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You…started calling him out more. For the hours and the absence and for the way he could be right there and still feel a thousand miles away. And Jack, who had spent most of his life learning how to stay calm under pressure, tried to be patient. Tried to love you through the sharpness, just like you’d loved him through his, even if he didn’t understand where yours was coming from.

He tried and tried and tried until…the invisible string between you snapped in pieces he couldn’t tie back together. 

Time passed, and none of you survived the war you’d started in your own home. So you left. Sent out divorce papers that you never signed. You didn’t understand why back then, but now…you kind of do. 

You take a deep breath as the ambulance bay doors slide open in front of you. People who take this entrance are usually bleeding, or screaming, or being rolled in on a stretcher, but you walk in with your head high and a pep on your step. Cashmere coat on, boots clicking the floor, a purse perched on your shoulder.  

Seeing the ED after all these years hits you like a deja vu. From bringing Jack something he forgot in the middle of the night, to showing up at the ass crack of dawn still half asleep but smiling, waiting for him to finish charting so you could eat something together. Your memories are a little fuzzy these days, but there was a time where you knew this place almost as well as he did. 

You reach the nurse’s station with a small smile on your face, only for it to widen when the face behind is not the one you expected.

“Well, what do we have here?” You say, coming to stop in front of her. 

Dana looks up from the papers she’s holding, and her eyes go wide for a second. The look of surprise gets quickly replaced by one of her signature smirks, placing one hand on her hip. 

“Well, I could ask the same damn thing, darling,” she says, amused. 

That makes you laugh, and Dana’s face lightens up. Because despite everything, despite the years, despite the absence, you always had a soft spot for each other. 

“I thought Lena was on the night shift,” you tease. Dana sets the papers down and huffs, looking at you through her glasses. 

“Please. It’s not weird to see me covering someone for the right price,” she says, not being subtle about looking up and down at you. “Now what is strange as hell, is seeing you walk in here after all this time.”

“Why? I’m just here to see my hubby,” you say casually. “Is it a quiet night, or do I have to wait like the good old days?” You ask, feigning innocence with a single shoulder shrug. 

“Oh, don’t you start! don’t you jinx my shift like that,” she says, almost offended, making you laugh harder. She narrows her eyes at you playfully, shaking her head. “You evil, evil woman.”

“So I’ve been told,” you snicker, checking something on your nails. “It’s good to see you, Dana,” you add after a moment, and she pretends not to notice the way you pick on the skin of your thumb. 

“You too, hun,” she says fondly, trying to search for your eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you to my ED or do I have to waterboard it out of you?” 

Before you can think of a way to evade the question, you hear a voice behind you that makes everything inside you stop. 

“Let me know when the labs are back, Mateo.”

You turn to the source, and for a moment you can’t control the look on your face when your eyes land on him. Jack Abbot is walking out of Trauma Two with a nurse, too focused on pulling off his gloves to realize you’re standing frozen by the nurse’s station. You clear your throat and straighten up quickly, putting on that nonchalance mask back on again as Dana just smiles to herself. 

Jack’s head finally snaps up and his mouth opens, probably ready to tell something to Dana, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees you there. He doesn't have a good time controlling his emotions either. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing right, and that you’re not a cruel product of his imagination. It’s too early in the shift for that. 

But you’re there. You are there. Wait–you’re there? 

The confusion quickly gets replaced by anger. It’s been a long time. Three years of nothing, and this is how you show up? Looking polished, composed, infuriatingly beautiful, like you didn’t leave a hole in his chest he was never able to stitch back together. 

“Are you lost?” The words coming out his mouth are sharper than he expected, but the coldness is familiar to you. 

“Jack,” you say, forcing a plastic smile and tilting your head. “Is that the way to greet your wife?” 

“My wife…” Jack mutters with an incredulous laugh.

He looks at Dana all scandalized, offended. She just shrugs unimpressed, not interested in getting involved in whatever messy drama is about to unfold. 

She will totally watch, though.

“If you’re here to tell me you finally signed the papers, then you wasted a whole trip. You could've just mailed them,” he says sharply, too blinded to notice the way your smile faltered at that. 

“I’m not here for that,” you say, holding tighter to the bag on your shoulder. “There’s-”

“You know you’re not supposed to walk in through the ambulance bay unless you’re dying,” he continues, before giving you a head to toe assessing look that ends with a bitter huff. “And by the looks of it, seems like the devil has taken care of his own.” 

You chuckle, because it’s the only thing you can do at this point. Because if anyone in the world has earned the right to call you a devil, it’s Jack.

For the last year of your marriage. For every sharp word, every time you didn’t want to listen, every fight that left him standing there wondering when loving each other had become something exhausting instead of home. For the way you ended things. For how you walked away and never came back.

“Dr.Abbot?” A male voice coming from the trauma room breaks the tense moment between you. 

You look at the doctor, one you remember seeing last as a first year resident, trailing behind your husband with a notepad and an iced coffee in hand. You can’t recall his name, but he looks like he got his attending position after all.

Jack turns to him, “I’ll be there in a second, Shen,” he says gently, then back to you, more impatient, “I’m busy. So if you’re done making your little grand entrance, you can leave the same way you came in. You seem to be pretty good at it.”

The way he talks to you shouldn't hurt this much. You deserve it, for how unkind you were with him in the first place. For how badly you hurt him. For how you ran his endless patience thin. Now, in hindsight, there are many things you wish were different. 

But wishing won’t make the medical records in your purse change. And even though you’ve earned every blow he throws at you, you still square your shoulders. Shrug it off like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't matter. 

“I’m not leaving until I speak to you…privately,” you say, turning back to Dana with a smile. “Break room’s still the same way, right?”

“Down the hall to the left, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.

You blow her a playful kiss as gratitude, one she pretends to dodge, rolling her eyes playfully as she walks away to continue with her duties. You round the nurse’s station, and walk straight past Jack, close enough that the heavy fabric of your coat almost brushes his arm, but it’s your scent that hits him like a punch to the stomach. 

Your perfume. The perfume. The one you wore to all your dates, the one you married him with, and the one he had to scrub off his clothes like a toxic chemical when he talked himself into getting you out of his head after you left. 

Dammit. 

He sees you stroll to the break room with that sway of your hips that used to keep him up at night, trying to gather the courage to invite you out when you first met. Fucking dammit. You ruined his life. You keep doing it. 

“Dr. Abbot!” Shen calls again, a little sharper even for him. 

Jack sighs deeply, turning defeated to the trauma room, as the same question pounds his head over and over again. 

What on earth could you possibly want?

The second you shut the door of the break room and you’re alone again, your shoulders sag and the mask slips right off. The exhaustion in your bones makes you take a seat as soon as you see it, placing your bag on the chair next to you and pulling out the black folder you’ve been carrying around for months. You place it on the table, and look away as if that would change the contents of it. 

Your eyes meet your reflection on the microwave sitting on the counter, and you can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. You did well making yourself look like the ex wife who’s thriving and has her life together.

What a joke. 

You slump back into your chair, and wait. 

Jack makes you wait a long time. You figure it’s his petty way of getting back at you somehow, or maybe he’s just trying to ease off his anger before he walks in. But hey, at least you were able to reassemble yourself. By the time he walks in, you’re sitting at the table with your legs crossed neatly, coat still on, folder placed in front of you. Composed enough to make him think that this is still some kind of performance.

You hate that your brain keeps telling you to push more. To make him snap. The string has been broken for a while. Why do you still feel the need to pull? 

Jack doesn’t sit, even if his leg would thank him for it, he just stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you impatiently. 

“What, you’re not joining me?” You tease, pushing open the chair across from you with your boot. 

“I’m not staying long,” he says flatly, ignoring the seat. “So whatever this is, start talking.”

You hum in feign amusement, leaning back a little. “Why? Seems like a quiet night for me.”

Jack closes his eyes, shaking his head, thinking about every single self regulation method his therapist had taught him. Five things you can see, four things you can–

“Relax,” you say.

Wow. How didn’t he think of that? Could've saved him thousands in therapy.

He realizes the only way to get this over with, is getting it over with. So he opens his eyes, and this time they land straight on the folder in front of you. Whatever restraint he was trying to hold on to, spills out in a humorless laugh.

“What is that?” He nods to it, “A list of what you want to keep?”

