot."

Heat crawls up your neck in a disgusting way that makes your skin feel sticky and prickly.

"What about us?" the us tasting sour.

His brown eyes find yours, curiously.

"That you're co-parenting Dr. Robinavitch's foster baby."

You feel oddly defensive for some reason.

"Her name is Diana."

"I know," he clarifies as he grabs Didi's chart, "I read it."

You cough, cheeks dusted pink. "Sorry, I'm on edge lately. It's been... so stressful."

"Balancing R4 while raising an unexpected baby? It's very noble."

"Some will call it stupid," you reply, deflated.

"I disagree. I think you're doing a good job. Besides, I meant it: you're still you. Which is great, because you're my favorite Pedes enthusiast around."

"You like me because I boost your ego asking questions you already know the answers to," you roll your eyes, a small smirk creeping up.

"I like you for other reasons too," he vaguely adds without looking at you.

Diana coos, looking at him intently.

"Even she knows you're full of shit."

He feigns offense, before laughing. It's a rich, deep sound.

"Like I said, your spirit is still intact." The older man pauses before he speaks again, "I guess that means you don't want my recommendation letter anymore-"

You interrupt him: "You were going to write me a letter?!"

He grins at your beaming smile, completely different from the nervous woman who entered the ward moments ago and more you.

"I didn't lie when I said I liked you. I think you'd be a great fit at UPMC."

That warms your chest. Before you can say anything, the curtain yanks open with a brisk movement.

"Where is she? Is she okay?"

Jack Abbot, looking flushed like he just ran a marathon. His chest rises and falls with quick puffs of air that accentuate the definition of it and his lips.

"Dr. Abbot," Derek greets, extending his hand.

He ignores him, going straight to you.

"What happened? Is Diana okay?"

You blink, taken back. The attending lowers his hand, embarrassed.

"Did you run all the way here?" you blurt out, the first thing you manage to speak to him ever since he left, the sight of him confusing.

This is the same man who wouldn't even look you in the eye a couple of hours ago, and right now, he's playing the worried father a little too well.

"The elevator didn't hurry, so I took the stairs. Once Lena told me you were here, I came as fast as I could," he explains, like his behavior is the norm.

You don't question him, especially because, no matter how much you hate him, you won't discredit him in front of other staff.

"It's nothing. Derek says it's an umbiIicaI hernia. It goes away."

"Oh, really?" Abbot sounds defensive. "Why didn't you call me? I could've tell you that."

You don't know if that is true. You also don't know why your heart flips like it's recognizing some underlying possessiveness rational you tosses aside on a whim.

"I didn't know you wanted to be called," you respond dumbly, instead of saying Why would I? Don't you remember how you've behaved these past days?

Reasons To Hate Jack Abbot, The Unofficial List: (New) He's a walking contradiction.

Abbot sighs, exasperated. After a few seconds, he adds. "But she's alright?"

You nod, slowly.

"Just... call me next time."

You nod again, feeling like a bobblehead at the offensive amount of times you've nodded wordlessly so far.

"I will," you force out, mouth tasting like sand.

Jack turns to the Pedes attending, finally acknowledging him.

"So, that would be all?"

You stand up, equally thrown off and annoyed at his inexplicable behavior. You grab Diana, who's falling asleep.

"Yeah," Callahan clears his throat. "Also, you should probably buy her some new clothes. She's outgrowing these."

He looks back once at you and then at Jack's jaw locked.

"We'll do," he replies, an unexpected hand over your shoulder, sounding offended like a parent at someone prodding at their business.

You roll your eyes even if your heart begins to beat faster.

"Sorry for the late visit..." you try to joke to lighten the mood as you leave.

Derek shrugs, "Just make sure to follow doctor's orders, alright?"

The wine. You smile, ruefully.

"We should go," Abbot interjects, "it's late and Diana needs to sleep."

Sighing, you turn around one last time, "Goodnight, Dr. Callahan."

He looks like he wants to say more, but Jack's unflinching presence makes him shrink. That's a lot, considering he's at least a head taller.

"Goodnight, Dr. L/n," he bids goodbye, dejected.

Jack's hand finds its place in the low of your back, and as the elevator doors close, you see his warm smile falter.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say Jack Abbot was jealous.

After the scare, Dr. Al-Hashimi suggested you take the day. Even if it was a quick discharge and it sounded like a nice consideration, you know she's most likely avoiding a walking liability in the ER.

Everyone is aware you don't work well when you're down. Considering she's pretty strict and a rule follower, it wouldn't be a surprise she chose such s decision, among other reasons you don't feel like finding out.

"At this point, I'll have to take weekends too if I want to finish my residency on time."

Jack clicks his tongue, "What's ten more days to a burn out resident?"

"A lifetime? I could have a whole kid on that time."

Jack looks at a soundly sleeping Diana that hasn't woken up since you put her to sleep after arriving back from the ER, her lashes fluttering with each tiny breath.

"You sort of do."

He doesn't say it with resentment or mockery. It sounds genuine, and that scares you.

"I guess. I must have looked like an insane first mother yesterday."

You haven't properly spoken about it. After being discharged and putting Diana in bed, you passed out with your clothes on. When you woke up, you found Jack cooking breakfast and Al-Hashimi's e-mail.

You want to ask a million things, but he seems to act as if it never happened, so you won't stick your nose into business you clearly aren't called for.

"You did, but it's okay. Understandable, in a way: you care about kids. Diana too, naturally."

"I just," you pause before beaming, "I love kids!"

A mother nearby shoots you a look. Your face heats up.

"I now realized that sounded weird."

Jack follows your line of view.

"I'd say overtly excited for baby shopping at eight in the morning," Jack smirks. "Is being back on the night shift hard for you?"

You wanted out of the house as soon as you woke up. If you couldn't work, you weren't going to spend the day sitting around while feeling useless and trapped.

It was Jack's idea to come see baby clothes, following Dr. Callahan's comment, not before muttering: "What does he know about raising kids?"

"No. Having to see your face for almost twenty-four hours is," you grumble. "Maybe they know I don't have kids."

He laughs. "That's only something you know, sweetheart. Remember the old couple at the park?"

You're surprised he even remembers that, given his apathy to the whole family act. But after yesterday, anything is possible.

"I mean," he adds, "to all these mothers, we seem like a picture perfect family."

Maybe if he said it with his usual sarcasm or the edge of his voice where it's hard to tell if he's flirting or mocking, you'd know Abbot's joking. You know he is, but the way his words sound lighter, as if the misconception from the rest of shoppers doesn't offend him at all, makes a foreign flutter bloom in your chest.

"I visit the ER one time at night and suddenly I'm part of your ensemble of weirdos again?"

"First of all, ouch. Second, how dare you?" he feigns hurt, hand over his heart.

"I can't have you having second thoughts. It was a surprise visit."

"Such a surprise you didn't bother telling me. Having to find out through Lena that you were there?" he sounds seriously suddenly. That until a cocky grin takes over his features. "Besides, I'm a much better doctor."

You scoff.

"You're very funny when you're running on caffeine and pushing baby strollers before the sun's fully risen."

"And you're even funnier when you care what random mothers think about you."

You shrug, trying to avoid the though from bothering you.

"I just don't want to fuck it up with Didi."

He stops in the middle of the aisle, looking your way. A slow smile creeps up on his lips, unsure but meaning it.

"You won't. You're doing a great job so far."

