Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Summary - Jack has spent his whole life knowing exactly what to do in a crisis. Standing outside the trauma bay while someone else keeps her alive is the one thing he doesn't know how to survive.
Word Count - 12200ish
Jack's POV
Jack had been forced out of rooms before. Not often. Not easily.
But it had happened. Medicine was not built around one person's refusal. It was handoffs and thresholds and sterile fields and operating room doors closing in your face because the job changed hands whether your body accepted that or not. Jack knew that. He had lived by it. He had taught residents not to mistake proximity for control.
He knew how to step back when stepping back was the only useful thing left. This was not that.
This was Lena's hand wrapped around his forearm while the trauma bay door closed between him and the woman standing inside with her hand buried in a patient's flank. This was glass where there should have been access.
This was Sergeant Vale taking Jack's place beside her. This was wrong. Every cell in his body knew it.
"Jack," Lena said. He did not look at her.
Through the glass, you were still standing exactly where he had left you. Pale under the trauma lights. One shoulder set too carefully. One hand braced over your own wrist. Your other hand inside Mr. Mercer's side, holding pressure on something Vale had not yet named aloud. Your eyes were on Vale now.
Good. That was good. That was what you needed to do.
Jack hated it so much he could barely breathe. "I'm out," he said. Lena's grip did not loosen. "Barely."
"I'm behind the line." "You are deciding whether lines are real." His jaw tightened.
Vale set his hard case down inside the room, every motion precise. He said something to you. Jack could see your mouth move when you answered, but the glass stole your voice. That might have been the worst part.
Not the blood. Not the device. Not the bomb squad tech between you and him.
The silence. Jack had spent months learning your voice without meaning to. He knew how it sounded across the department at three in the morning. He knew the clipped edge when a patient became combative, the quiet drop when a scared family member needed grounding, the dry bite when you were tired enough to become funny in self-defence.
Now you were speaking six feet away from him, and he heard nothing. His hand lifted toward the glass before he gave it permission.
Lena caught the movement. "Don't." He stopped with his fingers curled at his side. "I wasn't going in."
"You were going somewhere." He looked at her then. Bad idea.
Lena's face was calm in the specific, infuriating way charge nurses got when panic had been assessed and found clinically unhelpful. But her eyes were not untouched. She knew.
Of course she knew. Lena Handzo knew everything that happened on night shift eventually. She knew which nurse cried in the supply room after a bad paeds case and came out with dry eyes. She knew which resident had not eaten since noon. She knew which patients were going to turn mean before they opened their mouths. She knew which silences between coworkers were simply exhaustion and which ones were turning into something bigger.
Jack hated that she knew this one. "She's alone," he said. "She is with the bomb squad sergeant."
"That is not what I mean." "I know exactly what you mean," Lena said. "And I am telling you no anyway."
Through the glass, Vale angled a light near your arm. Jack stepped forward half an inch.
Lena's hand tightened immediately. The police officer by the door saw it and shifted his weight.
Jack's eyes cut to him. "Don't." The officer froze. Lena said, "Then don't make him."
Jack looked back through the glass. Vale looked up from inside the trauma bay.
His eyes found Jack's through the glass, and whatever he saw there made his expression flatten. He raised one hand.
Stop. Then he spoke, voice carrying through the cracked relay near the door. "Clear the corridor."
Garcia, who had been standing just outside the marked line with her arms locked across her chest, turned on him. "Excuse me?" Vale did not look at her. "Clear the corridor. Everyone outside the ED footprint."
The words hit like the first real blast. Not the room. Not the glass.
The corridor. Jack's entire body went cold. "No," he said.
Vale's gaze moved to him. "Dr. Abbott." "No."
Garcia stepped closer to the doorway, stopping before the line. "We are medical support." "And if this goes wrong," Vale said, voice level, "you become casualties."
Anesthesia's face went hard. "He is unstable." "Airway is secured enough for the moment. Blood is running. Monitor stays. You are outside the blast path."
"Glass won't protect us?" Shen asked quietly. Vale looked at him. The silence was answer enough.
Then Vale said, "No." The corridor changed.
Not visibly. Nothing moved. The lights stayed bright. The glass stayed whole. The monitor inside Trauma One kept beeping. But everyone understood something new.
The glass had never been safety. It had only been mercy.
A way to look at the person inside and pretend distance was not distance. Jack felt Lena's grip tighten before he moved.
"I'm not leaving the glass," he said. Vale stood inside the room. "You are." "I'm advising."
"You can advise from the command point." "I can't see her from the command point."
The words came out before he could make them professional. The corridor went still. Garcia looked away.
Shen's face tightened. Anesthesia stared at the floor. Lena's hand stayed on Jack's arm.
Vale did not soften. "That is not a tactical argument." Jack's eyes burned with fury. "She is my nurse."
"She is currently the person with her hand on an unstable device component," Vale said. "And if I have to worry about you breaching the corridor, I cannot keep my attention where it belongs." Jack heard it.
He did. That was the worst part.
He heard the logic. The clean line of it. Vale could not split his focus between the device and Jack's refusal to accept being useless. Jack knew that.
Knowing did nothing to help. Lena stepped in front of him. Not fully.
Just enough to force his eyes to hers. "Jack." He shook his head once. "No."
"She told you to leave the room." "That was the room." "Now I'm telling you to leave the corridor."
"I need to see her." Lena's face changed. Only for a second.
Then she said, softer, "I know." That nearly broke him. He looked over her shoulder.
Through the glass, you had turned your eyes toward him. Not your head. Not your body. Just your eyes, dragged by the argument you could not hear clearly but could probably feel. Vale said something sharply.
Your gaze snapped back to him. Good. Good.
Jack's throat tightened. "She'll look for me," he said. "Then don't make her," Lena said.
The words landed with surgical precision. He hated her for them. He loved her for them.
He couldn't move. Vale's voice came through again. "Clear the corridor now."
The police officer reached carefully for the door. Jack's body locked.
Lena must have felt the exact second he considered resisting, because her hand moved from his forearm to his chest. Flat.
Firm. Not enough to physically stop him. Enough to remind him who he would have to go through.
"Do not make me call security on you in front of your own staff," she said. His eyes snapped to hers.
Her voice dropped. "Do not make her hear that." That did it. Not all the way.
Enough. Jack stepped back. One step.
It felt like ripping something loose. Lena stayed with him.
Garcia moved first, furious and silent. Anesthesia followed, jaw tight. Shen looked once through the glass, then away. Princess stood near the wall, both hands pressed together as if she did not trust them apart, and then Lena pointed down the hall. "Princess. Go."
Princess swallowed. "Lenaâ" "Go." She went.
Ellis was already backing away with the tablet clutched to her chest, eyes wet above her mask. Hospital command moved because security physically guided him, which was probably the most useful thing he had done all morning. The corridor started to empty.
Jack did not turn his back on the glass. He walked backward until Lena said, "Don't be stupid." "I'm not."
"You're walking backward through an evacuated ED while emotionally concussed." He turned around. Barely.
Every step away from Trauma One was a violation. The nurses' station passed on his left. Abandoned.
A half-empty coffee cup sat beside a computer. A stack of labels had curled out of the printer and onto the floor. Blue gloves were scattered near the med room door. Someone had left a roll of tape on the counter, the strip half-pulled, waiting for a hand that was no longer there. The Pitt looked dead without people in it.
Not peaceful. Dead.
Jack's mind registered exits. Distance. Sightlines. Fire doors. Police placement. Security at the trauma corridor. Staff moving at the far end of the east hall. Patients out of the blast radius. Useful information.
None of it mattered more than the fact that he could no longer see you. When the trauma bay glass disappeared behind the corner, something in his chest went with it.
He stopped. Lena stopped beside him. "No," she said immediately.
"I can't see her." "I know." "No. Lena, I can'tâ"
"Yes," she said. "You can." The words were blunt enough to make him look at her.
She held his gaze. "Because she needs you to." His jaw worked.
"She told you why," Lena said. "She cannot think about you while her hand is on that device." Jack closed his eyes.
Your voice came back to him. I can't think about you. I have to think about my hand.
He had been angry for half a second when you said it. Not at you. At the truth.
At the fact that loving him, or whatever the hell sat between the two of you, had become another hazard in the room. He opened his eyes.
"Command point," Lena said. "Now." The command point had been built out of whatever the evacuation left behind.