“Jack, that’s not–”

“I already told my lawyer you can keep everything,” he says anyways, letting the words spill, because he’s been bleeding over this for years and he’s sure as hell not stopping now. “The house. The cars. Even the goddamn bedsheets. You can keep it all, I don’t want any of it,” he says calmly, like he isn't still losing sleep over it every day. “I moved out a while ago anyway, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

It gets harder to keep your resolve, especially with the sharp pain throbbing in your head. But of course he doesn’t want it. Why would he want the remnants of a home you poisoned? A marriage you turned sharp and miserable and impossible to hold together?

A lump forms in the back of your throat, but you swallow it down like every bad news you’ve heard over the course of the last months. 

“It’s not about the divorce, I already told you that,” you say quietly. 

Jack just stares at you, exasperated. Every second you’re in front of him burns his insides. Every second you share the same oxygen he can’t breathe. Every second of your presence is just a reminder of the greatest thing he’s fucked up in his life.

You just pick up the folder and hold it out to him. He hesitates at first, but you have no bitchy remarks left on you. The faster you get it over with, the faster it will all be over, so you shake it for him to take it, until he finally does. 

Your gaze stays on him as he flips through the papers inside; lab results, endless consult notes, imaging reports. The annoyance doesn’t disappear right away, but his salt and pepper brows furrow together as his brain catches up with what he’s reading. He digs for the actual CT, and comes across a series of images that back up everything the reports say. 

He instinctively steps closer to the chair, eyes still fixed on the papers, sitting down mindlessly as he spreads everything on the table. The only thing he can focus on is your name printed on every paper. Abbot here, Abbot there. When he finally looks up at you, all the color has drained from his face. 

“What is this?” He asks. Because what the fuck kind of bad joke is this. 

“Well,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest, “you did say I shouldn’t walk in through the ambulance bay if I wasn’t dying.”

“This isn’t funny,” he says, frustrated. God, you forgot how intense his eye contact was. “What is this? How–when did this happen?”

You play with your fingers on your lap, and sigh, “Ten months ago, I…I had a seizure at work,” you say softly, forcing yourself to keep going. “They did the scans, and it–it didn’t take long to find it.”

It. 

Jack stares at it on the CT, then his eyes drift to the reports. Mass. Tumor. Inoperable. Terms that have always been technical to him, medical, now seem like the cruelest words ever written by man. 

“I’ve seen a couple of neurosurgeons,” you continue, “and they all came to the same conclusion–”

“No.” 

“Jack, they said they can’t take it out–”

“No,” he cuts you off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not–I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to agree,” you don’t raise your voice, just smile sadly. It’s something you’ve been telling yourself over and over. “Guess the devil doesn’t look after their own in the end.”

“Stop, don’t…” Jack sighs, dropping the papers just to run his hands roughly across his face. “I didn’t mean that–fuck. I didn’t mean any of that–” 

You haven’t even gotten through the worst of it, and you’re already exhausted. God, these timebombs suck your energy right off. You reach for the water bottle on your purse, and drink away the premature grief building in your throat. 

Jack watches you carefully, and for the first time since he saw you again, he allows himself to see past the veil of hate he’d tried to see you through. He sees the crack in your smile, the shadows under your eyes, the real strain and exhaustion you can’t quite dress up with a fancy coat.

He sees he wasn’t there to hold you through it. 

“Why didn't you call me?” He asks, and you fear it’s the most devastated you’ve ever heard him.

You sigh, and set the bottle down. Because how do you even explain that? What even was it? Pride? Shame? Guilt? Love?

Fear.

How do you tell the man you wrecked that you did think of him first? That even after years apart, even after every awful thing, he was the first person you needed when the ground fell out from under your feet? 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit.

I was scared. 

“Bother me?” 

“After everything that happened, I thought…I thought I should solve it on my own,” you shrug.

I didn’t think I deserved your help.

“You didn’t think that your husband, a doctor, would want to ‘solve it’??” he snaps. Offended, yes. Furious, yes. But underneath all of it…it’s the hurt that speaks. 

“You’re not a neurosurgeon,” you laugh bitterly, more defensive than you want to. “Your opinion is not gonna change–”

“It’s not just my opinion!” He says, standing up because his frustration is going to make him burst if he stays still. “It’s–it’s me being there. You went through all of this alone.”

The only sounds in the room are both your heavy breaths. You keep your rigid posture, even if every part inside of you is breaking. Jack runs his hand through his curls, once, twice, then tugs a little on the third time.

“Jack…” you call out softly, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze darts to other five things he can see, hands on his hips as he grounds himself. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here for you to solve it…there’s just something I wanted to talk about.”

He finishes his little exercise and looks at you again, bracing himself for an impact he’s not sure if he can take. You know he can’t. So you take another deep breath before speaking.

“The doctors said the tumor is in an area that affects behavior. Like my moods and personality. They said it may have been growing for years.”

There’s a tremble in Jack’s lower lip that makes you hesitate, you know he already knows what it means, yet you keep going. 

“They think it might explain why I was so…particular these last few years,” you let out a broken little laugh, shaking your head quickly to try to fight the tears prickling your eyes. “I know it’s not an excuse, maybe it wasn’t that,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks angrily. “Maybe I was just a bitch.”

“Hey–no, honey, don’t say that,” he says, the endearment falling out of his lips so naturally. 

Jack doesn’t think twice to step closer and drop to one knee in front of you, groaning at this prosthetic but still reaching for your hands on your lap. You try to retreat back so fast your chair screeches against the floor, but he doesn’t let you pull back, instead he interlocks his fingers with yours, almost hissing at how cold you are. 

You shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks now. “Don’t–don’t speak to me like that, you can still be mad at me,” you sob, but he keeps his warm grip firm. “You have every right to be, I was so mean to you, Jack. I snapped at you for everything. I made you feel like you were always doing something wrong. I turned our house into somewhere awful and I knew you were trying, and I kept pushing anyway.” 

He has tears in his eyes now too, but he lets you get it out of your system. Lets the years of regret spill out of you all at once, god knows his therapist has heard him many times. 

“Jack you’d come home exhausted and I’d always find something else to pick apart. Something else to be angry about. And you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore, and I hated it because I thought you were wrong. Even then. I knew I was hurting you and I kept doing it. I made you carry all of it. So maybe now I deserve to carry all of this alone.” 

There it is. Jack breaks completely at your confession. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, catching the tears that won’t stop coming. 

“Sweetheart…you should’ve called me,” he says again, but he’s not angry this time. He’s grieving. “You should’ve called me.”

“I know.” 

“You should not have done this by yourself.”

“I know,” you cry out, he just keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb. “My–my memory is not the best now and I just…I needed to tell you I was sorry while I still could.”

You try to smile through the tears, you really do, but he looks so frightened. So wrecked. Your hands fly to his wrists now, clinging instead of pulling away. 

“I’m scared, Jack,” you confess. 

He remembers you saying that on a holiday when he hauled you up deep into the sea, just so he could hold you in his arms. He remembers you saying that when he put on a horror movie just so you could hide behind his biceps. He remembers you saying that before trying a new dish at your favorite diner instead of the usual you ordered. 

All those times were said with a laugh, or a cheeky smile. But this? This is pure, unadulterated fear. He is scared. He’s terrified. So he does what he always did best: hold you. 

He lifts himself up just enough to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself go instinctively, realizing how much you’ve needed this the past few months. He holds you so tight, so desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. You bury your face in his neck and sob. You feel the way Jack shifts, pressing his lips to your hair while he whispers sweet nothings. 

“I’m here. I’m here, honey. I got you.”

“I don’t–”

“Don’t tell me what you deserve right now.”

That makes you cry harder. He rocks you a few times, just like he used to on the worst nights. Just like he always vowed to. 

“I loved you through all of it,” he confesses. “Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you hated me. I never stopped. I never stopped.”

“I’m so sorry,” you sniffle. 

“I know, honey, I know.”

“I loved you the whole time too, I swear,” you keep going. “That’s why–that’s why I never signed the papers. My heart didn’t want to let you go. It never did.” 

“It’s okay–“

“No it’s not.”

“But it is,” he insists. Firm and honest. “You were sick, and I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something–“

“No. Don’t blame yourself for this too,” pulling yourself apart from him enough to look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “Leave the regretting to me.” 

“Sweetheart–“

“Jack.” You narrow your eyes at him, and it brings him back to all those times you won even the most pointless of arguments with just one look. 

He huffs a teary laugh, dropping his head in defeat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay,” he says, lifting his head again. There’s a new spark in his eye trying to make its way past the previous devastation. “Then you leave the rest to me.” 