Similar words to Derek's, but they don't have the same effect because now? Your heart does that weird thing where it flips like an acrobatic performer at a circus―the same from yesterday, when he yanked the curtain and his face showed up behind.

And you recognize it all too well, because it's the same one you felt whenever he praised you, before everything went to shit and you stopped being his subordinate.

"Thanks," you say, shy all of the sudden. "I'm trying."

"We both are," he admits, tiredly running a hand through his face. "Too hard, I'd say. Can't remember the last time I slept more than three hours straight."

"You'll survive. Haven't you until now?"

He smirks. "Well, they say you don't know what you have until you lose it. Guess I miss being able to choose if I wanted to skip my seven hours of sleep for some SWAT time instead of waking up to... Diaper time."

You can't help but laugh, even if his words carry some dryness to it.

"I'm sure you'll get used to it. Eventually."

"You tell my nose that," he sighs. "But it's temporary, isn't it?"

Your stomach plummets. Of course. You look at Didi, sleeping peacefully, unaware Abbot still tries to get rid of her.

Your pace quickens. You hear him curse under his breath before catching up with your step.

"I'm not having this conversation now."

Instead of backtracking, he presses on.

"Then when are we? After she's one year? After she's five? After she graduates school, college?"

You pretend to look at some summer dresses, the season around the corner.

"And what about us?"

Your chest tightens as you face him.

"Us?" you cough up, incredulously.

"Yeah, us. Will we live in the same house for the rest of our lives? Or will we sell it and move? Live in different houses, share custody. This system we set up isn't for forever!" he raises his voice, stroller stopping in the middle of the hallway. "You'll move for your fellowship and I'll keep working the night shift. What if you have to switch, or cover another time? Hell, study even. Who's going to take care of Diana then, a nanny? Because I sure as hell won't compromise my profession because you're being you."

He says it like an insult. Your eyes burn.

"Me? What is that supposed to mean?"

He avoids looking at you. "You know what it means."

"No, Abbot, why don't you spell it out for me, since I'm too stupid to understand."

He looks offended at the accusation.

"I didn't say that."

"Then why do you care so much?" you raise your voice.

Now those mothers won't think of you anymore as an exemplary family, will they?

"Because I need you to be realistic!" Jack shouts. The store falls silent. "You're an R4, Lola. You can't keep being this naive."

You push past him, ignoring his calls.

Of course it had to happen Saturday night.

After a stressful week and the incident at Carter's, you've been deliberately avoiding Jack.

He's respected your silence and interactions exclusively limited to Diana related affairs. He doesn't question either your disappearance from the house whenever he's around; he just stares.

It's probably around eight, you having just arrived, when the doorbell rings.

"Someone's at the door. Who is it?

"It's probabIy a neighbor," you reply without sparing him a glance. You don't know if he sighs at that or at the possibility you could have a nosy face show up after a long day; you'd had plenty of those for the past two weeks.

He answers, "Yes?"

"Hi," a woman with pristine hair and suit answers, "I'm Alma Reyes, your caseworker from SociaI Services."

At Jack's confused face, she adds: "You were toId we'd be making a few unannounced visits."

"Yeah, weII. This is definiteIy unannounced," he laughs ruefully. "Just... Give me a minute."

Before she asks if she can come in, he closes the door in her face.

You're licking your finger in the kitchen at the mustard leftovers over it after preparing a sandwich.

"You look like you saw a ghost," you mock. "Is it Mrs. Adelaire asking again when are we getting married because cohabitation is a sin that offends God?"

"No," he lowers his voice. When he doesn't laugh and instead sounds even more worried, you start to freak out. "It's social services."

"What?" you ask, dumbly.

"You have one minute to wash your face to come back downstairs and start acting Iike the responsibIe pain you've been since we moved in."

You blink slowly. "But, my sandwich-"

"Just go," he pushes you out of the kitchen, "Go. Go. Go."

While you're upstairs, Jack tries to charm the woman to no avail. She's attractive, that's for sure, but she doesn't laugh at his jokes, not even in compromise, like you. She's got a nice olive tone to her skin though, as well as long, luscious hair.

"You sure you don't want to see the garage again? The other day we found a dartboard in there. It could be dangerous."

"Since it's dangerous," she repeats, "have you disposed of it?"

"I, well-"

"HeIIo, I'm so sorry," you show up. Finally. He feels relieved at just the sound of your voice. "I had to get changed. I literally just came home."

"It's okay," she assures, "I only want to taIk."

You squirm, uneasy, like this is a trial. Or an oral test. Perhaps it brings out memories of you grounded, maybe even when being dumped.

"Don't freak out, it's normal. I only want to, you know," she motions with her hands, "get a sense of the both of you, your pIans. Where do you see yourseIves in five years?"

"Ooh! Ask me, I have a great answer," you beam. She lets you speak. "In five years, I'll have finished my residency and started my fellowship in Pedes at UPMC. Which, obviously, isn't a problem," you shoot a sideways glance to Jack, "because it's just six minutes away from our street here in Roslyn Place. And besides, it shows I love kids!"

Jack snorts, "You haven't even got in."

You feel anger bubble up. For the sake of courtesy, you keep it down.

"Yet," you clarify. "Anyway. I'm aIso hoping someday I can become an attending at the Pedes ward there, althought PTMC sounds good too."

"So you can be with your friend Derek?" Jack teases, smug smirk back on his stupid face.

"No, so I can get a job doing what I love..." you trail off, "Oh, God. I didn't incIude Diana."

He laughs under his breath, tilting his face. "You didn't."

"Let me just take it back," you grow nervous, hands suddenly clammy. "She is a big part of my plan-"

Alma raises her hand. "That's fine, thank you."

"Okay," you mutter, looking at your hands clasped over your lap.

"Jack?"

"First name basis already? I like that," he hears you scoff, making him grin. "Well, I'm the attending physcian of the night shift at PTMC, and I guess in a coupIe years... If I don't kill myself over the pressure, I'll retire and spend all my money on building a boat house. I like fishing."

Your eyes widen. Did you just joke about suicide? you mouth. He looks away, pleased.

"Okay. So, Mr. Slater teIIs me that you're both singIe and presentIy not engaged in a reIationship," she pauses. "Not sIeeping together?"

Your face burns in seconds and Jack looks like he's been shot.

"No, oh- No!"

He shakes his head, "God, no."

You feel offended at the way he says it, like its straight up punishment taken from a circle of hell.

"Not a chance," you add sharply.

"Obviously," Jack adds, "it's never going to happen."

"Okay..." Alma speaks carefully, "that's great."

You both look at her, questioning.

"It's just, this situation," she points to you, "Two singIe peopIe... Living under the same roof... Raising a recentIy orphaned chiId... WeII, it's compIicated enough without the added compIication of..." she cuts herself, "you know, that."

"Like I said. Trust me, Alma. We won't be compIicating anything with that."

"Yeah. I get pIenty of that eIsewhere," Jack jokes.

Why does your stomach drop, all of a sudden. Because of distant memories, surely, not because you care if Jack is sleeping around.

You're not together: just two people forced to live together to raise a baby.

Maybe, if you keep repeating it, you'll fully accept it and drown these weird feelings that pop here and there when he gets too annoying or too pleasent.

You try to save yourself, "I'd get pIenty of that in my day as weII."

Jack snorts, "Way back in the day."