A rolling computer cart. Two portable monitors. Lena's radio. A hospital command phone that kept ringing as if the building itself was panicking. A whiteboard dragged from the physician workroom and propped against the wall, already divided into ugly categories. Moved. Holding. Critical. Missing.
Jack hated the last one on principle. "Why is there a missing column?" he asked.
Lena did not look up from the roster. "Because if we don't make one, someone becomes missing quietly." Fair. Terrible.
"Curtain Three and daughter are in outpatient corridor," she said. "Still asking about the sandwich." "Of course she is," Lena said.
"Bay Five is in east hall on two litres." Jack looked up. "He stays on the oxygen."
Princess, standing by the portable oxygen tanks, said, "I told him that." "And?"
"He said nearby oxygen counts spiritually." "It doesn't," Jack said. "That's what I said."
A nurse wheeled an elderly woman past the command point, blanket tucked around her shoulders, portable oxygen tank clipped to the side of the chair. The woman's eyes moved from the police officers to the emptied nurses' station, frightened and confused. "Where's my daughter?" she asked.
Lena's face changed instantly. Not softer exactly. Focused differently. "She's with Perlah," Lena said, stepping into the woman's line of sight. "You're going to see her in the east hall. We're just moving everyone somewhere quieter."
"Is there a fire?" "No," Lena said. "No fire." Not a lie.
Not the truth either. The woman nodded because Lena sounded like someone who could be believed.
Jack watched the wheelchair roll away and felt the wrongness of it settle heavier under his ribs. The ED was not supposed to empty.
It was supposed to receive. That was the whole brutal promise of it.
You came in bleeding, scared, high, feverish, angry, dying, and The Pitt took you anyway. Now The Pitt was sending everyone away because danger had come in under someone's skin and settled beneath your hand.
McKay came in behind the command point, phone to her ear and another chart tucked under her arm. "No, I don't care if PACU says they're full," she said. "They are full of people who are alive. They can be more full."
She hung up and looked at Lena. "Septic Twelve?" Perlah answered before Lena could. "East hall, monitor attached, antibiotics running. Shen wrote the orders before he got pulled back."
"Second litre running." "Good." A child started crying near the outpatient corridor.
Not loudly. That made it worse.
A little boy with a splinted wrist sat in a wheelchair, his mother crouched in front of him, trying to keep her own face calm and failing by degrees. Princess moved before anyone asked.
She grabbed a warm blanket from the portable stack and knelt beside him. "Hey. You want to know a secret?" The boy sniffed. "What?"
"This blanket is stolen from the good warmer." His crying paused, suspicious. "There's a good warmer?" "Absolutely."
"There is not," Jack said automatically. Princess did not look back. "Do not ruin paediatric morale, Abbott."
The boy blinked. Then, somehow, laughed once. A tiny, wet sound.
Jack looked away. The radio on the command table crackled. Every head in the command point turned.
Vale's voice came through. "Trauma One to command. Corridor clear?"
Lena grabbed the radio. "Corridor clear. ED footprint evacuated except essential command and staged patients outside perimeter." "Copy," Vale said. "No one enters trauma corridor unless I request."
Jack reached for the radio. Lena moved it away without even looking at him. "No."
His eyes flashed. "I need to speak to him." "You need to ask me to speak to him."
"I am not a child." "Then stop reaching like one."
Garcia, still on the phone nearby, muttered, "I picked a hell of a night to answer pages." Jack ignored her.
Lena pressed the radio button. "Vale, Dr. Abbott is at command. He is requesting medical status." Requesting.
Jack almost hated her more for making it sound civilized. Static. Then Vale's voice.
"Patient remains alive. Blood running. Airway support stable. Nurse's hand position unchanged. I am beginning visual assessment." Nurse's hand position unchanged.
Jack breathed for the first time in what felt like minutes. Not enough. But some.
Lena looked at him. He looked away. "Thank you," she said into the radio.
"Updates only when status changes," Vale replied. "I need quiet." The radio went silent. Jack stared at it.
Quiet. Vale needed quiet. You were in there with quiet.
No Jack. No ED. No chaos to hide in.
Just Vale and the device and the patient and your own breathing. Jack's hands curled into fists.
A new set of footsteps came down the outer hall. Fast. Not running.
Almost. Jack turned before the figure reached the line.
Robby came around the corner in a scrub jacket, hair sleep-flattened on one side, ID badge clipped crooked. He looked like he had been pulled out of the shallow graveyard of pre-shift sleep and thrown directly into disaster. McKay was already there, still half on the phone with someone upstairs, but she looked up sharply when she saw him.
Security stopped Robby at the perimeter. "I'm Dr. Michael Robinavitch," Robby said. "Emergency attending. I was called in."
Security looked to Lena. Lena nodded once. "Command point only. No trauma corridor."
Robby stepped through, eyes scanning. The empty ED. The police.
The staff. Jack. Then the command radio.
His face changed. "What happened?" Jack did not answer quickly enough.
Robby came closer. "Jack." "Blast injury," Jack said. His voice sounded scraped raw. "Foreign body in left flank. Brother identified it as part of the device. Possible internal trigger. Her hand is stabilizing it and tamponading hemorrhage. Vale has the room."
Robby stared at him. Not blank. Never blank.
Robby's face always did too much, which was one of the reasons Jack found him unbearable and necessary in equal measure. "Her hand," Robby said.
"Yes." "Inside the wound?" "Yes."
"And you're out here." Jack's eyes cut to him. Robby understood the mistake immediately.
Lena said, "She told him to leave." Robby's expression shifted. "Oh."
Jack looked toward the trauma corridor. He could not see it from here. Could not see you.
His voice dropped. "And then Vale cleared the entire corridor." Robby's mouth tightened. "Good."
Jack turned on him. "Good?" "Yes," Robby said, not backing down. "Good. Terrible. Necessary. Pick your adjective after she's out."
Jack stared at him. Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You being able to see her is not worth more than her having Vale focused." Jack hated him. For half a second.
Then the hate collapsed under the weight of the truth. "She said she couldn't think about me," Jack said.
Robby's face softened in the worst possible way. "Then don't make her," he said. Jack looked away.
The radio sat silent on the command table. Silent. Silent.
Silent. It took everything in him not to pick it up. Robby moved to his side.
Not touching. Just there. Insurance.
Friendship. A witness. "You breathing?" Robby asked.
"Yes." "No, you're standing upright. Different thing." Jack gave him a look.
Robby ignored it. "Do it anyway." "I have seen this before." "I know."
"No, you don't." Robby's face went still. Jack regretted it immediately.
But the words were out, and his restraint was too frayed to pull them back cleanly. Robby's voice, when he answered, was quiet. "No. I don't. But I know you."
That was worse. Jack closed his eyes once. A controlled blink.
Nothing more. Behind them, McKay had fully taken over command with the sort of brisk authority that made the administrator look relieved to be overruled. Garcia was still on the phone. Lena was coordinating staff locations. Perlah was checking names against the roster. Princess stood beside the paeds patient, making a warm blanket sound like contraband.
The Pitt was functioning. Jack had built enough of the outside world for it to keep functioning. You were still inside.
The radio crackled. Everyone went still. Vale's voice came through.
"Visual confirms component housing. I am placing field markers. No movement from nurse. Patient remains alive." Jack's breath left him.
Robby's hand landed briefly on his shoulder. This time Jack did not tell him to move it.
Lena grabbed the radio. "Copy. Need anything?" "Negative," Vale said. "Maintain perimeter." Static.
Silence. Jack stared at the radio. Then toward the corridor he could not enter.
Reader's POV
Inside Trauma One, the quiet was too big. That was the first thing you noticed once they were all gone. Not just Jack.
Everyone. No Garcia outside the glass. No anesthesia arguing from the threshold.
No Shen at the airway. No Princess by the blood cooler.
No Lena's voice cutting through the hall close enough to feel like part of the room. The corridor beyond the trauma bay doors had emptied completely. Even the shadows seemed farther away.
The Pitt was gone. Not dead, you told yourself. Evacuated.
Safe. Farther from you. Farther from the device.
That was good. It did not feel good.
Vale stood in front of you now, the only person left in the room who could tell you what to do. But he was not working alone.
You realized that in the first thirty seconds after the corridor cleared. His radio kept murmuring.
Low voices. Short updates. Words that sounded official and calm and impossible to attach to the fact that your hand was still inside Mr. Mercer's flank. "Perimeter set."