You look at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he just pushes a strand of hair from your face. 

“I’m getting you admitted here,” he says, you immediately tense, but he speaks before you can refuse. “No, listen to me. We have some of the best neurosurgeons in the country connected to this hospital. I am going to pull every string I have, call in every favor I can, and get every set of eyes possible on this.”

“I can’t do this again,” you shake your head. 

“Yes, you can.”

“I’ve already seen so many people, Jack. I’ve heard it all. I’ve made peace with it.”

“No you haven’t, and that’s okay. You came here because some part of you knew I would never let this go. So don’t ask me to. It’s offensive, honey.”

Well shit. Seems like your husband of years seems to actually know you better than you know yourself. 

“I’ve accepted it, Jack. Memento mori.” 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

He grins. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”

You look at him confused, but he just sighs. 

“I told you I moved out…but I didn’t,” he admits. “I still live in the house I built for you. I still sleep in our bed, on my side of course, cause I know you never liked the way I dipped your side of the mattress,” he laughs at the memory, making you smile. “Your books are still on the nightstand. I never moved them.” 

You imagine all the things he never brought himself to move. The way time stopped running in a house that was once filled with laughter and love. So much love. Jack just does a helpless shrug. 

“You left…but you never really left me.”

Yeah. That’ll do it. You’re crying again before you even realize it. Your hands go to cover your face, but he intercepts them midway. 

“No, no, honey. No more hiding from me,” he says, so softly it doesn’t exactly help your situation. “We’re in this together now.” 

You nod, his thumbs reach out to dry your tears. 

“I know I’m not the type of surgeon you need. I know I can’t fix this with my own hands. But I’m still a doctor,” he explains softly. “And most importantly…I’m still your husband. So I will be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to figure this out. We are going to try. Oh honey we are going to ask questions. We are going to make the smartest people in every room look at this until they are sick of seeing my face.”

That makes you laugh. He delights at the sound. 

“Jack…”

“I know you’re tired, my love,” he continues, his voice turning even softer. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been carrying this by yourself for too long and the idea of starting over with new doctors makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you do not get to give up before I even get a chance to fight for you.”

The weight in your chest that has been dragging you down lately eases, if only a little, letting you breathe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this would’ve been easier if he’d known from the start. Maybe it can be easier now. Even if he can’t solve it…you’ll let him try. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he nods. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. We’ll start here, and if it doesn’t work there’s always New York, I can cash a few favors in Washington too–“

“But your job–“

“Can wait,” he states without hesitation. “Sweetheart, I've been here for a long time, and I’m going to use that to my advantage. Maybe it’s time for my sabbatical, yeah? That way I can take you everywhere you need to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“…a sabbatical.”

“Robby took one,” he shrugs. “Three months away and it didn’t kill him. I’m willing to take whatever time they allow me.”

“What about SWAT duty?” You push. He lets out a chuckle. 

“I know you might miss the uniform–“

You slap his arm weakly. 

“Alright, alright,” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Just–don’t worry about it, okay? I meant it when I said I got you, honey.”

You sigh, but it’s more out of relief than anything. How you needed to hear those words. How you needed him. 

“And in the meantime, you can tell me your favorite memories of us…so I can keep them safe for you while we figure this out.”

Jesus Christ. How could you have ever walked away from this man? At this point you’re gonna have to sign the papers just to marry him again. 

“Jack…”

“Come on, from the hip, give me one,” he says playfully, and you know he’s not letting this go. 

You tap your chin and glance away, pretending to think. Your eyes light up when a very specific memory pops into your head. 

“I remember our naked yoga sessions very fondly,” you say, completely serious, but it manages to get a genuine surprised laugh from him. 

“Of course you do,” he laughs, throwing his head back at the memory. He still does it, at sunrise when he’s not working, with your mat still next to his. “You always ended up bouncing on me.”

“Jack!!” You say, heat creeping up your face in a way it hasn’t in a long time. 

You both laugh about it for a moment, then fall into a quiet that could never be described as awkward. Not between you. Not anymore. 

“I missed this,” he says quietly, those intense hazel eyes piercing into yours. You loved those eyes. You still do. “I missed you.”

You smile sadly, cupping his face with your hands. “You missed nice me.”

“I missed my wife.”

Your heart skips a beat at that. So many years he’d called you that, until you threw it all away. Or, well, the thing in your head did? Whatever. It is what it is. 

Your eyes travel all over his face. Damp lashes, tension in his jaw even if he tries to hide it with a cheeky grin, all the wrinkles time has carved into him while you were apart. 

“I missed my husband,” you finally say, just as soft. 

He smiles at that. You loved that smile, you still do. 

“Then let me take care of you, honey.” 

We can plant a memory garden

Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

And we will never go back to that bloodshed

Part 2 - Morning Glory.

Dana approaches you somewhere in the hour of 12PM. She looks at you over the rim of her glasses, all blonde strands of hair and each wrinkle in her forehead lined with concern for someone, more or less, adjacent to you. It makes you sink in your seat. You had been residing at the main workstation with three of the residents painfully assorting patient files since the CEO in his Fourth of July garb had made the announcement of preemptively shutting off all computer systems; leaving the ED without electronic health records, connected charting etc. 

(You know, all the stuff that makes the department chug on like a semi-well-oiled machine.) 

Being somewhat of a specialist in the art of expressions and the silence that comes with it, you were able to conclude that Dana Evans—the guardian of the PTMC—was not approaching you for a long-overdue chinwag. 

Quite the opposite, actually. 

“You need to talk to him.” Dana commands in her usual gravel tone. 

It makes you nervously scratch at your brow-bone. “I know. I’m getting round to it. Just after—” 

“Now.” Dana interjects. She leans her whole body into the workstation, her voice drops down to barely a whisper, “He’s acting up. Being a real Fourth of July spectacle. All this before he hops on that godforsaken motorcycle for three months. You’ve got the most Robby jargon out of all of us. Put it to use.” 

You let out a deep exhale. “Fine.”

You stand at full height and Dana gives you a half smile that was a tamer version of amusement.

Things were not fine. In fact, things were so far out of the ballpark of fine, that you would never put Robby and the definition of ‘fine’, or ‘okay’ or, overall just ‘good’ in one sentence. He was a man on the precipice of a life-altering decision that those around him would suffer the consequences that he had made; much longer after his three-month sabbatical on the road came to a screeching halt. 

The signs had been there. Ever since you had begun at the PTMC as a fresh-faced attending with a basket full of naivety. It just took a couple of years for the signs to start catching up to you. And by then, your efforts to salvage the good pieces of Michael Robinavitch, had fallen through the cracks of a prepaid tombstone. 

For the most part, colleagues would acknowledge the mental health problems that trickle down from behavioural changes from their peers, and then they’d be able to go home without the additional weight of it upon their shoulders. No skin off of their noses if they weren’t the ones paying for the extensive therapy sessions. 

However, for you, that wasn’t the case. Since—

“He’s your husband.” Dana calls after you. 

You throw a hand up in retaliation, the sizeable rock on your ring finger catching the hazy overhead light. “Thank you, Dana.” 

The reminder wasn’t needed. Everyone—including the one who married him—was well aware that Dr. Michael Robinavtich had managed to be tied down. Motorcycle and all.

You had fallen in love prior to the catastrophic events from COVID, that had been the pipeline to Robby's mental health downfall. It had been exhilarating, and sometimes still was, at the beginning of the inner workings of a relationship that was blossoming beneath Gloria Underwood’s watchful eye. All the sneaking around, keycards slid beneath clipboards, kissing on company time. The pair of you felt like giddy teenagers copping a feel. 

He proposed to you within two years. Now, you were waltzing around the PTMC with a double barrel surname that was seemingly quite the tongue twister for those who took the time to read it. (This including Dennis Whitaker who went beet red when you had corrected his feeble attempt of reciting it back to you.) 

You peer into Pedes to find him as predicted—coddling Baby Jane Doe.

Robby’s head turns as you speak, “Hi,” you tilt your head and smile softly at the infant lazily dozing on your husband’s shoulder. “How is she doing?” 

“Oh, just lonely.” he lilts. 

You nod, smoothing a finger back and forth against her cheek, “She likes you.” 

“Well…she’d be the only one.” Robby mumbles as he places the infant back into the hospital cot. You smother the growing frown on your face when he straightens to full height. “You need me for something?” he asks quietly. 

I need you to come back to me. 