Before you can reply, she cuts you off:

"Listen, you two both seem Iike two sweet, burned-out doctors and faux parents about to have the worst year of your Iives. I'II be honest with you," she sighs. "Wanna make jokes about killing yourself? Go for it, I don't care. Hell, I get you. In fact, half of the famiIies that I deaI with make me want to. You are my good cases. The onIy obstacIe here is you two, and whether or not you're both cut out to be parents."

"What we want to avoid is Diana Iosing more peopIe in her life," you feel your throat tighten. "I know she won't remember but-"

You stop speaking before you vent out to this tired woman your fears or break down in front of Abbot; no one deserves it.

She smiles, condescending. "Your friend thought you couId do this, but I'II be honest, I'm not so sure..."

After she left, you release a breath you didn't know you were holding. Laying against the door, you drop a low Shit.

"That went surprisingly well for a first time."

You roll your eyes, "Fuck off, Abbot."

"Can't take a compliment?"

"Oh, wow," you give him a pointed look, "now we're complimenting? I thought you preferred to berate me."

He sighs, "Look, I don't want to fight-"

"I'm going to check on Di," you interrupt him, too drained to stomach another confrontation.

He stops you, gently grabbing your hand. You jerk away, as if his touch burns. His hand falls to his side, fingers lightly twitching.

"I put her to sleep," he speaks softly, "you'll only wake her up."

"Oh, so what do I do? Stay and enjoy your nice company?"

He offers half a smile. "You can always eat your sandwich."

So that's how you end up standing in the kitchen, plate over the island, eating with aggresive bites so you can go upstairs and retrieve to your room, as you've been doing.

You catch Jack staring. If it wasn't for the house's dimly lit illumination, the shadows across your face wouldn't mask the blush.

"What?" you mumble with a moutful, "you're staying there like some watch dog until I finish to eat?"

Instead of defending himself, he says: "I still can't get used to seeing you wearing anything other than your scrubs."

"I'm glad you appreciate the assortment of my closet, but staring is rude."

You finish the sandwich and set the plate on the sink. You're too tired to wash, or do anything for the matter.

"Right, where are my manners?"

You walk to the couch and sit, or more like a I've-had-a-long-week-and-I'm-emotionally-and-physically-exhausted plopping as you melt within it.

"Beer?" Abbot offers from behind.

Fuck it. It's Saturday and Diana's knocked out cold; you might as well enjoy yourselves.

Is this how newborn parents felt? Well, in a Robby-fucked-us-up way, you are.

"I really hope Alma doesn't show up right now, saying some bullshit like- she forgot more stupid, invasive questions or... Her nonsensical meddling. I'm not so sure, who does she think she is?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. She won't interrupt our domestic bliss," he sarcastically drops, "like hell I'm going to let that happen!"

His teasing is followed by the Snap! of the bottles' cap and hiss of the foam coming up. He walks to the living room and sits next to you, not close enough, passing you the cold bottle. It's almost frozen.

The smile breaks in before you can stop it.

"Twenty minute rule?"

It means he knows how you like your beer, something you remember mentioning once at a barbacue at Langdon's. It also means he put it in the fridge before you came home and Alma's interruption.

He chuckles. "Of course. Wouldn't want to disrespect my co-parent's wishes."

"Then I forgive you."

Abbot looks a little too happy, like your words have injected some energy in him that makes him look younger.

You raise it your bottle in a toast. "For a peaceful night."

"Whoever is out there may hear us."

One bottle turns into two, then three; enough to feel tipsy but not too much to numb your instincts in case anything happens.

You're... Surprisingly relaxed, even when you both remain quiet, busy sipping the drinks in silence. The empty corpses of bottle stare back at you, witnessing how coworkers who hate each other became comfortable with the other's presence, enough to live under the same roof and fall into a routine. Tolerate the other's presence. Smile unexpectedly for unknown reasons. Fight and make up. Still be around.

You feel Jack staring again. Something (most likely alcohol fueling stupidity and bravery at the same time) compells you to turn around and look back.

His pupils are dilated under half lidded eyes; relaxed or actually happy, you can't tell.

"What?" you laugh, but the sound comes out strained, "don't tell me I have shit in my face again."

His eyes drift lower, right to your arm. You feel your body burns with a strange fever.

And then, all he says is: "Huh."

You lift an eyebrow, waiting for an (probably drunk) explanation.

"I guess you never really know people."

You're about to open your mouth to ask when he speaks before:

"You have a tattoo."

That takes you by surprise. Due to the recent summer heat, you'd swapped the t-shirts you usually wear for sleeveless tops.

"I'd never seen it before," he continues, like this is a defining moment on his life. Or the biggest discovery. A discovery he's deemed precious enough to muse over. "You're always wearing a shirt under your scrubs."

"Hospital policies," you chuckle. "Or, dare I say, Gloria's policies."

His voice comes out surprisingly soft.

"What is it?"

Words get caught up on your throat, his tone making you suddenly shy.

"The tattoo?" you ask just to fill the silence since you can't trust your own mouth, "it's a magnolia."

His next words knock the air out of you.

"Can I... Can I touch it?"

Your brain stops functioning, but you must've at least nodded your head, since his fingers reach tentatively, like you might change your mind halfway and he'd be left pathetically hanging in the air, so close yet so far. But you don't move away from his touch, not even as his calloused tips draw goosebumps out of your skin as he traces over the ink.

"It's really good," he says suddenly after an inspection that feels forever. Jack's fingers remain glued to it.

"Thanks," your mouth tastes like sand and it has nothing to do with the beers, "I... Dr. Ellis' referred me to her tattoo artist."

"Sounds about right," a beat goed by, as if he's unsure to ask. "So, does it have a meaning or you chose it because it's pretty like you?"

Sober you would've rolled her eyes and throw in a scoff at Jack Abbot's well-known flirting lines.

Drunk you however, is rendered a mess without words and treacherous red all over her face.

Drunk you absolutely notices the lower tone of his voice, the raspy tilt to each word he drags with his slurred speech, like he wants to make a point.

"Magnolias are one of the oldest flowers on Earth; they even predate bees," you ramble, eyes gleaming with pride. "There are many meanings behind. Like- did you know in the Victorian era people used them to show love without saying it? They send them on letters to symbolize affection. And, on China, these flowers usually represent femininity, while in other countries, they use them for bridal bouquets because it represents purity and nobility. Some others say they represent resilient bonds, as these flowers have stood the test of time."

Abbot let's you finish. He looks immersed, absorbing the information.

"And you?"

You blink, "Me?"

"Yeah. Why did you chose it."

His tips continue tracing mindless patterns over the ink.

"Perseverance," you confess. "I like to think, like them, I've survived. Since there weren't bees around, magnolias had to evolve to be polinated by beetles. Since they chew to get the pollen, they evolved until their petals became hard-like, almost leather." After a deep breath, you continue: "I didn't have a home growing up, parents that loved me. I could've drowned, but I made it out. At least, I think I did."

"You're a warrior," he whispers, devoid of his usual mockery.

Your mouth curl into a satisfied smirk.

"Was that a compliment, Dr. Abbot?"

He rolls his eyes, fingers backing away from your skin. You try not to be too disappointed about it.

"Don't get used to it."

You purse your lips, "And here I thought we were a team."

"We are. Doesn't mean I need to inflate your ego bigger than it already is."

"Say it. I'm a great foster mother."

"No. You know it, and that's enough."

"C'mon, Abbot," you whine his name, pushing him lightly, "it's just a sentence."