"Secondary team holding." "Medical command at outer line." "Equipment staged."
Vale answered each one without taking his eyes off the field around your arm. "Hold perimeter."
"No one enters trauma corridor." "I'll call what I need." "Stand by."
His calm was not like Jack's. You had thought that before, but now, without Jack visible through the glass, the difference became everything.
Jack's calm pulled you toward him. Vale's pinned the room down. "I know you can't see him now," Vale said.
Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt. You hated him for knowing.
You hated everyone who could apparently read your face today. "He's outside the perimeter," Vale continued. "That is where he should be."
You swallowed. Your hand did not move. "My job is not thinking about him," you said.
Vale nodded once. "Exactly." "That's a terrible job." "I imagine so."
His honesty was rude. Useful, but rude.
He crouched beside his hard case and opened it again. "Your job is your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. My voice. Nothing else." You breathed in once.
Carefully. "My hand," you said. "Yes."
"Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes." "Your voice."
"Good." Mr. Mercer lay under the bright trauma lights, supported by tubing and machinery you were trying not to think too hard about. The monitor tracked him in glowing numbers you did not want to understand too deeply.
Blood still ran. The pump clicked in small, steady intervals. Your right hand remained buried inside his flank.
The foreign body rested against your palm. Hard. Smooth-edged.
Wrong. Vale's radio crackled again. A man's voice came through. "Vale, do you need the blanket package?"
Vale looked at you, then at the wound, then at the angle of your shoulders. "Affirmative," he said. "No entry past threshold. Slide it in."
Your stomach tightened. "Blanket package?" "Protection," Vale said.
That did not help as much as he probably thought it should. "For me?" "For you."
Your mouth went dry. "That sounds bad." "It means I'm reducing risk where I can." "That still sounds bad."
"It's better than not reducing risk." You hated that answer. Mostly because it was true.
The trauma bay door opened only far enough for a gloved hand to push a sealed bundle across the floor. Whoever was outside did not step in. You saw the edge of dark gear, boots, a shield angled near the doorway, and then the door closed again. Vale retrieved the bundle himself.
Slowly. Never crossing near your hand without telling you.
"I am moving behind you," he said. "I am not touching you yet." Your breath caught. "Yet?"
"I need to place protective gear. Because of your arm position, we can't put it on normally." "Okay."
"You will feel weight across your chest and shoulders. I will work around your right arm. You do not help me." "I don't help."
"Correct." "You're enjoying how often I have to say that." "I am enjoying that you're still saying it."
That made something almost like a laugh catch behind your ribs. Vale opened the bundle.
A heavy protective vest came out first, black and stiff, not like the soft lead aprons from radiology or the flimsy plastic gowns everyone pretended helped with fluids. This looked like it belonged to another world entirely. Then a thick protective blanket.
Clear eye protection. Something for your ears. Your stomach turned.
Vale noticed. "Look at my face," he said. You did.
"Not the gear. My face." "Your face is not reassuring." "Good. Reassuring would be dishonest."
"You and Jack would get along terribly." "Probably." He lifted the protective glasses first.
"These go on your face. I'll place them. You do not lean in." "I don't lean." "Good."
The glasses slid carefully into place. Then the ear protection.
"I need one hand free to put these on properly," he said. "I don't have one. So this will be imperfect." "Great."
"It will still help." "Better."
He placed them carefully, one side at a time, adjusting around your hair without jostling your head. The room muffled slightly. Not silent. Never silent. But the monitor became duller. The pump softer. Your own breathing louder. You hated that.
You also understood why he did it. Then came the vest. Vale held it open in front of you.
"I'm going to bring this around your left side first," he said. "Then across your chest. Your right arm stays exactly where it is. If anything feels like it is pulling your shoulder, you say stop." "What if saying stop makes me move?"
"Use one word." "Stop?" "Good choice."
His mouth barely moved. Yours almost did too.
He worked the vest around you with awful care. It was heavy. Not unbearable, but solid enough that your body noticed it immediately. The weight settled over your chest and left shoulder, then across part of your torso. He did not try to force it over your right shoulder.
Couldn't. Your right arm was still angled down into Mr. Mercer's wound, locked in place by blood, pressure, and terror.
Vale adjusted the vest as much as he could without touching your trapped arm. "Any pull?" "No."
"Any change in your hand?" You listened to your body. To the pressure under your palm.
To the shape beneath it. "No." "Good."
He secured what he could, then reached for the protective blanket. "This is going over part of your lower body and side," he said. "It will feel heavy. It is not permission to lean."
"Nothing is permission to lean. I'm sensing a theme." "You're doing great with themes."
He placed the blanket slowly, creating a barrier around what he could protect without trapping you further or interfering with the wound. The weight pressed against your hip and thigh. Your knees wanted to shift under it. They didn't.
The radio crackled. Another voice came through, lower than the first. "Vale, confirm subject is protected as much as feasible?"
Vale glanced over you. "Protected as much as feasible. Right arm exposed and engaged. No full vest seal possible." "Copy. We are holding at secondary line."
Secondary line. That meant there were more of them outside. More people waiting.
More people who knew exactly what this could become. Vale crouched again. "Still with me?"
You breathed in. "Yes." "Any change under your hand?"
"No." "Pressure?" "Same."
"Shape?" "Same." "Pain?"
You considered lying. That seemed stupid when the only two people in the room were you and a man trained to notice tiny changes that could kill everyone.
"Not pain," you said. "Awareness." Vale nodded. "Shoulder?" "Mostly."
"Wrist?" "Some." "Fingers?"
"Fine." "Good. Tell me if that changes." "Can I move if it changes?"
"No." "Then that feels like a cruel question." "It tells me how much time I have."
The answer settled coldly. Time. That was all anyone had been buying since Mr. Mercer came in.
Time with blood. Time with oxygen. Time with your hand.
Time with Jack outside the perimeter. Vale angled the light toward the wound.
"I'm going to look," he said. "I'm not touching you. I'm not touching the object. You do not help me." "You're looking. Not touching. I don't help."
"Good." The light came on. Thin and white.
It slid over your glove, over blood-wet skin, over the torn wound edge. You kept your eyes on Vale's shoulder because looking down felt like falling. The smell was worse without people in the room.
Blood. Smoke. Antiseptic.
Burned fabric. Fear, maybe, though that was not a smell. It only felt like one. Your stomach rolled.
Vale did not look up. "Let the nausea pass." "You say that like it's polite."
"It will pass faster if you don't chase it." "I'm not chasing it." "You're arguing with it."
"That sounds like me." Vale's mouth barely moved. "So I've gathered." It almost helped.
Almost. He examined the wound for what felt like a lifetime, then lifted his radio with one hand. "Vale to secondary."
A crackle. "Secondary."
"I have partial visual. Component housing appears consistent with brother's statement. Nurse's hand is stabilizing from medial side. No visible independent movement. I'm placing markers and support. No remote tools in the field yet." "Copy. Recommend field stabilization before extraction attempt."
"I agree." You did not know what half of that meant. You understood enough.
"Extraction attempt," you said. Vale lowered the radio slightly. "Not yet."
"But eventually." "Eventually." "My hand is what you're extracting?"
"No," he said. "Your hand is what I am removing. The device is what I am stabilizing." "That distinction does not make me feel better."
"It should make you feel informed." "Rude." "Alive," he said again.
You breathed carefully. Small. Measured.
Vale placed a small marker near the wound edge. The bed shifted by almost nothing. Your whole body wanted to flinch.
"Hold," Vale said. You held. The object stayed where it was.
The monitor kept beeping. Nothing happened. "Good."
You hated how much you needed that word. He placed another marker. Then another.
Every movement announced. Every motion slow enough to make time feel serrated. His radio murmured between steps.
"Marker one placed." "Copy." "Marker two placed."
"Copy." "No field shift." "Copy."
It became a rhythm. A terrible one. But a rhythm.
"I am placing support near your forearm," Vale said. You breathed in. "It will not take your weight."
You breathed out. "It is a reference. Not permission to relax." "Nothing about me is relaxed right now."
"Good." "Rude." "Alive."
You could not argue with that. Your knees had started to ache from standing locked in place. You were aware of every joint now. Every muscle. Every place your body wanted to make a reasonable adjustment and was absolutely forbidden from doing so.
Vale looked at your face. "Knees?" You stared at him. "What?" "You're locking them."