You settle for, “Just making sure you’re okay. You know—After how we left things this morning.” you say, deciding to take the brunt of whatever force you may be hit with—taking Dana out of the collateral damage. 

Things had been left on a sour note in the apartment you both shared in the downtown area of Pittsburgh. The looming presence of Robby’s three-month sabbatical with his cognitive well-being balancing on the line of a fraying thread had made quite the topic of conversation over his black coffee and your nourishing choice of breakfast. Therapy was always at the centre of your tedious endeavours to ensure Robby came back to you in one piece during the early hours before work; and getting him to listen was no easy feat. 

Your last ditch attempt to undertake your husband’s reluctance to get help was thrown back at you beneath venom and animosity. It had almost given you whiplash. Robby escaped the confines of the apartment with a slam of the door after insisting that if you put more of your efforts into ‘minding your own business’, you’d be able to resolve whatever unearthed issues you had rolling about in your mind—such as your unrelenting desire to help those who don’t want it. 

The motorcycle ride without the helmet must’ve given his head a good shake, because when you entered the sliding doors of the PTMC; Robby began loitering around you enough to make it obvious he felt a little guilty on how he had left things.

(Never go to bed angry. Never hop on a death trap after searing your wife with the hot iron rod of your pent up anger. Or, something like that.)

Robby takes a deep inhale, there’s a sort of playful glint in his eye as he speaks, “You know, when you continue to ask someone if they’re okay, it starts to get a little repetitive.” 

“Marriage is repetition.” you don’t miss a beat, the lightheartedness that swoops the conversation feels a little foreign; considering the circumstances. “Sue me for taking my vows seriously.” 

“Hm.” Robby hums, the blue latex gloves snapping off his hands, “Is this a welfare check?” 

He shrouds your personal space for a moment. Not enough to seem intentional, but you knew his actions were the end result of your magnetic presence—hence why he married you. You watch him cock his head in a roguishly handsome way, crows feet beside brown eyes exposed when he scrunches on eye shut. Michael Robinavitch was many things; but dense was not one.

His flirtations were consciously placed. 

The room fills with the bustle from the central area of the ED when Robby pushes the door open, wedging it open with one foot to allow you to depart from Pedes. He looks down the slope of his nose at you, a faint smile catches at the corner of his lips when you size him up in passing. 

“Are you open to one?” you bump your elbow into the softness of his stomach, habitually holding your hand beneath the sanitiser. It takes all your efforts to not look up at him. 

You begin to walk together. 

“Uh…nope.” 

His answer takes a subtle jab at your heart. “Then consider it as me just being nosy about how you’re feeling.” 

“That—” Robby halts you both, his fingers ghosting your elbow to allow a gurney to roll past. His eyes follow it as he continues, “—Is just a less fancier way of dressing this up as a welfare check. Have you seen Dana?” 

She’s the one that sent me, is what you want to say. 

“She’s talking with Emma.” you reply nonchalantly, “Robby, can you just…talk to me? Please? You’re deflecting.” 

“No, I’m running an Emergency Department.” Robby retorts, placing a hand on your back to keep you with him as he wades through the chaos of going analog. His eyes flit to you for a second and he softens at the melancholy you carry in your expression. “Sweetheart, I’m fine and sort of in the middle of something. Pin this conversation for later, okay?” 

“Sure.” you murmur when he walks away. Dana takes up the rear-end of the conversation, slotting herself shoulder to shoulder with you—an iPad balancing in the crook of her elbow. You don’t look at her when you say, “That went well.” 

“Plenty of time, honey.” Dana grits, patting your back, “You’ll get through to him. As for now, I’ve got a case in South 15. Right up your alley. Lookin’ real pretty for a distraction, hm? Come on.” 

Robby is distracted when he returns to the central hub. The patient chart is a mere prop in his hands. The information untouched by his plethora of clinical knowledge, because all he can hear is you laughing at something that the handsome Radiologist—Dr. Barker—has said. It hadn’t bothered him when his staff members, Princess and Javadi, had been stood gawping at the man from afar. Was it a little inconvenient considering the circumstances the ED were squashed under? Yes.

Until it became a hinderance to their performance; it wasn’t his problem. 

As for you…it was different. 

There was no overt behaviour that would lead anyone to believe that you were doing anything but being friendly until the wet reads came through for your patient in South 15. At an arms length from the guy, but still conversing in a way that shows off two of Robby’s favourite things about you: your genuine toothy-grin and the nose scrunch do when you find something funny. 

When Dana throws him a look in passing, he reverts back to the patient chart. Then your laughter carries across the room a minute after, and Robby decides that’s enough time spent with the pretty boy from upstairs that has set up camp in the middle of the ED.

He idles up next to you with all the curiosity of a Chief Attending and not a husband that reeks of jealous intrigue. 

(Professional before personal. The walls of the PTMC were a shield to the outside noise.) 

“Dr. Robby.” Barker greets. 

You turn your head to see Robby practically flush with your back. “Oh—Hi.”

“Dr. Barker.” Robby glances at you from his peripheral and chooses to ignore the mild perplexity that sits in the crease between your brows. His hands clutch his elbows when he crosses his arms across his chest, head tilting at the Radiologist. “How long on this patient’s imaging?” 

“Another fifteen minutes. Tops.” Barker answers after checking the process. 

“Then I assume you can circle back on the jokes in fifteen minutes.” your head whips to glare at the Chief Attending-gone-rogue on being tactful around his professional peers, “Catalogue of patients on that whiteboard. They won’t treat themselves.” he chides. 

You give Dr. Barker an apologetic look and walk by Robby who follows like a dog on a leash. Once the Radiologist is out of ear shot, you speak freely, “Are you seriously time-keeping my conversations?” 

“No.” Robby drawls, “Just making sure one of my best Attending still has her head in the game.” 

“That’s rich.” you scoff with minimal malice, “Dr. Barker is a good guy. The way you spoke to him back there—” 

Robby interjects. “Ho-ho, sounds like you like him.”

“I do.”

“More than me?” he angles his body into yours to make room for an oncoming nurse. (He doesn’t miss the small but wicked smile on your face.) 

You mull it over when you reach the board. “Only time will tell. You’re still on probation from your morning tantrum.” 

Robby lets out a rare cackle that spreads the amusement across his weathered features and you beam up at the sight of his crows feet making an appearance under the circumstances of lighthearted humour. The palm of his hand rubs the span of your back as you stare at the whiteboard, making it a sight to behold for the forthcoming med students. 

“I—Uh,” Robby starts, removing his glasses and scratching the skin behind his ear, “I want to apologise for how this morning went.” 

“Mhm.” you only look at him when you feel his eyes bore into your side-profile, “I forgive you. Doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be mad at you, Robinavitch.” you remark setting the base layer tone as nothing short of sarcastic. 

Robby inhales and speaks on the exhale, his voice only just audible to you, “Would…a five minute break in an on-call room make up for any of it?” 

He looks hopeful.

You pray he shares the same sentiment on his three-month sabbatical. Unlikely, but negativity didn’t pay the bills. 

The insinuation is clearer than glass. On-call rooms were meant for a sole purpose of providing the staff at the PTMC a safe space to rest in privacy. It required a keycard to gain access to. 

It was also the same space that Robby and you took advantage of for displays of affection that were crossing the boundaries classified in the Human Resources pamphlet you were both given on how to navigate an appropriate workplace relationship; and the power imbalances that could come with it. 

Gloria Underwood would turn in her ivory white tower if she knew what the pair of you got up to behind that particular closed door on the company dime. 

Robby’s offer was tempting. His handsome face and optimistic eyes were even more. 

“I’m happy where I am.” you advise him, without sounding too pained at the sacrifice. 

Robby surrenders. “Happy wife, happy life.” he states with his hands up, then deciding to give Ogilvie and Joy a show by pulling you in by your shoulder and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. It was the least he could do, if the on-call room was off the menu. “Shout if you need me.” 

“Shout.” you whisper when he trails off, leaving you with the ambient hospital noises. (And, Joy and Ogilvie.) You point at them, “You two. With me.” 

Eventually you return to the middle of the Pitt, swiping two patients off of the white board with two fingers—too lazy to find the eraser. You weren’t sure what part had soured your mood. Either from the med-student Ogilvie’s unwavering need to put his foot in his mouth in front of patients and plummet those all important patient satisfaction scores, Louie’s passing, the foreboding presence of your husband’s three-month sabbatical; or catching the loose ends of Noelle Hastings and Robby’s conversation. 