"A life sentence? Sure it is. I'll never hear the end of it."

You bat your eyelashes in the way Dana sighs loudly and Santos rolls her eyes.

"Please..."

"It's Robby's fault, really. Always saying you were good with kids, like some..." he gestures around, "magician."

The memory crawls up, uninvited, just like the shivers you feel when Jack stares for a beat too long.

It was summer, and of course the Pitt was doomed like it always was, bound to chaos. This time? The AC failed.

Donnie opened up a call and bet his money on power problem, but no promise of a big prize was enough to lift up the cranky mood the unbearable heat caused.

Somehow, the lack of cold air made it almost impossible to survive through the day.

"So this is what the lower class of Triage feel."

You slapped Donnie. "Shut up. If Dana hears you, she'll make you do rounds there."

"If this is normal to them, I don't even want to imagine right now. It's probably hell."

You click your tongue. "Try again," you point at your badge, right where it says Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, "were already there."

By hour five, most of the staff's scrubs are drained with sweat, like they've been only doing compressions for the past two hours. When you walk by the break room, the usual door closed for privacy now open, you know it's bad.

"Fuck it," you exclaim with exasperation to your friends inside the breakroom, looking like they'll melt away any second, "I have a top I was saving for the gym tonight and I'm not afraid to use it."

This is how you end up wearing only half of your scrubs, the upper half replaced by a white tank top that leaves a little peak of cleavage on display Lena would've call HR Material.

It's risky, but at least treating patients becomes a little more bereable when you're not feeling sticky and wet (not in a good way).

It happens when you're about to clock out. Dana shows up from God knows where, her usual composed clipped hair sticked to her forehead.

"I've got one for you."

"If you give me another lightheaded, nauseous teen from smoking too much vape, I might clock out early. Is that all kids do these days?"

She snickers, "You're not that old yourself, kid."

"At least I knew how to have fun summers without accelerating my death."

"As a smoker, I might not have much room for an opinion myself," she jabs. Then, her eyes soften. "Don't worry, it's a kid."

You instantly beam up.

Golden Rule Of The Pitt #8: If a kid comes into the ER and she's free, case is Y/n's.

As soon as day shift learned you adored kids, they let you tend to them, mostly the ones who didn't have the patience to deal with crying toddler and their screaming parents.

You had a certain something that made kids stop fuzzing and restless parents tone down a notch.

Perlah appears by your side as Dana goes back to her station, sliding you the chart.

"Kid, four years old. She fell off the slide on her backyard pool. Mostly superficial bleeding. No signs of concussion, but it's always better to rule it out. Besides, her mother insists."

"Four?" your eyes widen as you read the chart. "I hope that slide wasn't tall. Sounds like someone wasn't supervising to me."

"Save it. That woman is one comment away from a breakdown." She then looks at your outfit, "Can I ask about this bold fashion choice?"

"No," you deadpan as you yank the curtain open.

Inside, a child with two wispy messy braids from Chlorine and red rimmed eyes awaits with her trembling mother.

"Hello," you greet, giving them your name, "and I'll be your doctor today. This is nurse Perlah," she smiles sweetly to transmit calm like only she can, "and we'll be looking at you today. What's your name?"

"So-Sophie," she stumbles over her words, hiccuping.

"What a pretty name for a gorgeous girl," you compliment. She beams at that. "How old are you? Can you raise your fingers for me?"

She sticks her hand out. "Four!"

"You have a very smart girl, Mrs. Goodwill," she looks surprised you're addressing her and then smiles, a little more relaxed. "Can you tell me how this happened?"

After doing general assessment following results from Triage and a visual inspection where you see no asphalt on her scrapes, you decide to desinfect the area and use some topical numbing.

"We will apply LET gel topically to the wounds," you inform, "and then cover with an occlusive dressing for 20 minutes. I'll come back then to remove it and get it checked."

Her little voice squeaks. "It hurts?"

"Not at all," you reassure, "but it will feel weird when it touches tour skin."

Her eyes get watery, "It sounds scary."

"Well, you can hold to one of our plushies if you'd like. Or, you can grab my hand if you want."

Sophie transforms from a kid on the verge of crying to one beaming like it's Christmas. She grabs your hand strongly, suddenly deciding you're her favorite person in the room.

"Okay" you giggle, "you've got a good grip. Now, Perlah is the one who will put the gel on you. As you can see, my hands are kinda busy at the moment."

She giggles with you, but said laughter dies down a bit after Perlah's gentle warning.

"Ready?" Sophie closes her eyes until they scrunch up, grip tight. "Okay, here it goes."

She's surprisingly brave for such a little girl.

You're so focused on her tiny hand within yours that you don't realize she's talking to you.

"Huh?"

"She asked about the drawing in your arm," Perlah fills you in, briefly looking up from a scrape under her knee. She jerks slightly as she continues applying the gel.

"Oh, this?" you motion to the tattoo. Now without the scrubs and thanks to the heat, it's on its full glory, right on your bicep. "Think of it as a permanent drawing. Do you like it?"

Perlah is done with her knee. She moves to the next scrape, so you continue distracting her.

"I like flowers," she giggles, tracing it. "It's pretty, like you."

You smile warmly, a slight blush to your face.

"You think so? I'll tell you," you lean in, conspirational, "it's a magnolia."

Sophie struggles, "A man... Ma...l."

"Magnolia," you repeat. "Can you say it?"

She tries again, but fails. She continues trying until Perlah anounces she's done. Sophie looks deflated she could never pronounce Maloila.

"It's okay, you did incredible," you let go of her hand and take the badges from Perlah. While you wrap, her eyes stay glued to you. "You were very brave, Sophie."

"I was?" she beams.

"Yes, so when I get back to check on you, I'll bring you a lollipop from my personal stash. What's your favorite flavor?"

As you exit, Perlah turns back with a smile. You're about to question why when a voice stops you.

"Didn't know you were this good with kids."

Dr. Michael Robinavitch, day shift attending and your new boss after switching. He's quiet unless he's barking orders or scaring interns for fun.

You're an R2, he doesn't scare you anymore. But you sure want to impress him.

"Didn't think you'd notice."

"Words goes around," he answers simply with that press of his lips that not quite a smile but that's all he can afford. Because, as you've learned so far: he doesn't laugh often, unless he knows you and it's always something closer to a snort as if he doesn't allow himself to. But when he does, his crow's feet deepen and his eyes look a bit lighter. And if he smiles, it's like this: Dr. Robinavitch doesn't offer much from his side.

"Only good things, I hope," you smile, shyly.

Another thing you've learnt so far: Robby's (as he insisted to be called) good looking, in a way most don't find it to be. He looks like a man lived, one who has earned every year passed and is weighed down by it, left with a certain air that demands distance but only makes approaching more inviting.

"It doesn't matter what they say," he shrugs, then crosses his arms. You think he's trying to look more casual and less intimidating. "I'm looking at it."

For some reason, you blush. "Yeah?"

"Think I can join you for discharge?" he rubs a hand on the back of his neck, "I need to do rounds, anyway."

The request makes your heart oddly thump. Nerves, you think.

This is how you find yourself 20 minutes later with Robby by your side.

"Hello, Sophie. I'm here with Dr. Robby," she raises her hand shyly. "Ready to go?"

She nods, vigorously. "Yes! Where's my lollipop?"