"Probably." "Unlock them." "No."
"That wasn't a request." "I'm not moving." "Your knees are not your hand."
"They are attached to me." "Micro-movement only. Torso stays fixed. Arm stays fixed. I count it." Your mouth went dry.
"No." Vale's expression did not change. "If you faint, your hand moves." That shut you up.
He let the silence sit for one second. Then he said, "On three. Hips and knees only. A fraction. You do not shift your shoulder. You do not adjust your hand."
You stared at him. He stared back. There was no Jack through the glass now. No familiar face to pull your eyes to.
Only Vale. "My hand stays," you whispered. "Yes."
"My shoulder stays." "Yes." "Just knees."
"Correct." You wanted Jack. The thought hit so hard you almost lost your breath.
You wanted his voice. His eyes. His dry little correction. His infuriating certainty. You wanted him to tell you that you could do this in the specific way that made you believe him even when everything was impossible. Vale saw something move through your face.
His voice lowered slightly. "He left because you told him to." Your eyes burned.
"Don't." "He listened because you needed him to." A tear slipped down your cheek.
You could not wipe it away. Vale continued, steady and mercilessly useful. "Now you listen because he needs you to."
Your throat closed. Then you nodded internally. Not with your head.
Never with your head. "Okay." "On three," Vale said. "One. Two. Three."
You unlocked your knees by the smallest possible fraction. Nothing shifted under your palm. Nothing changed.
The foreign body stayed where it was. You breathed once. Then again.
The black dots at the edges of your vision eased back. Vale nodded. "Better." "I hate that you were right."
"People usually do." "Jack especially would." "I gathered that too."
The sound that tried to leave you was almost a laugh. It helped. Then the monitor changed.
Not much. Enough.
A different pitch in the alarm. A number sliding lower in the corner of the screen. The pulse still too fast, the oxygen decent enough for the moment, the pressure dipping again in a way that made your stomach go cold before your fear could catch up. Your eyes flicked to the monitor.
Not your head. Just your eyes. You could see enough from where you stood.
Too much, actually. "His pressure's dropping," you said. Vale looked up from the support near your forearm.
He glanced at the monitor, but there was no instant interpretation in his face. Not like Jack. Not like Shen. Not like Garcia. Vale knew blast radius and device housing and what movement could do. He did not know the particular dread of a blood pressure that kept sliding no matter how much blood you poured into someone. "What number?" Vale asked.
You swallowed. "Fifty-six systolic. Pulse still one-forties. Sat's holding around ninety-one, but he's not perfusing." Vale reached for his radio immediately.
"Trauma One to command." Static. Then Lena's voice answered. "Command."
Vale kept his eyes on you as he spoke. "Patient status change. Nurse reports systolic pressure down to fifty-six, pulse in the one-forties, oxygen saturation holding around ninety-one. She reports blood is still running and no major increase in external bleeding around her hand. I need medical lead." A pause.
Then Jack's voice came through the radio. Controlled. Too controlled.
"Abbott." Your eyes closed before you could stop them. Not fully.
Just a blink too long. Vale's gaze sharpened. "Eyes open," he said quietly.
You opened them. Jack's voice came through again, thinner through static. "Can she see the monitor?" Vale looked at you.
You nodded internally. Not with your head. Never with your head.
"She can see enough," Vale said. "She's watching without moving." There was a fraction of silence.
Then Jack said, "Ask her if there's any visible increase in bleeding." Vale repeated it to you, even though you had heard him. "Visible increase in bleeding?"
You kept your eyes on the wound edge as much as you could without dropping your head. "No. Same seep around my wrist. No surge." Vale relayed it. "No visible surge. Same seep around her wrist."
Jack absorbed that quickly. You could hear it in the brief silence. "Likely continued internal loss," he said. "He needs OR, but he can't move until the device is secured."
Vale looked at you as Jack spoke. You did not look at the radio.
You would not look at the radio like it was Jack's face. You would not.
Jack continued, more controlled now. "Blood continues. Do not let her adjust pressure to chase the number. If there's no visible hemorrhage change, you keep working the device. Her hand stays exactly where it is." Vale answered, "Understood."
Jack's voice came again. "Can she maintain?" Vale's eyes stayed on yours. He did not ask you out loud immediately.
Maybe because he already knew the answer would be yes whether it was true or not. Maybe because he understood that Jack would know that too.
Finally, Vale said, "Can you maintain?" Your shoulder had begun to burn in earnest now. Not shaking yet.
But aware. So aware it felt like your whole arm had become one long warning. "Yes," you said.
Vale watched your face for half a second. Then pressed the radio. "She says yes."
The silence on the other end was small. Brutal. Jack knew.
Of course he knew. Then his voice returned, rougher by a thread. "Tell her she's doing exactly what she needs to do."
Vale looked at you. "Dr. Abbott says you're doing exactly what you need to do." Your mouth trembled.
"That is manipulative." Vale's mouth twitched. "Take it up with him later." Later.
The word went through you like oxygen. Later. You held onto it.
Vale clicked the radio off before Jack could say anything else. Cruel man. Probably wise.
He turned back to the wound. "The brother described a pressure-sensitive internal component. Your hand is likely preventing movement inside the housing." Likely.
There it was again. The worst word. His radio crackled before you could answer.
"Secondary to Vale. Support recommendation ready." Vale lifted the radio. "Go." You heard only pieces.
Not the kind of pieces that could teach you anything useful. Just enough to know there were other people thinking through the geometry of your survival from far away.
"Maintain current pressure." "External stabilization." "Controlled hand removal."
"Containment transfer." Vale listened without looking away from the wound. "Copy," he said. "I'm building support now."
Your breathing went shallow. "Hand removal," you said. Vale set the radio down.
"Not yet." "But soon?" "Soon is a dangerous word."
"Of course it is." "I'm going to tell you what you need to know." You stared at him.
Vale held your gaze. "We are going to build support. Then I am going to guide your hand out in one controlled motion while I stabilize the object. You will not rush. You will not pull. You will not stop halfway unless I tell you."
Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. "I can't." "You can."
"You don't know that." "No," Vale said. "But Dr. Abbott does." That was unfair.
It worked anyway. Your eyes stung. "My hand," you whispered.
Not the alarms. Not the evacuation. Not the clipped voices of police and hospital command trying to make a disaster fit inside procedures that had clearly been written by people who had never stood ten feet from one. The quiet.
Jack stared at the radio on the command table like he could force it to speak by hating it enough. It sat between Lena's roster sheets and a half-dead portable monitor, black plastic, dust in the speaker grille, one corner scuffed white from too many drops. Ordinary. Hospital-grade. Ugly.
It was the only thing connecting him to Trauma One now. To Vale. To Mr. Mercer.
To you. And it was silent.
Lena had moved two feet away to argue with security about staff accountability. McKay had taken over the command board with the unnerving efficiency of someone who enjoyed making chaos feel personally ashamed of itself. Garcia was on her third phone call with OR, one hand pressed to her forehead, voice sharp enough to cut through concrete. Robby stood beside Jack without touching him.
That was deliberate. Jack knew Robby well enough to know the difference between accidental proximity and triage.
Robby was triaging him. Quietly. Carefully.
Annoyingly. "I can feel you doing it," Jack said. Robby looked at him. "Doing what?"
"I learned from the best." Jack's eyes did not leave the radio. "Pick a worse time to be funny." "I'm not being funny."
That made Jack look at him. Robby's face had settled into something serious and tired, the kind of expression that usually came after bad news had found a room before anyone was ready for it.
Jack hated it. He looked away first. The radio stayed quiet.
Across the command point, one of the bomb squad officers stood near the police perimeter, speaking low into his shoulder mic. He was younger than Vale, broader, with a hard case at his feet and an expression Jack did not like. Too calm.
Too distant. Too outside the room. Jack knew that was unfair.
He didn't care. The officer said something into the mic that Jack couldn't fully catch. Then he heard:
"Extraction window depends on subject compliance." Subject. Not your name.
Not nurse. Subject. Jack moved before he made a decision.
Robby's head snapped toward him. "Jack." Jack ignored him.
He crossed the command point in three strides, cutting between a portable oxygen tank and the edge of McKay's board. The bomb squad officer looked up just in time.
"Do not call her that." The officer blinked. "Excuse me?"
Jack stopped close enough that Lena's head lifted across the room. Robby was already moving behind him.