He catches sight of you in passing—your face providing nothing but the word: hypocrite—whilst he absentmindedly bobs his head along to Hastings sugary rambling over McKay’s patient case. His forehead creases as she speaks, scratching at the nape of his neck nervously. Robby’s eyes flit over to you in the hopes that just this once, you may be a figment of his own imagination. 

Despite jealously being relatively beneath you in your marriage to one of the PTMC’s eligible bachelors, without being too presumptuous, Robby feared that seeing him converse with his non-committal ex, may be the cherry on the cake for how your day was going.

(Hastings always had a habit of lingering. Which made it look even worse.) 

Perlah comes up beside you, patient charts in abundance in her grasp. 

“Not bothering you?” she asks with a subtle jerk of her head in Robby and Noelle’s direction.

You shuffle through some results, “Give it a couple of minutes.” you murmur. 

Perlah lets out a laugh that catches both Noelle and Robby’s attention nearby. Their heads turn at the abrupt sound, which in turn breaks up their train of thought over the long winded discussion. Noelle squeezes Robby’s bicep before they go their separate ways, and suddenly your patient’s results need to be read millimetres from your face; when Noelle strolls into the workstation with a content expression on her pretty face. 

“You did that on purpose.” you whisper to Perlah behind your clipboard.

Perlah shrugs innocently and departs to ask Robby for a second-opinion. 

The case manager perches at the edge of the workstation you happen to sit at, happily tapping at the surface of the workstation.

The thing about Noelle Hastings was, that she was neither a friend nor a foe to you. She was simply an extension of Robby’s history of avoidant attachment that extended the length of seven-weeks. There was zero animosity toward her as some would anticipate you to have. She was kind, assisted you in insurance cases on the best outcome for the patient and even when she stepped over the invisible boundary that separated a fleeting situation from a marriage, with nostalgic remarks over her shared time with Robby; Noelle Hastings well-manicured nails were always far from digging into your husband. 

She was aware of this. Respectful. Part of you assumes she was trying to find a middle ground to bond over with you. Understandably, it could get a little awkward when your previous sexual endeavours’ wife is waltzing around the workplace. 

Even more awkward when she catches herself going all gooey whenever she was within close proximity to his charm. (Worked on her for years. It wasn’t going to stop now. Even if it wasn’t intentional on his part.) 

She speaks in the direction of Dana, “You know what Motorcycle Mike’s sabbatical is really about?” 

Dana remains unbothered, “I never try to guess what’s going on in that head of his.” 

You shift in your seat, and it highlights yourself to Noelle. 

“You’re not going with him?” Noelle tosses the net with a polite smile and you’re suddenly pulled into the conversation, no longer a bystander pretending to be busy.  “Uh, no.” you shift, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs.

Dana also responds, “You kiddin’? We’d go cuckoo bananas if we lost her to a three-month sabbatical too.” she peers over the brim of her glasses at Noelle, “Behind every great man, is a greater woman.” she proclaims. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Noelle laughs. There’s a thought that churns over in her head and you’re left surrendering yourself to yet another boundary crossed when she decides to vocalise it. “It’s just…That’d drive me crazy. You know? Him being off the radar for three whole months. The man couldn’t sleep without the TV on in the bedroom. How is he going to survive all that silence?”

You take the comment in your stride, shutting the monitor off and standing. Dana throws you an empathetic look as a woman has been in the game for thirty years. Someone like that learns to become observational when being patient-facing means the little expressions matter.

And with the rise and fall of your chest; Dana can come to the conclusion that you’re upset by Hastings throwaway comment. 

So, she defends where you won’t. 

“Little respect, Hastings.” Dana is casual in her directness. She glances at the pretty woman, “It goes a long way.” 

Noelle looks mortified. “Oh—No. I’m sorry. I overstepped.” 

“It’s fine.” you reassure her, gulping at the tightness in your throat, “You made an observation that has stood the test of time. Robby is a big boy. Three months to reflect, alone, is healthy. TV on or not.” 

Now, you’re irritated. 

It’s enough for the conversation to not chase you when you depart the workstation—Dana left to lowly chuckle in amusement at the underlying sharpness in your tone. You weave through bodies on autopilot, ears ringing from the seed of doubt planted by Hastings over Robby’s time away. It made you think that perhaps you had been too enthusiastic over the idea of a three-month sabbatical with little to no contact with a man on the brink of catastrophe. Too laidback in putting the power in the hands of his mind that had nothing but malicious intent over his body. 

It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Neither you or Robby could recall an official vacation that he had partaken in—aside from your honeymoon. Now? You weren’t so sure.

Everyone else had told you otherwise ever since it had been announced. 

“Everything okay?” by some hideous trick of fate, Robby matches the strides in the walk you were taking around the parameters of the department.

He had spotted you from the window of South 22 and excused himself with the reassurance from Dr. Al-Hashimi that she could hold down the fort. Being married to you came with unlimited perks, one being that Robby was able pinpoint your tells that signalled a combative mood. Not necessary toward him; but the idea wouldn’t be so far fetched. 

(It was all in the downturn of your lips. And the tightness in your jawline.) 

“You tell me. Does having to listen to your ex question my decision to not saddle up on a three-month sabbatical with my flight risk husband, whilst also sorely reminding me that she also knows you leave the TV on through the night, make a good case for everything to be going okay?” you quip, narrowly avoiding Ahmed’s call to the betting pool. 

Robby blows out hot air. “Could’ve said devoted husband.” he jokes. It crashes and burns when you spare him a stern glance. “Okay. How about we take in some fresh air in the Ambulance Bay?” 

“Lead the way.”  It doesn’t take much further and the summer air of Pittsburgh clings to your bodies in all the wrong places. It preemptively sets the tone as you scuff your feet against the ground, arms tightly bound across your chest in an effort to translate your hardened exterior from the events of the day. 

Honestly, it felt close to dogpiling once Hastings became—unintentionally—involved. 

Robby takes in the scenes of the empty Ambulance Bay, his eyes find his beloved motorcycle still in tact at the side of the building. He takes a step forward in order to block it from your line of vision. 

After a moment, an arm wraps around your shoulder and you’re suddenly curled into your husband’s side. His lips find your temple and they stay pressed against your skin to resolve some of the bad feelings running about in your chest. 

You close your eyes as Robby repetitively presses chaste kisses to the same spot, relishing in the physical affection that you will be deprived off for three months. Or further; depending on how far Michael Robinavitch was willing to go. 

The thought alone makes you recoil out of his touch. 

Robby’s brows quirk in confusion. “Too hot?” he asks naively. Unprepared. 

“We—” you sigh, “—We need to continue the conversation from this morning.” 

“No…we don’t.” Robby informs, his expression still unwavering in adoration, “It’s water under the bridge. I apologised.” 

“I’m talking about the part where you accept the therapy sessions on this sabbatical.” you start, feeling the prompt shift in the atmosphere, “Jack has given me all the information for his therapist—” 

“Sweetheart. I am begging you not to start this shit again.” Robby has the palms of his hands flush against each other in a begging motion that’s sent in your direction. “I don’t need a therapist on this trip.” 

“Throw me a bone here, Robby.” you exasperate, “You’re obviously not well. Is it really so bad that I’m making sure I get you back by the end of this?” you feel your patience chip, the skin of your neck prickling with frustration.

Robby chuckles. “Oh, you’ll get me back. I’ll make sure of it.”

The morbidity of his answer makes you pause. 

You blink at him, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means…stop telling me how to feel.” Robby narrows his eyes, throwing a sarcastic smile your way. 

“Then what are you feeling, Robby?” you snap at him, the humid summer air clinging to your skin. 

He chuckles lowly, “I really don’t need you to be my shrink.” 

You shake your head, “This isn’t what a shrink does. You would know that if you just see one for two days of the week whilst you’re away. Jack’s therapist does virtual appointments—” 

“I already gave you my answer to that.” 

“Holy shit.” you clench your fists and tap them against your forehead to relieve your frustrations, “I’m not asking you to lobotomise yourself on this sabbatical, Robby. It’s fucking therapy.”  

Robby sneers, “No? This—” he gestures to the space between you in circles, “—feels an awful lot like a lobotomy. Cut it out.” 

“Cut it out?” you repeat, “I’m not a child.”  “Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” Robby crosses his arms, the argument was beginning to feel like being inside a pressure cooker, “You’re upset over this morning. Over the sabbatical, clearly over whatever bullshit Hastings said to you. About Louie. You can’t regulate your own emotions at work and you have the nerve to tell me I need fucking help? That is fucking hypocrisy.”  “Oh, quit projecting.” you look around for a minute to take a break from the intense stare down. 