You laugh. "Huh, that's a good memory. Here," you fish it out of your pocket, "all yours."

"Thank you," her mother speaks in behalf of Sophie while she pops the candy on her mouth, "I've never seen her so enthralled. You're like a magician."

Robby snorts at that.

You blush, embarrassed. "Oh, it's nothing. I love kids."

"No, you don't get it. She's like, enamoured with you. Won't stop talking about how cool you are. I'm worried her next obsession will be medicine; she's four."

"Healthcare workers are always needed. The more the merrier," Robby says. You laugh.

"No, you're right. And it's better than her talking about tattoos, anyway."

Robby's eyebrows shoot. "Tattoos?"

"Your resident here has some secrets," Perlah comments with a smirk, pointing your bicep.

"You?" he turns towards you and looks, intently, as if he's properly noticing the resident Abbot transferred without nuch explanations for the first time. It makes something in you squirm. "Wait. Why are you wearing a tank top?"

"The heat. Why are long sleeved still?"

Despite himself, he smirks. "Don't change the subject. This is about you and your-"

"Maiola!"

All heads turn to the little girl. She smiles, toothy grin like today never happened and she was in a trip with friends.

Robby blinks slowly, confused. "Sorry, what?"

"The magnolia in y/n's arm," Perlah interjects. "She can't pronounce it."

Sophie nods, "The pretty flower on miss y/n's arm! The... Mailola."

"Malola?"

And then, it happens―Michael Robinavitch actually laughs.

Not the one he swallows done and comes out like a cough. It's light, shoulders tense now shaking slightly as he still holds back; old habits die hard.

"Oh my God, Dr. Robby, you're bullying a kid!" you whisper, back turned from Sophie and her mother.

"Manlola? That might be the word of the day," you whine, making his crow's feet deepen. He pauses, "Hold on. You know what that sounds like?"

"No. And I'm not sure if I want to know. Your smile scares me."

His lips curve up in a genuine smile, as rare as slow days at the ER. It makes something in your chest tug.

"It sounds like Lola."

Even when clocking out from his shift, he'd beat you coming first by a mile, because, by the way he casually stands against his truck, you can tell he's been here for quite some time.

"Coffee?"

The gesture warms you like the liquid inside the cup. It's oddly considerate for a man who'd rather stand forty-eight hours straight in the ER than be with you in the same room. Which, funny, because he'll be your roommate for the next couple of weeks.

"For my shift or for this?" you motion the entrance of the building.

Jack makes that smirk, the one where only one half of his mouth curves up, as if he's deciding whether to show amusement or throw in a sarcastic retort.

"Both. You didn't sleep, did you?"

There are tinges of concern laced on his words you try not to dwell on. If he wants to be amicable, he can be. You're going to be seeing each other's faces on a daily basis from now on, so there are no other intentions behind his question other than being polite.

It's courtesy, relax. A bit of small talk and a free coffee won't kill you.

"I couldn't," you answer. "I gave up by eleven and started packing instead. You know, for our big move in."

He chuckles. "Can hardly wait. Well, I spent it bouncing back from Triage to Trauma. How's that sound?"

"You win, nightcrawler."

He scoffs, taking a sip of his coffee to hide a smirk.

"It's supposed to be cool. You make it sound like..."

"...A slur?" your lips curl up.

He lowers his head, shaking it.

"Jesus, woman. You need help."

"Agreed," you raise your cup on a fake toast.

"Do I need to remind you that used to be you not too long ago?"

Your smile falters a bit.

"Whatever. I'm day shift material. Normal sleep schedules and no silly motivational speeches. That's where I belong."

And, yet, you remember joking with Shen about wanting vacations that lasted forever. Setting up a tattoo appointment with the tattoo artist Ellis referred you to. Letting Lena lecture you about how energy drinks were destroying the youth as she plead you to go back to coffee, no matter how shit the hospital's was.

You also remember Jack.

The unsolicited advice you scribbled down anyways on pink ink in your note block. The encouragement words he'd throw your way when your hands trembled while treating a patient. How he'd keep a creamer on the break room because you couldn't pass the burnt flavor of the shitty coffee.

But you also remember the stairs, the yelling, and the way he said it:

"You have no idea what you're doing."

Spat out, like an insult. It might as well be: because Jack Abbot, the man who trusted you enough to give you cases bigger than your responsibility as an intern should've let you, was talking you down like a kid who knew no better. Yes, an insult to your pride, ego, and confidence. To the respect you held for him and to your supposed friendship.

He feigns offense. "Well I'll be damned. I thought you liked it."

"What can I say," you shrug, "I'm a good actress."

"I hope you're nearly as good in your role as a mother."

You take a big sip of your coffee to mask a nervous gulp.

"Can we go inside now?"

"Hey," he raises his hands, "I have no rush on being a father, but you do you."

The place inside is bustling with too much energy for a weekday at seven o'clock. Social workers and kids of all ages everywhere, the rare nanny here and there. After you give your names at the reception, you enter the room full of children and wait.

You can't help but wonder their stories, why they ended up in here. If they had been with sad eyes waiting, for how long. When you see baby Jane Doe isn't the only one of her age there, your heart breaks.

"You're an empath, Lola. Like Dr. McKay."

"And that'd be a compliment, I hope?"

"Take it as you wish."

And then, Jack, saying your name softly like breaking up to a child that Santa isn't real:

"You can't save everyone."

His voice sounds again. This time, just not in your head.

"You good?"

You nod, curtly. Finally, a woman who seems to recognize you shows up, baby in her arms.

Since the Fourth of July shift was kind of insane, you barely had time to check on her. Now, up close, you can see her cheeks and big, round eyes that look at you with certain curiosity.

"Oh, there she is," you extend your arms as the social worker hands her to you. "Hi, sweet girI."

"I wanted us to meet, but you seemed busy at the funeral," the woman, Alexandra (as read on her name tag), says. "I'm sorry for your loss."

You smile tightly, focusing back on the baby.

"Thanks."

You craddle her in your arms, face close to your cheek like you'd done with infant patients in the past. By the way she gurgles and smiles instead of crying at the stranger holding her, you might be a natural.

"Oh, honey. It's so good to see you," you coo. "You're good now. With us. You're safe."

Maybe your sadness rubs on her. Maybe your coworkers were overly glazing you, because she starts crying.

"I know, I know," you hush, rocking her lightly. "You want UncIe Jack?" he raises an eyebrow at the newly earned title. "Here. There's UncIe Jack."

You pass him the baby despite his eyes that tell you not to. He sighs, accepting his fate to calm her down.

"Hey baby. It's okay, little Jane Doe. Don't... Don't cry. Please."

You snort. "You're really bad at baby talking."

"Do you see kids I could gain experience with?"

"No ER kids?"

She keeps crying. Jack rocks her slowly.

"Isn't that your only experience?"

You shrug, "I'm a natural."

"Then take her from me because I feel her crying get louder."

Watching Jack temperance Abbot with shaky, nervous mannerisms is certainly a view.

You take her back, sticking out your finger for her to hold. Her crying turns to small whimpers, until all that's left is wobbly lips.

"I shouId get her home."

He shakes his head. "I will. You're going to be late for your shift."

"No, I will. We will," you insist. "I used some of my pending vacation. You know, to settle down and have a few days to figure out shit."

Abbot gives you a certain look. "And you didn't bother to tell me?"

"I did. I texted you."

"I changed my number. Lost my phone during a raid."