Jack's voice stayed low. That was the only mercy he had left in him. "She is not a subject."
The officer's expression tightened. "Dr. Abbott, that's standardâ" "I don't care what it is."
"Jack," Robby said from behind him. Jack did not turn.
The officer straightened slightly. "She is inside an active hazard area. We use operational language for clarity." "She has a name."
"I understand that." "No," Jack said. "You don't." The command point went quieter.
Not silent. Never silent. There were still patients staged beyond the line, still phones, still radios, still the low machine hum of a hospital forced to keep functioning around a hole blown through its centre. But people noticed.
Of course they did. Jack heard it happening. McKay stopped speaking mid-sentence.
Garcia lowered her phone. Princess looked over from the portable oxygen tanks, eyes wide and wet.
Lena said his name once. "Jack." The bomb squad officer kept his voice controlled. "I'm not trying to disrespect your nurse."
"My nurse?" Jack repeated. The officer realized too late that those were the wrong words too.
Robby stepped in then, hand closing around Jack's upper arm. "Enough." Jack looked at him.
Robby's face was close now. Calm. Firm. No room. "Move," Robby said. Jack's eyes flashed. "Get your hand off me."
"No." The word landed flat between them. For a second, Jack genuinely thought about shaking him off.
Then Robby's grip tightened. Not hard. Just enough to tell him he would make this ugly if Jack made him.
"Move," Robby repeated. "Now." Jack held his stare. Robby did not blink.
Behind them, Lena's voice cut in, low and dangerous. "Abbott." That did it. Not because Jack was calm.
Because he was outnumbered by people who loved him enough to humiliate him if it kept him from doing something stupid. He stepped back.
Robby did not let go. He guided him away from the bomb squad officer, past the command board, past the abandoned coffee, past the rolling cart with the radio sitting on top like a loaded weapon.
Jack stopped near the supply alcove, far enough that the command point could pretend not to listen if it tried very hard. Robby positioned himself directly in front of him.
"What the hell are you doing?" Robby said. Jack's laugh came out short and ugly. "I'm correcting terminology."
"No. You're picking a fight with the people keeping her alive." Jack's jaw clenched.
Robby lowered his voice. "Look at me." "Don't." "Look at me."
Jack did. Robby's face was pale, but his eyes were steady. Good attending eyes.
Friend eyes. The worst kind. "I know you love her," Robby said.
Everything in Jack went still. The command point blurred at the edges.
For one second, there was no radio. No police perimeter. No evacuation. No bomb squad. No patient bleeding inside the room Jack had been forced to leave. Only Robby's sentence.
Blunt. Quiet. Irreversible.
Jack's voice came out rough. "This isn't the time." "It is exactly the time if you're going to start swinging at bomb squad over vocabulary."
"I wasn't swinging." "You were close enough that I started calculating bail." Jack looked away.
Robby stepped with him, blocking the escape. "No," Robby said. "You don't get to disappear into angry and call it useful. Not right now."
Jack's eyes snapped back. "Useful?" "Yes. Useful." Robby jabbed one finger toward the command point. "Vale needs quiet. Lena needs a command structure. Garcia needs a surgical plan. She needs you not making her the centre of a testosterone-sponsored incident in the hallway."
Jack flinched at that. Robby saw. Of course he did.
His voice softened by one degree, which somehow made it worse. "She told you she couldn't think about you." Jack's throat tightened.
"Don't make her," Robby said. Jack looked past him, toward the corridor that led back to Trauma One.
He could not see it from here. That was the wound. That was the thing his body kept forgetting and remembering.
"I can't see her," he said. "I know." "You don't."
Robby's face shifted. Jack knew he was being cruel. He could feel it.
He still could not stop. "You don't know what this looks like," Jack said. "You don't know how fast it happens. You don't know what a room sounds like after. You don't knowâ"
"No," Robby said. "I don't." That stopped him harder than an argument would have. Robby held his gaze.
"I don't know that," Robby said. "I'm not going to stand here and pretend I do. I haven't seen what you've seen." Jack's breath scraped.
"But I know you," Robby continued. "And I know when you're scared enough to start making everything around you an enemy because at least enemies give you something to fight." Jack's mouth opened.
Nothing came out. Robby's voice stayed low. "You are not in the army right now." Jack's whole body tightened.
Robby did not back off. "You are not back there," he said. "You are here. In Pittsburgh. In The Pitt. With Lena ready to throw you into a supply closet if you make her. With Garcia trying to keep an OR alive. With a bomb squad sergeant doing the only job in the building you cannot do."
Jack looked away, jaw working. "And with her," Robby said, quieter, "still alive inside that room." Still alive.
The words hit like a hand around his throat. Jack closed his eyes. Just once.
The image came anyway. Not you. For a second, not you.
A different room. A different kind of light. Dust in the air so thick it turned morning brown. Someone shouting for a medic. Someone else not shouting at all. Heat. Pressure. The smell of burned wiring and blood and concrete. A hand in his.
Then not. He opened his eyes before the memory could finish. Robby was watching him.
Not pushing. Not pitying. There.
Jack hated how badly he needed him. "I know how this can go," Jack said. His voice was quieter now.
More dangerous because it was honest. "I know."
"No, Robby." Jack shook his head once. "I know how fast a body stops being a person. I know what blast does. I know what gets left when everyone says there was nothing else to do." Robby swallowed.
Jack's chest felt too tight. "I have seen it too many times." The radio crackled somewhere behind them.
Both of them turned. But it was only static. No update.
No voice. No you. Jack's hands curled.
Robby watched the movement, then looked back at his face. "Jack," he said.
Jack shook his head. "I can't lose another person I love." The words came out before he could stop them. Not loud.
Not dramatic. Just there. Between them.
Robby went still. Jack heard what he had said a second after he said it. Another person.
I love. The command point seemed to move farther away.
Phones. Radios. Staff. Patients. All of it faded under the weight of those four words. Person I love.
Robby's voice, when it came, was very soft. "Yeah." That was all.
No surprise. No performance. Just yeah.
Jack looked at him. Robby's eyes were tired and sad and too kind. "You knew," Jack said.
Robby's mouth shifted faintly. "Everybody with a pulse knew." Jack huffed once. It almost hurt.
"Not helpful." "No," Robby said. "But true." Jack dragged a hand over his face. His fingers caught briefly on nothing.
On absence. His left hand lowered. Robby's gaze dropped.
Not obviously. But enough. Jack saw the moment he noticed.
Or maybe not noticed. Acknowledged. His wedding ring was gone.
It had been gone for weeks. Longer, maybe.
The skin where it used to sit still looked faintly marked to Jack, though probably no one else would have seen it unless they knew exactly what absence looked like. Robby did.
Of course Robby did. "I noticed," Robby said. Jack stared at him.
Robby's eyes lifted back to his. "You stopped wearing it a while ago." Jack's jaw tightened. "That's notâ"
"I'm not making it into something." "Sounds like you are." "I'm saying I noticed."
Jack looked down at his hand. No ring. No metal.
No easy explanation sitting there for the world to read. For years, the ring had been armour. Grief made visible. Boundary made respectable. A small, gold reason no one had to ask why Jack Abbott lived like a man who had locked certain doors and thrown away the keys.
Taking it off had not felt like moving on. He hated that phrase.
Moving on sounded like leaving someone behind at a bus stop. It had not been that. It had been quieter.
One morning after shift, sitting on the edge of his bed, unable to stop thinking about the way you had laughed at something stupid in the med room. The way guilt had not arrived first that time. The way warmth had. He had taken the ring off because wearing it had started to feel less like love and more like hiding.
Then he had sat there for twenty minutes with it in his palm. Like it might accuse him. It hadn't.
That had almost been worse. Robby's voice was careful. "I didn't say anything because it wasn't mine to say."
Jack's throat worked. "I didn't know if anyone noticed." Robby gave him a look.
Jack almost laughed again. This time it hurt less. "Right," Jack muttered. "Stupid."
"Deeply." Jack looked back toward the corridor. "She doesn't know."
"That you took it off?" Jack nodded once. "Maybe she does," Robby said.
Jack's eyes cut back. Robby shrugged. "She's a nurse. She notices things for a living. Also, you are not subtle."
"I am extremely subtle." "You nearly committed a felony because a bomb tech said 'subject.'" Jack glared at him.
Robby lifted both hands slightly. "Subtle as mist." Despite himself, despite the radio, despite the corridor and the patient and the terror chewing the inside of his chest apart, Jack's mouth moved.