“Why…are you doing this right now?” 

You watch Robby rub at his temples. “Why? Because you’re lashing out. You’ve been doing it to Mohan, Dana and Al-Hashimi all fucking day. You’re upset that Langdon is back and you’re punishing him for your own feeling of failure.” 

“Mohan is tough love.” Robby cherrypicks. 

“Cut the shit, Robby. You’ve been wearing her down and you know it.” you gesture to the ED just beyond the sliding doors, “She had a panic attack and you belittled her over the same shit you did last year in Pedes!”

Robby shakes his head in disbelief, “You’re really bringing that up right now?” 

“Yes. I am.” you retort plainly, “Robby. Can’t you see this is all happening because I love you?” you collect your voice beneath a whisper when an EMT strolls by you. 

Robby waits until they vacate the premises to speak as he drags his fingers along creases in his forehead. “Yeah. I do. And, right now…I need you to love me less.” he conveys cruelly.  Your worry ebbs into hurt. Fingers curling tight enough that your nails are pressing crescent moons into the palm of your hands. His words lay flat against your chest like wet cement. Any further rebuttals you had lined up dissipate and you’re left with a blank slate, jaw slack as you try to make sense of it all. 

The Ambulance Bay plunges into icy waters. Robby nervously drags his thumbnail across the top of his brow bone as he cranes his neck to look inside the building. It wasn’t evident to you at the time, but his inner turmoil flares at the sight of your broken expression. 

Even when you gather yourself up with watery eyes and a wobbling bottom lip, Robby does nothing. He allows you the action of brushing past him to escape the jaws of his verbal brutality, throwing yourself back into the chaos of a holiday weekend. 

He’s left with the whir of ambulances in the distance.

Robby watches you leave, mumbling a ‘shit’ under his breath. He drops his head back to take in the humid air through his nostrils; the brief solitude condemned when Baran Al-Hashimi appears. 

“Robby?” Baran calls from the doors, offering a hesitant smile, “Perlah has notified me that Ms. Kovalenko—the burn patient—is ready to be seen again.” 

Robby swings his hands around his body, releasing the tension by smacking his palm against his other hand that was curled up into a fist. He strains a smile, “I’ll be right there.” 

Robby takes a shot at a breath to exhale any leftover poison on his tongue from your spat—being wise to the fact that patient satisfaction scores would increase without personal baggage. The dispenser spits the sanitiser into his hand and he chooses to open the door with his back; checking for any sign of you amongst the sea of people marching about. 

The pit in his stomach grows when he can spot you in the middle discussing a case with McKay. Your back is turned, but Robby has been with you long enough to see the tension taught across your shoulder blades from the deep laceration he had caused by projecting his frustrations for a second time that day. 

He takes a mental note to make amends by any means possible. And promptly too. 

He enters the room with one last look at you. “Hello. How’s it going in here?” 

“We were just discussing your wife.” Perlah informs with a friendly smile, fingers busy with the task at hand. When Robby looks inquisitive about how the topic turned to you in his absence, Perlah adds, “She just came to find me for a patient. Said hello. Ms. Kovalenko was curious about the double-barrel surname on her badge. It got us talking. All good things.” 

Robby hums warmly. “A conversation I’m always happy to partake in.” he perches himself on the nearby stool—both Perlah and Ms. Kovalenko watching as he fixes his posture.

“Beautiful.” Ms. Kovalenko states. 

“Very.” Robby concurs earnestly—he wants to say that you are the eighth wonder of the world. 

(The argument puts that sort of compliment on hold for the time being.) 

“Too good for you.” The red-haired woman quips. 

“Ooh. I’ll have to agree there too.” he lilts, the pang of guilt smothered behind a professional glaze. He pats the tops of his thighs, “Did I miss all the gross stuff?” 

“Timed it perfectly.” Perlah replies. 

“Excellent. My job is all about delegation and time management.” Robby chides with a brave face; hoping his emotions weren’t too raw on his face over the mention of you. 

Perlah and him get into a lighthearted back and forth over his imminent departure at the end of the twelve-hour shift, which piques Ms. Kovalenko’s interest over the finer details. 

“He’s leaving us for three-months. On a motorcycle.” Perlah shifts in her chair, happy to invite Ms. Kovalenko further behind closed doors. 

Kovalenko’s brows raise to her hairline. “Motorcyle? You’re joking.” she whips her head round to stare at Robby, “Why would you do this?” she asks sternly. 

“Why? Why? Because…uh—” 

“You’re a middle aged man. Don’t be stupid.” she spits back, “What about your wife? Is she happy about this decision?” 

“She is…moderately humble about it.” Robby rolls closer to the sharp-tongued patient, narrowly averting his gaze to the injury concealed beneath a thin cloth. 

“Moderately humble.” Kovalenko repeats sardonically with a few nods of her head. “Forgive me for being blunt but, do you think that is the equivalent to being happy, Dr. Robinavitch? I pity your wife. Very sad.” 

Robby hangs his head and huffs out a laugh, “We cannot stop the world from spinning just because one person doesn’t like the way it goes round, Ms. Kovalenko—How about we focus on your care?”

There’s a significant pause. 

“Us women are what make the world go round,” her lips quirk in satisfaction when Robby’s brown eyes drift from her burn site, “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Robinavitch?”

Once the elderly, fiery-haired patient with a nasty burn on her thigh is discharged from Robby’s care—not without a stern lecture and some wonderful insight about his lack of appreciation for women in general—it’s evident that all signs are pointing to resolving the conflict that had transpired between you two. 

If there was one person Robby was not willing to part with on a sour note for three whole months…it was you. 

The better half of him. The center of his gravity. The only person strong enough to flip the heavy hourglass in time before he drains himself entirely.

Also, the woman that was apparently hard to track down in a department he knew like the back of his hand. 

(He worries you left. But that wasn’t in your nature. Hurt feelings or not.) 

“Where—“ he pauses, “—is my Attending?” Robby checks the surrounding areas as he speaks directly to Dana who was standing at the workstation with Monica Peters—the Pitt’s once renowned cynical clerk until things went south over technology. 

Dana lets out an amused scoff, looking down at the clipboard pressed against her stomach; strands of blonde hair loose around her face.

“She’s been demoted to just Attending? What’d she do?” she quips in her usual tone that has Robby flaring his nostrils, “She’s writing up the death note for Javadi. McKay’s cancer patient—Roxie—she passed away.” 

Robby frowns, “Where’s McKay?”

“MIA.” Dana drawls, now fiddling with the prescribed box of nicotine gum, “She seemed pretty upset coming from the Ambulance Bay. Anything you want to tell me?” 

“It’s been a long day.” he calls flippantly, already parting through the sea of pandemonium. 

He puts the plethora of questions about McKay’s whereabouts on the back burner for the time being. 

Dana raises her voice over the hospital buzz, “Make amends, Cap.” 

He gives the charge nurse a two-finger salute. 

For once, he makes it to his destination uninterrupted by an emergency that requires his presence in the trauma room. The door to the room that had been dimly lit aside from the salt lamp glow, clicks open as Robby arrives; finding you slipping out the gap and closing the door quietly behind you. 

You haven’t seen him yet. 

For observational purposes, the Chief Attending watches you press your forehead against the cool glass of the narrow window of the door. His stomach sinks when he can see your shoulders shudder as you take a deep breath to fill your lungs with air that kept evading you. 

He doesn’t feel like there’s ever going to be an appropriate time to speak to you in order to rescind his previous declarations. Even more so now, as you conceal the notion of silently weeping in the middle of the ED. 

“You need a coffee?” Robby’s voice makes you jolt. For once, he shrinks in confidence under your unsteady gaze. His tired eyes take in the vision of your watery ones and his expression melts into tenderised sympathy. He nods, “Come on.”

The staff room is empty when you enter, aside from the manikin that Nurse Jesse took great pleasure in decorating, before he was wrongfully detained by ICE agents for intervening with patient care at the core of his interests—just another reason to confirm that the holiday weekend had been nothing short of twenty car pile-up that you were being forced to look at. 

The box of donuts from upstairs is empty, the clock above is ticking closed to the end of the day shift; even when the job wasn’t truthfully done at the stroke of 7PM. You take the seat closest to the wall, muscles sighing from the imminent relief of pressure. 