"Great," you roll your eyes, "now someone in Pittsburgh knows I'm on vacation. Well, at least they know I'm free. Think they'll take me on a date?"

He scoffs. "Glad you still can joke."

"To see you scowl?" you laugh, "Anytime."

"Let's just go. I want to sort some things out before I start my shift."

"Aye, aye, captain," you butt in with sarcasm.

He doesn't say anything, guiding you out with a hand on your back that doesn't feel out of place.

"We need to estabIish a sIeep scheduIe. It's very important."

He mutters something.

"What did you say?"

Jack, who's entertaining the baby playing with a box of blocks you found packed in bags, assuming Robby recently bought it, looks at you when you question him.

"I said he didn't think this through."

"Of course not," you sigh, crossing your arms. "Did... Did Robby say anything to you before he left? He didn't teII me anything."

"Not at all."

You roll your eyes. "This is not the kind of thing you forget to mention."

''Hey," Jack reenacts, "I have a mother on Central 10 and had a code blue that's now upstairs in OR. Oh, by the way, if I die, I'm going to leave you with the kid I adopted today."

Despite your reluctance, a breathy laugh escapes you.

"It's messed up," he concludes.

"Tell me about it," you add. "A baby isn't... Some package you order from Amazon and receive when you're back home."

Abbot runs a hand through his face, a sign of distress. "Well, Robby wasn't a good pIanner."

"Sure he isn't if we are the plan."

He let's out an unguarded laugh, deep from his belly. It's impossible not to join in, with how carefree and light it sounds, despite the present situation.

"You wanna waIk me through it?" he asks after laughter dies down. "Are we supposed to Iive in this house together? Share the pIace, both sIeep-deprived? Sounds Iike a compeIIing psych experiment Dr. Jefferson would love to carry out."

"Ugh, Caleb," you scorn. "He's been texting me non-stop since Robby passed, asking if I need help. I don't know how much longer I can ignore him."

"But do you?" Jack questions, "Need help."

Your lips purse into a thin line.

"That's none of your concern."

"It is now that we live together. Who knows? Maybe you have a penchant for getting shot at."

You wince, remembering your own words. Still, you don't deter.

"Stick to your business, Abbot."

"Deflecting, classic Y/n. Alright then, let's talk about how we're not going to be able to pay for this pIace."

"Noelle said the mortgage is covered."

"Have you apologized to her?" you shoot him a murderous look that doesn't faze him. "I'll ask again, so you better do it. Anyway, what about the upkeep? Or the utiIities, the taxes? You have any idea how much money this is?"

"You're an attending and I have a decent salary while I finish my residency. Then, I'll get paid more."

"Sounds like a long term plan."

You scoff. "A kid is a long term plan, Jack."

"By then, she's probably no longer with us."

Your eyes darken. "Why wouldn't she?"

When he doesn't answer, you feel yourself getting angry.

Because suddenly, you see it on his face; in that obvious expression, in that slightly arrogant look that lets you know that, for him, the decision is already made.

"Oh my God. You still see this as temporary!"

"Isn't it?" Abbot raises his voice. "Don't tell me you seriously thought we'd raise her until eighteen?"

The feelings clash all over. Robby, you. The baby. It's unclear where you stand now.

"It's what Robby wanted!"

"But is it what you want?!" he retorts. "It doesn't matter if you're good with infant patients. They're not yours. When you're done, they go. Now, this baby," he points at her, looking engrossed in sucking her hand and throwing blocks on the carpet, "She isn't going if away if you choose her. If she cries, you soothe her. If she's hungry, you feed her. Sick? Take her to the doctor. Money, money and more money. Where are you left in the grand scheme of things?"

"You're so opposed to raising her. What's your problem?"

"Because babies are hard to raise. They're not a house plant you turn into compost if they die."

She begins to cry.

"Look! You scared her."

He scoffs. "She's not even one. She doesn't understand."

"She feels."

"You're ridiculous," he jabs.

"You're soulless. We can't leave her to fate!"

Jack looks exasperated, like he isn't paid enough to withstand this. Well, he isn't being payed at all.

"Just yesterday, you went as far as offending nurse Hastings because you refused to take her in, and now I'm the villain for continuing a conversation you brought up? What changed your mind, huh? Your savior complex or your inability to let go of Robby?"

That... That one hits low. But you refuse to let him see you cry. Never again, not since that day.

The baby cries louder, like she senses your emotions again.

"Okay, honey," you talk sweetly. "Hi, sweetie."

"Pick her up and calm her. I can't take a nap like this."

You roll your eyes, "No."

"I know you hate me, but this is low."

Oh, not the jab he threw in earlier and most likely won't apologize for. Got it.

"It's not personal. You can't pick her up, she has to learn how to self-soothe."

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"SeIf-soothe. You know, soothe herseIf! I just read it, Abbot. It's important, let's just give it a minute. Everything's okay," you reassure. "Happy, happy girI."

But she keeps crying. You wince at the piercing sound.

"You know what? Let's just sing a song. We'II sing a song."

"Sorry to break your heart, sweetheart," he chuckles, "but I'm not a singer."

You elbow him.

"Just follow my lead."

He sighs, defeated. "When I said I wanted to do karaoke this weekend, I didn't mean this."

You clear your throat and start with the first nursery rhyme that comes into your head.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round. Round and round..."

You look at Jack, who appears to be the most mortified he's ever been as he joins in.

"...Round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town..."

You continue until your brain forgets how it goes. Last time you sang this, you were still in preschool. While you pride yourself in your memory, it only goes that far.

"The- I don't know..." you trail off.

"And The Pitt save the bus, save the bus," Jack cringes, improvising the lyrics.

With wide eyes and a barely hidden smile, you rejoin.

"...Save the bus. And then The Pitt save the bus..."

"...And everyone lives." Jack claps his hands, startling you. "That's aII I got."

"Good improv skills, Dr. Abbot. Didn't know you had it in you."

"Thank you. But apparently, someone isn't that impressed."

He points to the still crying baby. At least, her loudness has tempered down to sobs.

"Okay. Maybe she's hungry," you pick her up. "Come on. Let's go eat, come on."

Jack scoffs. "I thought we weren't picking her up."

You ignore him, heading to the kitchen.

"Robby better have something edible in here," you mumble out loud.

You look into the cabinets, where an almost depleted box of protein bars lays abandoned. When you open the fridge, there's only a sad lonesome banana inside the fruit basket and cartons of probably spoiled milk. You don't even want to check the state of whatever is inside a container on the corner.

"Wow," Jack laughs behind you, "it's worse than I imagined."

You roll your eyes. "There's a banana."

As you try to reach for it, the baby continues wailing. Between trying to rock her and make something to eat with what little (or nothing) there is, your hands are too full to do both.

Jack, always aware, sighs.

"Give her to me."

"You said she was going to die," you eye him while hugging her closely.

"But I didn't say I was going to kill her," he extends his hands, "C'mon."

Fine. Five minutes or less in Jack Abbot's arms shouldn't be that bad.

You hand her over, "but I'm keeping an eye on you."

"Just prepare the damn banana."

You mumble some insults he doesn't get to hear (or pretends not to) under your breath, taking the banana out. You sniff; luckily, still edible.