Barely. Then it was gone. Robby saw it anyway.
His expression softened again. "There you are." "Don't." "Okay."
A beat. Then Robby said, "Listen to me." Jack exhaled. "You keep saying that."
"Because you keep acting like you're going to do something dumb." "I'm standing here."
"You are one radio update away from becoming a problem." Jack did not argue. That was answer enough.
Robby stepped closer. "She needs you alive," Robby said. "She needs you outside the perimeter. She needs you making medical decisions that don't come from panic. She needs you to not turn your fear into another thing Vale has to manage."
Jack looked away. Robby's voice gentled, but did not soften enough to let him escape.
"And when she comes out," he said, "she's going to need you to be the person she can fall apart with. Not the person everyone had to restrain." When.
Not if. Jack shut his eyes again. This time, he held the word.
When. When she comes out.
When she hears him say the thing he should have said before a bomb squad sergeant and an evacuated ED and her hand on a device made cowards of every careful delay. When he can touch her.
When he can tell her that he took the ring off not because love had ended, but because it had changed rooms. When.
He opened his eyes. Robby was still there. Annoyingly.
Thankfully. Jack's voice came out low. "I don't know how to do this." Robby nodded. "I know."
"I'm better in the room." "Most of us are."
"No." Jack shook his head. "I mean I am better when there is blood and a job and something to fix." Robby's mouth twisted. "Yeah. I noticed."
Jack stared at the command table. At the radio. At Lena's pen moving over the roster.
At the little boy with the splinted wrist wrapped in the allegedly stolen blanket. At the elderly woman in the east hall clutching her oxygen tubing while Perlah crouched in front of her and promised her daughter was nearby.
At The Pitt, emptied but still alive. Then at the corridor he could not enter. "What do I do?" Jack asked.
The question cost him more than he wanted it to. Robby did not make him regret it.
"You stand here," Robby said. "You listen. You answer when Vale calls. You let Lena run the evacuation. You let Garcia run the OR. You let me handle the board. And you do not pick another fight with bomb squad unless they actually endanger her." Jack swallowed.
"And breathe," Robby added. Jack gave him a look. Robby shrugged. "You're bad at it."
"I'm a physician." "Physicians are the worst patients." "I'm not a patient."
"Not yet." Jack's eyes narrowed. Robby held up a hand. "Too soon?"
"Deeply." "Fair." The radio crackled again.
Every person at the command point froze. Jack turned so fast his hip nearly clipped the rolling cart.
Lena grabbed the radio. "Command." Static.
Vale's voice came through, clipped and calm. "Trauma One. Field support placed. Nurse remains stable. No device movement observed."
Jack's breath left him so hard Robby's hand twitched like he wanted to steady him. Vale continued.
"Patient pressure declining. Nurse identified change from monitor. No visible increase in external bleeding. Requesting medical recommendation before proceeding to controlled removal plan." Lena looked at Jack.
So did everyone else. For one second, Jack heard Robby's voice again. Get your act together.
He stepped forward. Not toward the corridor. Toward the radio.
Lena let him take it this time. Jack pressed the button. His voice came out steady.
Not calm. Steady.
"Abbott. Continue blood as running. Do not alter her pressure to chase the blood pressure. If there's no visible external increase, assume internal loss. He needs OR, but not until Vale clears transport. Her hand stays exactly where it is until Vale has stabilization." A pause.
Then Vale: "Copy." Jack closed his eyes briefly. Then pressed the button again.
"And tell her," he said, voice rougher despite every effort, "she is doing exactly what she needs to do." Static.
A second. Two. Then Vale answered.
"I'll tell her." The radio went quiet. Jack lowered it slowly.
Robby stood beside him. Lena watched him from the other side of the table. No one spoke.
Jack looked down at his bare left hand. Then toward the corridor. Still unable to see you.
Still unable to reach you. Still here. Still useful.
Barely. For now.
Readers POV
Vale told you what Jack said. Not immediately. First, he finished listening to the radio.
First, he looked at the monitor. First, he looked at your hand, at the wound, at the small field supports he had built around your forearm like the most terrible scaffolding in the world.
Then he looked at you. "Dr. Abbott says you are doing exactly what you need to do." For a second, the room disappeared.
Not completely. Never completely.
The monitor still beeped. The blood pump still clicked. Mr. Mercer still breathed with the help of machinery. Your right hand still stayed buried inside his flank, palm braced against the foreign body that everyone was now careful not to describe too much. But Jack's voice existed in the sentence Vale had carried to you.
Not the sound of it. The weight. You swallowed.
"That's manipulative." Vale's expression did not change. "Take it up with him later."
Later. The word moved through you like air. Later was a room that did not have blood on the floor.
Later was Jack close enough to hear. Later was your hand free.
Later was a thing you could not afford to believe in too hard, but you held it anyway. Small. Careful.
Like everything else. Vale set the radio back onto the sheet beside his case. "We're moving to the next step."
Your mouth went dry. "Extraction?" "Preparation for extraction."
"That feels like something people say before extraction." "It is." You tried to breathe.
The protective gear Vale had placed around you shifted very slightly with your chest. The vest was heavy across your left side, awkward where it could not close properly because of the angle of your right arm. The blanket pressed along your hip and thigh. The glasses sat on your face, too clean for the room. The ear protection muffled the edges of sound, which made your own breathing enormous. You hated all of it.
You were grateful for all of it. Vale's radio murmured again.
A voice from outside. "Secondary to Vale. Field support confirmed?" Vale pressed the button. "Partial support placed. Nurse remains primary stabilizer. No visible device movement. Preparing controlled extraction and handoff."
Controlled extraction and handoff. Your stomach turned.
Vale must have seen it, because he looked up before the radio answered. "Do not make that phrase bigger than it is."
"It's pretty big already." "It is a sequence." "It's my hand."
"Yes," he said. "And that is why we do it as a sequence." The voice on the radio returned. "Copy. Maintain communication. Perimeter holding. Medical command standing by."
Medical command. Jack. You did not look toward the radio.
You had learned that lesson. Barely.
Vale shifted his weight, still crouched near the bed. "I am going to tell you the whole sequence once. Then I will give it to you in pieces. You do not move during the explanation." "My hand stays."
"Correct." "My pressure stays." "Correct."
"I don't anticipate." "Correct." He paused.
"Good. Now listen." You listened. There was nowhere else to go.
"I have support around your forearm. It is not bearing your weight. It is there to limit accidental drift. I am going to establish external stabilization around the object. I will tell you before every contact. When I have it, I will ask you to release pressure by degrees." Your heart slammed hard.
"Release pressure." "By degrees," Vale repeated. "Not all at once. Not pulling. Not lifting. Not deciding. I will count. You will follow the count. If I say stop, you stop immediately."
"What if I can't?" "You can." "I'm serious."
"So am I." The calm of him should have been offensive. Maybe it was.
Maybe you needed it anyway. Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "Your body wants to make this one big movement because it is scared. We are not going to let it. We are going to make it small. Pressure first. Angle second. Extraction third. Handoff last. You only live in the step I give you."
Your throat tightened. "That sounds like Jack." "Then he gives good instructions."
"He'd be unbearable if he heard you say that." "Then don't tell him." The almost-laugh hurt your chest.
You held it carefully. The monitor alarm gave a short, angry chirp. Your eyes flicked to it.
Pulse still too fast. Pressure still too low. Sat holding.
For now. "His pressure's still down," you said. Vale glanced, then back to you. "Is it worse?"
You looked without moving your head. "No. Same range." "Then it is not your step."
You hated that. You understood it. "Okay."
Vale lifted the radio again. "Vale to secondary. Beginning stabilization. Nurse is alert and able to follow commands. Patient pressure remains low but no acute monitor change." "Copy. All units holding."
All units. There were people outside you could not see. People holding a perimeter. People moving patients. People waiting for either disaster or miracle.
And Jack. Somewhere outside the emptied ED, Jack was waiting with a radio and bare hands. Your eyes burned.
Vale saw. "Not now," he said. "I know."
"Do you?" "No." His mouth twitched once. "Honest."
"Efficient." He nodded like he accepted the answer. Then his face settled.
Something in the room changed with it. This was no longer preparation. This was the thing.
"I am going to touch the outer wound edge," Vale said. "Not your hand. Not the object." Your breath caught. "Okay."