Robby stands at the coffee machine—if you can even call it that. It sputters a watery version of coffee into a styrofoam cup, and he dumps two packets of sugar into the liquid in order to salvage some sweetness amidst the bitter tone of the room. 

He slides the cup over to you and fishes a protein bar from his pocket, patting it to emphasise the notion that dinner had been served. 

Your stubbornness prevails as you push the bar away from you, despite having not eaten for almost seven hours. 

Robby sighs at that. The refusal doesn’t surprise him. You were always prone to a petty hunger strike when it came to Robby providing you with food to nourish your body after an argument. It was sort of his way to build up to an apology. 

He drags the spare seat across the flooring and plants it in front of you.

The fabric of your scrubs brush against his when his knees bumps yours as he sits. The close proximity invites his scent into your bubble, the undertones of his aftershave prominent enough for you to recognise the fragrance as the one he wore on your wedding day. 

Robby rests his elbows on the tops of his thighs as he lean into your space.

As the words form on his lips into a coherent icebreaker that he was easing into, the door to the staff room whips open to reveal Trinity Santos. 

You look up at her. Robby doesn’t. 

“I need an Attending.” 

Robby answers for the both of you. 

“Go find Dr. Al-Hashimi.” he sings. 

Santos mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes as she shuts the door behind her. You give Robby a certain look—one he’s been given before—that tells him you weren’t in favour of brushing off the RS2 in favour of squashing the hostility that he brought upon the both of you. 

He gives you a meek but crooked smile. Crows feet prominent as he tries to warm the atmosphere. 

“I need you…to understand something here.” Robby starts, his hands falling to the sides of your kneecaps. He can barely look at you when he talks, “If I don’t go on this sabbatical, I am not so sure it’ll stop me from…” he trails off. 

The room falls silent. 

He can barely say it himself because verbalising it would make that little more of a tangible thing. 

You can’t conjure up the fight to protest; so you hang your head. 

“What upset you about Roxie’s case?” Robby takes a different approach. He tilts his head like a curious dog when you look back up from your lap. 

You mull it over. “Do you ever stand in a room with a wife and a husband, one of them is dying in front of the other’s eyes.  And they just have to watch it happen at their bedside?” 

Robby gives a curt nod. 

“Do you ever put yourself in their shoes, Robby?” you question, “How that would feel? To have the most meaningful part of you slip through your fingers and you don’t have the control to stop it. This—” gesture with your finger between your bodies, “—Is how that feels for me.” 

“Yeah—”

“No.” you shake your head, “You don’t get to sit there and tell me you know how it feels from my perspective. I love you in ways that you aren’t reciprocating. You know why?” 

“Why?” Robby whispers. 

You continue, “Because, if we loved each other equally, there wouldn’t be a shadow of a doubt to get the help that you fucking need.” your voice trembles, “I cannot keep pushing through this fog around you, Robby.” 

“I know.” Robby’s expression melts. Brown eyes softer than ever. “I know.” 

“Then get help. Please.” 

Robby cups the back of your head when tears begin to shed from your eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it.” he presses his lips to your forehead, “I’ll do it. I’m sorry.” 

The moment is held sacred against your hearts. There’s a particular weight that lifts off of your shoulders when Robby gives in, but even then…your heart was still heavy from the outcome of your previous argument in the Ambulance Bay. 

Maybe three months apart would mend those open wounds. (Absence made the heart grow fonder. Apparently.) 

Robby finally pulls back with a pained expression on his face; as he memorises your features close-up. “What I said before—I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure how I’d do in life if I didn’t have you up my ass about everything.” 

“I hear Montana has a lot of fresh oxygen. You can use all of that up with consistent apologies during your sabbatical.” you grouse, wiping at the wetness that Robby misses when he drags his thumb across your cheekbone—ridding you of a lash that had latched onto your skin. “You know, people divorce for less.” you say. 

Genuine laughter ripples from Robby’s chest, the moment of reconciliation solidified in your acerbic intonation. (Part of him wonders how many lives he has left before the reality of divorce comes to life.) 

Instead of answering back, Robby forgoes professional protocol by pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. It takes a few swallows to dislodge the lump in his throat, smothering his own upset when you pull away to meet his gaze.  

The door opens for a second time. 

Dana holds onto the handle, staring at the scenes before her over the rim of her glasses. “Would you look at that. It’s a Fourth of July miracle. Can this wrap up so we can do rounds and get the hell out of this godforsaken place? Two more minutes, lovebirds.”

Robby stands at the foot of the bed. It’s well after midnight and whilst you have shed into the comforts of your sleepwear, Robby is clad in a thick Carhartt jacket and dark jeans with his bag slung lazily over one shoulder. He is looking like the epitome of a reckless motorcyclist about to venture on the open road after a gruelling twelve—and some additional hours—shift at the Emergency Department.

You are sat with your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Ready to bid your husband goodbye; praying it’s rather a ‘see you soon’ sort of farewell.

His confirmation in the Staff Room didn’t sit all that well in your stomach. 

“You have got everything?” you ask, twiddling with the hem of his jacket, “Wallet? Phone? Cash? The list of phone numbers I wrote down for you?” Robby nods along as you list it off, “Toothbrush? Phone charger? The little First Aid Kit I bought?” 

“Check.” Robby affirms. 

There’s an unfamiliar feeling rolling about in the air of your bedroom. Robby and you had rarely spent time apart—as unhealthy as it may sound to other couples, it just works for you. Nothing more than a week, when you decided to take a well-earned break from the seventh layer of hell named the Pitt. 

Three months would feel like a lifetime. 

You sigh deeply, “Call me. Or text me when you arrive at the first hotel. I love you. Kind of.” 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” Robby leans down to kiss you sweetly. His hand captures your jawline to deepen the kiss to gratify his needs. He barely pulls back to look at you, “I’ll miss you.” 

“I’d hope so.” you kiss him again. Your hands rest against the broad-line of his shoulders, whilst his free hand clutches your back to press your body into him. You whisper against his feverish kiss, “You’re running late to get on the road.” 

“I’ve got time.” Robby answers back. 

The change in pace happens abruptly. One minute you’re exchanging a bittersweet goodbye, and the next, your t-shirt has been yanked over your head, leaving your chest exposed; nipples hardening from the cool air. 

Robby bends to capture a nipple into his mouth, his beard creating a sweet fiction alongside his tongue swiping at your bud. He groans against your tit, and you take the opportunity to slide his bag from his shoulder—his jacket coming off quickly after. 

Once he pays attention to your neglected nipple by repeating the same actions, he pulls back with his hair sticking up in all directions as a result of you tugging at it. 

His pupils are blown wide. 

“You want me to take care of you before I leave, hm?” Robby asks, his tone dripping in saccharine.

You nod, breathless. 

He dips his head to press wet kisses down your navel whilst you instinctively lift your hips when his fingers hook at the sides of your flimsy excuse for underwear; which he stuffs into the back pocket of his jeans for later. The air thickens, the silence filling with lewd groans from Robby’s mouth as he lifts and parts your thighs, pressing them up to your chest to expose your slick core. 

His callus palms smooth across the length of the backs of your thighs, creating goosebumps in his wake. Brown eyes drift from your aching pussy, up to your face to observe your reaction when he drags two fingers from your seeping hole and upward to your sensitive clit. 

You jolt and whimper from the sensation and Robby clicks his tongue, shushing you as he repeats the same action. 

Once he gathers enough of your juices on his two fingers, he applies pressure to your clit and begins to rubbing in slow circles. You whine, legs making effort to drop down to relieve the pressure; only for Robby’s free hand to pin them against your chest again. 

“Robby…” you manage to say. 

Robby cocks his head to the side to watch your hole clench around empty air. “That feel good?” 

Your brows pinch with your eyes fluttering shut. Instead of answering his question, you bring a hand to bite down on—which Robby promptly swats away. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart. Let me know.” 

You nod, “Uh-huh.” 

“Good. Fuck, look at you.” Robby drags his fingers down to your hole and eases them in with little resistance. He groans when your walls clench tightly around his digits, “How can I leave this?” 

Unable to respond again, your hips tilt when Robby curls his fingers upward into you, enough to make your jaw clench. He presses his thumb-pad against your clit, rubbing at a pace that he’s well aware that you appreciate. 

Long-term commitment does wonders to mapping out the hot spots of your anatomy. 

The room fills with a schlicking sound with Robby pumping his fingers in and out of you at a gentle pace. 