You remember that shift Langdon wouldn't stop ranting at the breakroom. Well, truth to be told, it happened almost every day―the Golden Boy thought everything he had to say was important enough to share out loud. So he shared things he found on the Internet his little Penny, a six month old then, freshly out of breastfeeding, could eat. It's hard, he said, but I like to think I'm helping Abby handle the kitchen by myself. Back then you scoffed at him thinking he was some kind of savior for taking over cooking duties, but now, one or two things your memory's dusted off can come in handy.

You take out a bowl and start mashing the banana into a sort of puree. Jack watches with an attentive eye.

"Stop staring. It's rude."

"I'm impressed."

You can't read his tone, so you say. "I just smashed a banana."

"No, that you managed to make something out of Robby's shitty stock."

You can't help but laugh.

"I mean, I knew he had terrible eating habits, but it's logical, right? He wasn't going to be here for three months, so."

It feels weird to talk about Robby like this. Like an anecdote; a memory, rather than a person: one that had things to do, things to say. Things he'd never get to finish.

"Three months?" Abbot chuckles.

"His sabbatical," you answer, as if he didn't know.

"After adopting a baby? With a new attending he clearly disliked? Right. Sure thing," Jack replies, balancing the baby who now sniffles only. "If you think he'd last that long away, then you didn't know Robby."

It lands sharp. Maybe he meant it as a side comment instead of a remark, who knows?

It still fucking hurts.

How could you not know the man who took you in the first day, like seeing a good thing that deserved to be protected. That helped you study for your exams, lying about your whereabouts and turning off your pager so you could sneak into the alley behind the ambulance bay to review some things.

How could you not know the man who's eyes seemed to soften when speaking to you on the hallways, on the phone, on his couch. The one who told you things without saying them, things he'd probably never confess to anyone else out loud.

Because he knew you. And you knew him.

"Shut up," is all you say. Defensive, cutting.

You slam the bowl a little too hard on the counter.

"What did that poor bowl do to you?"

You decide to ignore him, and start looking around.

"You aren't going to feed her?"

You grant Abbot a look he doesn't deserve, but it's enough to notice his question doesn't come from annoyance but rather discomfort.

(The slight wince he hides but leaves his eye twitching. How he changes his weight to the left. The tired grunt that falls past his mouth after doing so. The slight limp and dip of his shoulder when he was tired of pretending.)

"Give her to me," before he can roll his eyes at your distrust, you add, "Is it your leg?"

He's surprised you remember, or maybe that you look concerned enough to care.

"Yeah. Just... Give me a minute."

He sits on the kitchen island's chairs. There are two, and he wonders if every time Robby saw it empty, he felt lonelier.

He hears you groan.

"I said a minute."

"No," you clarify, "Robby didn't buy a feeding chair."

He doesn't want to tell you it's quite obvious he wouldn't do it because you look stressed enough already. Then, an idea comes to his head. He tilts it slightly, in the kitchen island's direction.

"What? No. I am not sitting her in there."

He raises an eyebrow. "Would you rather put her in a chair and have her fall?"

You hate when Jack Abbot is right. You loathe the smug grin he wears when he realizes you give up.

"Just because there is no other choice."

As soon as touches the surface, she starts testing it with grabby hands, all previous signs of a tantrum vanishing in seconds.

"So no cool songs calm her but a foreign surface to touch."

"I'm sorry she didn't appreciate your songwriting skills," you grin.

He snorts, "You're not sorry at all."

The atmosphere turns lighter as you feed her with spoonfuls of the puree, some falling off her mouth. She looks adorable, and you feel your chest warm. For a moment, a rather silly thought crosses your head: you look like a family.

"What are you thinking on? Me?"

Oh, you'd rather die before admitting that out loud.

And by God, how much you hate when he acts this way. Flirty. Like saying and asking things like these is natural, by how effortless he makes it look. One time he said a healthy dosage of banter never hurt anyone, and in the ER, where death lurked every corner and exertion could drown a person, throwing in a pick up line could distract you from imminent burnout. So you know he doesn't mean it, but your brain forgets it and makes the tip of your ears burn, anyway.

"You think too much of yourself, Abbot. My head is filled with logistics."

"That would be her parents' problem," Jack replies in an instant.

You drop the spoon against the sink, the noise loud enough to cut.

"We are her parents," you answer between gritted teeth.

"Her guardians, and for now," he interjects. "Because, do teII me: you want to pursue a fellowship in UPMC, in Pedes. Where does she fit into your plans?"

It's a valid question, really. But right now, all you can think is how this baby needs you and how your heart sinks.

"I can't leave her, Jack. I won't," you pick her up. She buries her face in the crook of your neck. You hold her close, as if you can shield protect her from hurt. "I'm not giving up on her just because the rest of the world has. I refuse to abandon this baby like she's not worth at least trying. As long as I'm here, I'll never leave her alone."

There's a certain wetness over your eyes that has nothing to do with empathy. The crack in your voice speaks of a truth that's been years fraying around the edges of the mask you've carefully interwoven, each thread one secret unspoken you've told no other.

For a moment, he sees eyes full of fear; they are not the baby's.

He sighs, finding it's useless to keep on with this conversation for now. He'll find a way to make you reason, eventually.

"Do you honestIy think we're the best thing for her?"

"What I think," you whisper, voice gaining back that practiced strength. Fake it 'till you make it, "is we need to buy a feeding chair."

"Noted," he pretends to write a checklist in the air, "but what I really think we need to do, is give her an actual name. Fuckin' Robby... Couldn't take five damn seconds to think of one..."

"I thought I might find you here."

You like the stairs. They're silent, unlike the ones at high school: always full, the kissing couple here and the kids plotting mischief there. A couple joint smokers. Some guys who'd fallen asleep. But in The Pitt, no one has time for silly teenage dreams: if it's not because the elevator isn't working or it's full, the stairs descended or ascended―two by two, they're reserved for panic attacks. Not that frequent to be full, enough to be empty to be your place. If Robby and Abbot had the roof, you could take the stairs for yourself.

"Can you please tell me what was that back there?"

You run a hand through your face, chuckling tiredly.

"I've been told being R2 is a bitch. I think I underestimated it."

He can see the crack among your laugh. The little 'tsk' you do with when you've given up; to contain crying under sarcasm and witt.

He tilts his head, "That's not what I asked."

You look up. He wears that annoying smirk and stare that say he already knows you're lying yet will push you to spill the truth by yourself.

"What do you want me to do? Apologize? Say I'm sorry for yelling at that parent? That it was insensible?" you snort. "Because I won't."

He sighs tiredly, probably at your defiance. If it wasn't clear by now, you've proven to be quite the stubborn thing. To your surprise, his eyes glint with amusement.

"I knew you wouldn't," he confesses, sitting next to you. His joints creak and he groans at the effort, "I just want to know why."

"You're thinking too much about this. Shift caught up to you, chief?"

"I told you to stop calling me that, Robby's fine. And for your information, I'm perfect, which is why I can tell you're lying."

You scoff. "As if."

"You think I don't know my favorite resident well? She hides in the stairs when everything gets overwhelming. She also laughs a little too loud at Dr. Langdon's jokes and hides to study in the ambulance bay," you open your mouth to speak but he cuts you, "don't even try to lie about it."

A strange set of butterflies flutter in your chest at these things he's noticed. You're pretty sure your face heats.

"Someone's been paying attention."

He chuckles, a rare sight. "Someone's hard to ignore."

It's low, as if he only wants you to hear it―a gift. You feel the butterflies fly up your throat, choking you with feelings you can't name.