"Say it." "You're touching the wound edge. Not my hand. Not the object." "Good."
His gloved fingers moved into the edge of your vision. Slow. Unbearably slow.
He touched near the wound. Not you. Not the thing under your palm.
The contact was still close enough that your entire body tried to go rigid. "Hold," Vale said. You held.
"Breathe." You breathed. "Again."
You breathed again. "Good."
The radio murmured low, but Vale did not answer it. His attention narrowed to the wound, to the supports, to your arm. "I am placing stabilization on the lateral side," he said.
You stared at him. "Not the object yet," he added. "Beside it." "Beside it," you repeated.
He placed something you could not see and did not want to see. Your hand stayed in place. Pressure unchanged.
Palm braced against the hard, smooth edge inside Mr. Mercer's flank. Your fingers were starting to feel strange now.
Not numb. Not exactly. But distant, like they belonged to someone who had been holding on for too long.
"Fingers," Vale said. You swallowed. "Weird." "How?"
"Not numb. Just... far away." "Can you feel the shape?" "Yes."
"Can you feel pressure?" "Yes." "Pain?"
"Some." "Good." "Good?"
"Pain means you can still feel enough to follow instructions." You shut your eyes for a fraction of a second.
"Eyes," Vale said. You opened them. "Sorry."
"Stop apologizing." "Tell everyone to stop being terrifying." "Later."
There it was again. Later. You breathed.
Vale placed another support. Then another. Each time, he announced it.
Each time, you repeated back enough to prove you understood. Each time, nothing happened. The room did not explode.
Mr. Mercer did not crash. Your hand did not move. The world continued in tiny, impossible increments.
After what felt like hours and was probably less than three minutes, Vale sat back slightly. His face remained composed.
But you saw something change. A decision settling. "Okay," he said.
The word did not feel okay. Your stomach turned cold. Vale lifted the radio. "Vale to command."
Static. Lena answered. "Command."
"I have preliminary stabilization. Preparing controlled extraction and handoff. Medical standby." A silence.
Then Jack's voice. "Abbott." Your lungs forgot their job.
Vale did not look away from you. "Dr. Abbott, I need you to listen. Do not interrupt unless I ask for medical input." A beat.
Then Jack said, "Understood." It was the least Jack-sounding thing he had ever said.
Vale continued. "Nurse remains alert. Hand position unchanged. I am going to guide pressure release and angle. Due to position, she will have to draw the component out and hand it to me. Patient will need immediate medical entry once I call safe enough for movement." The radio stayed silent for half a second.
That was all. Half a second. But you knew Jack well enough to hear everything he was swallowing inside it.
Then his voice came through. Low. Controlled.
Strained nearly past recognition. "Garcia and anesthesia are ready." "Good."
Another pause. Then Jack asked, "Can she hear me?" Vale looked at you.
Your mouth went dry. "Yes," Vale said. Static.
For a second, nothing. Then Jack's voice softened through the radio in a way that made the whole room tilt.
"Don't listen to me right now," Jack said. Your eyes filled instantly. Vale watched your face.
Jack continued, rougher now. "Listen to Vale. That's your job." You breathed in. It shook.
"I'm trying," you whispered, too quietly for the radio. Vale heard. He did not relay it.
Maybe mercy existed after all. Jack's voice came again. "You can do this."
That was worse. That was better. Then the radio clicked silent from command's end.
Either Jack had let go. Or someone had taken it from him. You did not ask.
Vale set his radio down. "Now me," he said. You nodded internally.
Not with your head. "My hand," you said. "Your hand."
"Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes." "Your voice."
"Yes." "And later." Vale paused for only a second.
"And later." His eyes moved over your face, then to your shoulder, then to the wound. "Your breathing changed," he said.
You swallowed. "I'm aware." "You were steadier a minute ago." "That feels rude to point out."
"It's useful to point out." "Useful to who?" "To both of us."
He placed another support near your forearm, pausing before his hand entered your peripheral vision. "I'm touching the support," he said. "Not you."
"Okay." "You were thinking about Dr. Abbott." Your heart kicked.
You looked at him. Or tried to. Not your head. Just your eyes.
Vale's face stayed maddeningly calm. "That is wildly inappropriate timing." "It's relevant."
"It is absolutely not relevant." "You stopped hyperventilating." "I did not hyperventilate."
"You were close." "I was emotionally breathing." "That's not a thing."
"It is in my line of work." Vale's mouth twitched. Barely.
Then his eyes returned to the wound. "Tell me about him." Your throat closed.
"What?" "Dr. Abbott," Vale said. "Tell me about him." "No."
"That wasn't a request." You stared at him. "You want me to talk about Jack while my hand is inside a patient and there's a bomb under my palm?"
"I want you steady," Vale said. "You are steadier when you think about him. So yes." Your eyes burned. "That's cruel."
"It's practical." "That's worse." "I know."
He adjusted the edge of the protective blanket near your hip, slow enough that your body did not startle. "Start small," Vale said.
"I can't." "You can." "Everyone keeps saying that."
"Then a lot of people are correct." You breathed out. It shook.
Vale looked up. "Small," he repeated. "One thing." Your mouth trembled.
The monitor beeped. Mr. Mercer breathed with the help of machinery.
Somewhere far beyond the emptied trauma corridor, Jack was outside the perimeter, unable to see you, maybe listening to a radio like it was the only thing in the world. You focused on Vale's face.
Not the wound. Not the device. Not the blood drying tacky beneath your glove.
"His pen," you said. Vale paused. "His pen?" "He has this black pen he acts like is government property."
Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "Good. Keep going." "It writes better than the hospital ones." "That matters?"
"At three in the morning? Deeply." Vale's mouth moved again, not quite a smile.
"And he pretends not to know I steal it." "Does he know?" "He knows everything."
Your breathing eased by a fraction. You noticed it. So did Vale.
Of course he did. "He gives it to me anyway," you said. "Why?"
"Because he's an idiot." Vale's eyebrows lifted. "Because he trusts me," you corrected, voice softer.
Vale held your gaze for one beat. Then nodded. "Good."
Your arm still hurt. Your hand was still inside Mr. Mercer's flank. Nothing about the room was better.
But the panic had shifted shape. Not gone. Never gone. But less wild at the edges. Vale reached for the radio clipped near his shoulder.
"Secondary, hold," he said. "I'm maintaining nurse focus before the next step." A voice crackled back. "Copy. Perimeter holding."
Vale looked back at you. "Keep going." "I'm going to run out of things."
"No, you're not." That was the problem. You weren't.
There were too many things. Jack's hand under your bruised wrist. Jack's voice cutting through a room.
Jack standing too close at the nurses' station because neither of you had been brave enough to either step away or step closer. Jack taking the terrible truth and making it smaller.
Jack outside because you had told him to go. Your eyes filled. Vale's voice lowered. "One more."
You shook your head internally. "Tell me one more thing." Your voice came out barely there.
"He makes me feel safe." Vale went still. Not frozen.
Not startled. Just still enough that you knew he understood the size of what you had said.
You kept your eyes on him because if you looked anywhere else, there would be no holding it back. "That's stupid, isn't it?" you whispered. "Considering."
"No," Vale said. The word was immediate. Firm.
Not comforting. Certain. "No," he repeated. "It is not stupid." Your mouth trembled.
Vale's hand settled near the support at your wrist, not touching you yet. "You are steadier now," he said. "We use that."
"Use Jack?" "Use what works." That made a broken sound leave you.
Almost a laugh. Almost a sob. "God, he would hate that."
"Then survive and tell him." There. Later again.
A place to put the fear. Vale's face shifted back into command. "Now we move to extraction."
Your breath caught. "No." "Yes."
"I was enjoying talking about pens." "I know." "Vale."
His eyes held yours. "Keep talking about him," he said. "But follow my count." Your throat tightened.
"How am I supposed to do both?" "Badly, if necessary." "That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be. It was an instruction." He lifted his hand. "I am going to place my hand over yours."
Your whole body went cold. "No." "Yes."
"You saidâ" "I know what I said. This is the step. I will match your position first. You will feel contact over your glove and wrist. You do not respond to the contact."
Your breathing tried to go fast again. Vale cut it off. "Tell me about his hand."
You blinked. "What?" "Dr. Abbott's hand," Vale said. "Earlier. You looked at your wrist when I said contact."
Your throat closed. That was worse than the pen. Much worse.