“I’ve got you.” Robby mumbles, jaw slack at the sight of you arching your back off of the mattress. He takes his free hand that had your legs pinned and applies weight to your lower stomach, picking up the pace with his fingers. “Ooh. There it is.” he says as your walls fit snug against his fingers.

“I’m—Fuck.” you whinge, spots lining your vision. “Robby, please.” 

Robby bobs his head a handful of times, arm beginning to ache from the relentless back and forth motion. His restraint is minimal, quick to shift himself halfway off the bed so his eyes are level with your swollen lips. You’re soaked. He can see at the base of his fingers collects your cream, which allows his thought process is thrown out the window. 

Suddenly, Robby has all the time in the world before he has to leave.

When his mouths latches onto your clit, that’s when things become a little more desperate. His moans vibrate against you, sending you squirming; stomach tensing as he sucks at your swollen nerves—if anything, he wants to leave a lasting impression upon his departure. 

Robby swaps between kitten licks and suckling at your clit—his tongue occasionally dipping to taste the closeness at your hole. His thick fingers work at your insides. Eyes flit up to see your mouth open, bare chest panting from the coil in your stomach on the precipice of snapping. 

It is Robby’s favourite things; watching you come undone. 

His own hips find friction against the mattress as you let out a guttural moan from the back of your throat, body curling into the orgasm that your husband pulls from you. 

You push at Robby’s head when he sucks at your clit out of greed. Too sensitive, you slump into the mattress with the palm of your hand lying flat against your forehead. 

Robby straightens up at the end of the bed with a smug smile, eyes twinkling. “You okay?” 

You wordlessly give him a thumbs up, whining when he pulls his two fingers from your vagina.

After a minute, you rest on your elbows to watch your husband fiddle with his belt. “Let me help.” you advise, moving onto your knees to assist him. 

You’re brought into a bruising kiss as you tug the belt from the belt loops, tossing it to the ground with a ‘thunk.’ It’s light work—removing Robby’s jeans and boxers in one swoop—as you had been in this very position several times throughout your relationship; able to visualise the steps in which Robby matches your nudity. 

As you look down, Robby huffs, “Give it a second, sweetheart.”

His cock still semi-soft, he wraps a hand around the hardened base and gives himself a few pumps so the rest of his shaft could catch up. 

He sheepishly chuckles, “If I was a few years younger—” 

“I don’t care.” you kiss him to halt the self-deprecation, “Means I get to steal more time off of your sabbatical.” 

It had always been an explanation during sex. The first time it had happened, Robby insisted his level of attractions toward you hadn’t depleted, rather it was just his age showing at the worst possible time—something he’d take more gray hairs and wrinkles over any day. 

Never stunting his performance, nor was it a deal breaking factor for you, every time since Robby’s delay in stiffening; you had to remind him there was nothing wrong with it. 

Slow and steady wins the race. 

You lick your lips, watching Robby work his shaft in his hand, his wedding band catching the warmth of the salt lamp at your bedside. He lifts his free hand whilst you watch, the two fingers that had been deep inside you now edging their way into your mouth. 

“Taste that?” Robby asks lowly, “You’re ovulating, sweetheart.” 

His fingers leave your mouth with a faint ‘pop’ and it seems to do the trick as Robby’s tip is flushed red, his slit beginning to bead with precum.

You lower yourself back down onto the mattress with Robby following you. His callus palms come to the plushness of your hips, and he turns you over so your front is lying flush against the tousled sheets.

He dips to press a kiss between your shoulder blades before hiking your hips upward so you are resting on all fours.

Robby hums as he drags his cock through your wetness, “I’m going to miss you.”   

Your fingers curl into the cotton sheets, goosebumps trailing up the length of your spine. Robby kisses your back again, the tip of his cock nudging at your hole. He gives you both a minute before sinking himself in inch by inch; his lips pressing to your skin to smother the groan eliciting from his throat. 

There’s no rush in his movement. There’s around thirty seconds of adjusting before he sinks further into your pussy, his head dropping back when he is to the hilt. 

Robby stays in your warmth without moving for a minute. 

After a minute or so, his hips begin to shift, the softest part of his stomach pressing to your ass when he buries himself deep. Stabilising himself by grasping onto your ass cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh; Robby’s brows furrow from the searing pleasure as he looks down to see his shaft already coated in your arousal. 

You hang your head, letting out a whimper from feeling so full. 

“Jesus—You feel good.” Robby grits behind you. He watches your back muscles tense when he slides his cock out slowly, “Are you going to miss this, baby?” 

You can’t answer. The tip of Robby’s cock plunges into a spongy part, and your vision is lined with white spots. 

Robby gives you a second and repeats the motion until his desire to hear you reaffirm his question takes over. He frees a hand from grappling at your backside, his fingers curling around your throat to tilt your head back to look him in the eye. 

“Tell me.” 

You almost cry, “Yes—fuck—yes, I’ll miss this.” 

“Uh-huh.” Robby grins, “You will.” 

The hand being used to force eye contact is removed and you whine when Robby fully pulls out of you. He flips you back over onto your back with ease, folding your legs up to your chest again before sinking back into you without warning. 

Your back arches as much as it can from being pinned; Robby dips to smother it with a sloppy kiss. 

Your hands curl around his neck, whimpering when you feel him pulse inside you. Well aware that it wasn’t going to last long. 

His thrusts are shallow and restricted to contain his own climax for a little while longer. The tip of his cock brushes against a sensitive part, and he’s left breathlessly chuckling when you tighten yourself around him. 

“You’ll make me cum doing that.” Robby lifts his head, eyes squeezing shut. He drags himself out of you until the tip of his cock is at your opening. You clench to suck the majority of his shaft back in. “Shit baby. Fuck it. Keep squeezing me like that. Just like that.” 

“Fuck, Robby.” is all you can muster, hands clawing at his back when he picks up his pace. 

Robby folds your legs back up to your chest for a third time that night. His thumb catches your clit—unsure if he can drag another orgasm out of you with little recovery time. “Let me fuck you right there. You feel it? You’re so fucking tight.” 

“Robby—” you babble.

“Hm? What is it, sweetheart?” Robby pants, the slapping sounds echoing in the room. 

You free your legs from his grasp and wrap them around his middle. “I want—I need you to cum inside me.” 

“Fuck. Don’t say shit like that.” Robby laughs, his pace faltering. He looks at your expression and realises you’re being serious. “Is that what you want? For me to cum inside you? What if you get pregnant?” 

“I don’t care, I don’t care.” you plead. 

Robby shakes his head, “Okay, okay. I’ll cum inside you.” his thrust start to get sloppy at the thought, “Are you going to lay here, long after I’m gone, with my cum leaking out of you? Is that what you’re going to do?” 

You nod vigorously. 

“Fuck. Ask me nicely.” he commands. 

“Please, Robby.” you breathe out, “Please.” 

Robby nods, sweat beading his hairline from the exertion. He dips his head to bring you into a searing kiss, “I love you.” he mumbles against your lips. 

There’s fewer words spoken after that. The bed creaks as Robby begins to pound into your pussy with one goal in mind. His soft stomach brushes against your pubes as he barely pulls out of you, hungry with need to stay deep within your walls. 

Your legs lock around his middle and Robby lifts your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside as he brings your lower half up; fucking into you with desperation. 

You babble his name, “I’m going to cum again.” you repeat over and over with the hot feeling returning in your stomach. 

“You can do it, sweetheart.” Robby encourages, thumb applying pressure to your already sensitive clit. “Give me one last one before I leave. Let me feel it around my cock.” 

The climax ripples through you for a second time at his words. Walls clenching around him so tightly, it made thrusting into you near impossible. Robby continues as best as he can, watching your face twist in painful pleasure. 

It’s enough to send him over the edge with you. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Robby grits out before his words are smothered beneath deep groans as he shoots hot ropes deep inside you. His body weight slumps on top of you, skin slick with sweat as he ruts into you a few more times for good measure. 

You can feel his cum seep out at your opening, around his shaft that was still tucked deep in your pussy. Robby twitches inside of you, moving deeper a few times to ensure you’re stuffed to the brim. 

He kisses the side of your face as he pants out, “I have no idea what I’ll do without you for three months.” 

The familiar melancholy returns to your stomach at the realisation that this was the conclusion before three months without him. 

“…Just come back to me, Robinavitch.”

A/N: thank u to my sweet @novatheory for listening to my rambling over this fic and reading the snippets of drafts i would send at random times. mwah!!!!