"Well, you aren't paying enough attention. Obviously Langdon and I are nothing but friends. Should I ask about you and Collins?"

He grins, crows feet in full display. "Woah, I see what you're doing. Don't worry, you're still my favorite resident."

"I hope you still remember that when she's in bed with you."

As soon as those words come out of your mouth, you hate them. Especially after his smile dims.

"Shit, I'm sorry, that was-"

He raises a hand to stop your incoming flurry of apologies, because you always rambled on when nervous.

"Abbot was right. You're pretty good at deflecting."

That leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

"I guess not that good if you can tell."

"I got carried a little bit by your game, so it works. And don't worry, me and Heather are nothing."

"You're on first name basis and want me to believe you're nothing?" you snort.

"I told you to call me Robby."

"Everyone does. It's not special," you pout your lips.

He shakes his head, hints of a laugh bubbling up his throat. "You're... something else."

"I hope that's a compliment, Mikey."

The laugh Robby let's out rattles you to the very marrow of your bones. It's a deep, grave sound that envelops you in velvet. It makes the creases on his face fade away, and for a moment, he's not Dr. Robinavitch, the man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders: he's just a simple man laughing over nonsense like he's allowed.

"Nope, that's not happening."

"Why not? It's cute."

"It's embarrassing," as if to double down on the statement, his ears turn pink at the tips, "and a disruption to the system I've already established. Stick to Robby, like everyone else."

"I thought favorite residents had privileges."

"And I thought they had trust enough to tell me when something's wrong."

You blink, taken back.

"Wow, that was... Good. You got me there."

He says your name softly.

"I mean it," he reassures. "You can tell me anything, like why you told parents you'd call CPS."

"It's protocol."

"I don't remember it being kicking them out of their child's room while threatening to do it."

You breath shakily like a weight suddenly landed on top of your lungs.

"It reminded me of things," you gesture vagely, "that I rather not remember."

He tries to coax it out of you, "I know you're an empath but-"

You cut in harshly, "This has nothing to do with empathy-"

"... I need you to follow protocol. It exists for a reason-"

"Fuck protocol, I don't care. I knew what was right."

"You knew? Oh, spare me that bullshit!" he barks, "you can't just gut feel your way through the ER. Do you know how expensive a hunch could cost?!" his voice raises. "This hospital's credibility, your licence, lives!"

"I don't want him to end up like me!"

It's like the air leaves the room, leaving behind no space to breath―just an uncomfortable tightness that makes the walls look closer than they are.

Robby waits a beat to ask. Whispered, as if you're a little animal he doesn't want to scare.

"Like you...?"

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Abandoned."

His eyes widen before softening.

"Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

You hug yourself tightly, like that'll keep your falling pieces in place.

Where would you even start?

Crying on the doorstep, left behind. The big flurry of families walking, never choosing to linger around. Holidays watching people walk by, happy and together, envy coursing as you sat by the window―alone. On the last names that didn't felt right.

Because your mother left when you still needed a hand to guide you through life. Because there was never a father around. Grandparents who in shame, walked out; the others probably never found out.

You were like a ghost, who hid in corners to not disturb the living. Whose eyes haunted with a grief so big for a small kid who only wanted to be loved. Who never made any friends, hallways at school whispering with pity. What a sad story.

Medical school was different. Even if you'd never left Pittsburgh, it wasn't like back at your town. Here, you could steer away from being the abandoned child to someone who could make a difference, someone who could help.

"My mother left when I was six. She had no family that I knew of, so I ended up in foster care. I grew up alone, like these kids, even if their parents are around. I know neglect, I've felt how it can fuck you up. I made it out, but not everyone can say that. I just...," your voice breaks, like you've rehearsed this speech in your head a thousand times but never faced the consequences of saying it out loud, "...I want them to know they're not alone. That not everyone has given up on them."

Every time you saw their scared eyes, you saw yourself. You wanted to help them like you wished someone did for you. Jack had called it naive, but it sounded demeaning.

Instead, Robby says:

"I was abandoned too, by my mother."

You whip your head so fast, you might have cracked your neck.

"Don't look at me like that, it's true," he laughs bitterly. "I was eight when she left. Grandparents raised me. So, I guess, I'm lucky in a way."

He sounded everything but grateful saying that, like a part of him still resented the outcome. His hands play with the necklace under his clothes, fidgety.

"Do you believe in something?" he asks, suddenly.

"In people," you answer. "Some will call it naive."

He doesn't ask who. Doesn't say it is. Just whispers your name in a way no one has done before: like it's fragile, but not out of weakness, rather than it's the most precious thing and he wants to take the best care of it.

"You have a good heart," it beats fast at his words. "And while I'm against disrespecting rules that exist for a reason, I can't ask you to stop feeling. Try to... Reason it. People like you? We need them around here. Because saving people gives hope, but when there seems no way out, it's in hands like yours to remind us why we're here in the first place."

Up close, you can see the freckles and bags under his eyes, the slight crook of his nose, the grey hairs scattered across the dark. His wrinkles, and those brown orbs that seem in equal parts brave, others scared.

"To help?" you ask, dumbly.

He laughs. "I hope my improvised speech gave it away, but yeah. To help. Now," he stands up, joints silently aching again, "let's go. You won't be able to help anyone if you hide in here."

He extends his hand your way, hopeful. You look at it with certain apprehension.

"C'mon, kid. Don't leave me hanging."

You look at him, at the sincerity he oozes. A part of you falters.

"Alright. Let's do this," he sighs. "I'll promise you something."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, heart loud and pounding inside your ears.

"As long as I'm here, I'll never leave your side," he speaks so certain, your face and eyes burn. "I know it sounds crazy, inappropriate or like a love confession," you roll your eyes. "It's none. Just, us fucked up kids have to stick together, right? To prove we can have someone look out for us too."

Your lips wobble, and the eyes of today's kid that came with a burnt and parents who had no idea how it happened or where even there flashes in your head. Look at me, they said, I'm still your kid. Care for me. Love me.

"You want to love everyone, but you deserve to be loved too."

You don't realize you're crying until his own eyes shine too.

"It's too early to be crying, don't you think?" he laughs, blinking fast. Swallowing it down. Just like that, the vulnerability fades, and in front of you stands Dr. Robinavitch, the ER attending. Long gone is the man who almost shared a tear but didn't let himself do it, the one who promised to stay when many had chosen to leave.

He might as well never existed.

But when the hand reaches out again, the will of the promise sparks on his fingertips that reach to pull you out.

You want to love everyone, but you deserve to be loved too.

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweater before taking his hand in yours. It's warm, calloused from years of holding pens and patient's hands before they die.

"There we go. Better?"

You shrug, "Trying to get there."

"That's a good start." Robby looks like he's going to open the door, but stops himself. "Just so you know, I meant it before."

It's not quite a smile, but your mouth curves.

"I know."

"And there's also nothing going on between me and Collins, at least not anymore."

You bite back a smile at the change of topic and the importance he gives it, like you'll think less of him for whoring around the ER.

"Thanks for your confession. Perlah and Princess owe me some money now."

"Glad to be of help. Anything else?"

"Drop the subject. I told you it's fine, why do you keep insisting?"

"I don't know," but his eyes tell a different story. "See you out there?"

"Just give me a minute to gather myself."

He chuckles. "Alright, just don't keep me waiting."

And when Michael Robinavitch exits through the door, it's like a new world has opened in front of your eyes.