"That's not fair." "No," Vale said. "It's useful." The room narrowed.
Mr. Mercer breathing. The monitor. Vale's hand hovering above yours.
Jack's hand around your wrist at the nurses' station, careful and warm, thumb resting beneath the red mark like touching you was something he had to make himself do gently. Vale's gloved hand moved into your peripheral vision.
Slow. "Tell me," he said. You swallowed.
"He checked my wrist earlier." "Why?" "Patient grabbed me."
Vale's hand settled lightly over the back of your right hand and wrist where they disappeared into the wound. Your body screamed.
Your hand did not move. Vale's voice stayed even. "Pressure unchanged." You breathed.
"Shape unchanged." You breathed again. "Keep talking."
"It was nothing," you whispered. Vale's eyes flicked to yours. "Was it?" "No."
The answer came out before you could make it smaller. Your eyes burned.
"He didn't make it a thing," you said. "That's what he does. He notices everything, but he lets you keep your dignity." Vale matched the angle of your hand.
Not pushing. Not pulling. Just there.
"And that matters?" "Yes." "Why?"
Your mouth trembled. "Because everyone sees too much in this place," you said. "But Jack... Jack sees it and doesn't use it against you."
Vale's face remained still, but his eyes stayed on yours. "Good," he said. "First count." Your breath caught.
"I am going to ask you to decrease pressure by the smallest amount you can imagine," he said. "While you do, tell me where his thumb was." Your throat tightened.
"Vale." "One step," he said. "One detail." The monitor beeped.
Mr. Mercer breathed. Somewhere outside the perimeter, Jack existed. Alive.
Waiting. Bare hand where the ring used to be, though you did not know that yet. Vale began the count.
"One." Your whole body went silent. "Two."
You thought of Jack's face angled down toward your wrist. "Three." You decreased pressure.
Barely. A surrender smaller than breath. "Under the bruise," you whispered.
Vale's hand stayed over yours. The object did not move. The room did not end.
"Stop," Vale said. You stopped. "Hold there."
You held. Vale checked the markers. "No shift."
A sob slipped out of you. Vale's voice stayed steady. "Good. Again."
"I can't." "You can. Tell me what he did when he let go." You dragged in air.
"What?" "When he let go." You wanted to laugh.
You wanted to scream. You did neither. Vale counted.
"One." Your fingers burned. "Two."
Your palm stayed aligned beneath his hand. "Three." Another fraction of pressure released.
You whispered, "He did it slowly." Vale checked the field. "No shift. Hold."
You held. Tears slid under the protective glasses. Vale's mouth moved by almost nothing.
"Why did that matter?" Your breath came out uneven. "Because he didn't want to."
The words were barely there. Small. Embarrassing.
True. Vale watched you for half a second. Then nodded once.
"Good." The word nearly undid you. Your hand stayed steady.
Vale's hand remained over yours. The foreign body stayed beneath your palm. Less pressure now.
Not gone. Not free. But less.
Enough that the world felt like it had tilted forward. Vale spoke into his radio without looking away.
"Secondary, pressure reduction initiated. No visible shift. Preparing controlled extraction." A voice came back. "Copy. Maintain current sequence."
Controlled extraction. Your mouth went dry again. "What does that mean?"
Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "It means your hand is the only thing with the correct angle." "No."
"Yes." "No, Vale." "Listen to me."
"I can't pull it out." "You can." "No, I can't."
"You can," Vale said again, calm and absolute. "Because you are already holding it. I cannot safely get around your hand without shifting the component. I can stabilize the field. I can receive it. But you are the one who has to draw it out." Your ears filled with static.
Not the radio. Your own blood. The room seemed to move farther away.
"I can't." "You can." "You don't know that."
"No," Vale said. "But you know the angle. Your hand knows it." "That is not comforting." "It is true."
Your breath came too fast. Vale's eyes sharpened. "Do not leave me now."
"I'm not." "You are. Come back." "I don't know how."
"Tell me what Dr. Abbott said when he looked at your wrist." The question hit you sideways.
You blinked hard behind the protective glasses. "What?" "Earlier. What did he say?"
Your mouth trembled. "He told me to tell Shen if Twelve got agitated again." Vale held your gaze.
"And what did he mean?" You swallowed. "He meant he was worried."
"Good. Hold onto that." "I don't want to hold onto that. I want him here." "He is not here."
The bluntness hurt. Vale did not apologize.
"He is alive outside the perimeter because you told him to go," he said. "Now keep him there by doing this right." A sob got caught in your throat.
Your hand stayed steady. "Okay," you whispered. Vale nodded once.
"I'm going to tell you the sequence. You do not move while I explain." "My hand stays." "Yes. For now."
For now. You hated that.
Vale continued. "On my count, you will release pressure another fraction. Then you will change angle exactly with my hand. Then, when I tell you, you will draw the object out along that angle. Slow. No pulling. No jerking. No stopping halfway unless I say stop." Your vision narrowed.
"And then?" "You hand it to me." You stared at him.
The words made no sense. They were simple. They were impossible.
"I hand you the bomb." "You hand me the component," Vale said. "Do not make it sound polite."
"You hand me the component," he repeated. "I will take it. You will let go only when I say I have it." Your breathing broke apart.
The monitor beeped faster. Or maybe that was your pulse. Vale's voice stayed low. "You have done every step so far."
"This is different." "Yes." That was not what you wanted him to say.
He knew that. He said it anyway. The room held for one terrible second.
Then Mr. Mercer's pressure dipped again. Your eyes caught the number. Forty-eight.
Vale saw your face. "Number?" "Forty-eight," you whispered.
His jaw tightened for the first time. Only slightly. Enough.
Time narrowed. "Okay," Vale said. "We finish." Your lips parted.
No sound came out. Vale's hand remained over yours.
"I'm going to take more position now," he said. "You are going to let me guide. Not loose. Not limp. Guided." "Valeâ"
"I know." "No, I needâ" The sentence broke.
Because suddenly there was no later. No pen. No nurses' station.
No Jack almost smiling at three in the morning. Only this step and the terrifying possibility that it might be the last.
Vale's eyes stayed on yours. "What do you need?" The question undid you.
Not because it was gentle. Because it was practical. Because he was asking like there might be an answer.
Your mouth trembled. "If this goes wrong..." Vale went very still.
"No." "Please." "No messages."
You understood immediately why Jack had stopped Mr. Mercer earlier. You understood it with your whole body.
Messages were surrender. Messages made death feel invited. But fear was bigger than dignity now.
"If this goes wrong," you said, tears running hot under the protective glasses, "make sure Jack knows..." Your throat closed.
Vale's expression changed. Not much. Enough.
"Tell him yourself." "I might not get to." "You don't know that."
"Neither do you." The room held. The monitor beeped too fast.
Mr. Mercer breathed because machines helped him. Your hand stayed against the object. Vale did not speak.
You forced the words out before courage could fail. "Make sure Jack knows I love him." Vale's face stilled completely.
The sentence seemed to exist outside your body now. Huge. Terrible.
True. You had not meant to say it like that. Not here.
Not to Vale. Not with Jack outside the perimeter and a radio silent somewhere beyond the room. But there it was.
The thing you had carried through glances and coffee and bruised wrists and almost-smiles at three in the morning. The thing you had refused to name because naming it made it real and real things could be lost. Too late.
It was real now. Your voice shook. "Tell him I've always loved him."
Vale's jaw tightened. Just once. Then his face became calm again.
Not cold. Steady. "I'll make sure he knows," he said.
It should have comforted you. It didn't. Not exactly.
It made the fear real in a way that nearly broke you. Vale saw that too.
"But I'm not delivering that message today," he said. Your breath caught. "What?"
"You are." A sob broke out of you. "Valeâ"
"No." His hand tightened slightly over yours. "You do not get to give me his heart like it's evidence because you're scared." That undid you.
Completely. A sound left you that was almost a laugh and almost grief. "That is incredibly mean."
"Yes." "I'm confessing my love in a bomb room." "You're delaying my count."
A laugh came out of you. Wet. Broken.
Completely inappropriate. Vale's mouth almost moved. Almost.
Then he said, "Dr. Abbott can hear it from you when your hand is free." "When?" "When."
You cried again. But your hand stayed steady. Vale waited one breath.
Two. Then he said, "Ready?" "No."
"Correct answer. We're doing it anyway." Your lungs shook. "My hand."
"Your hand." "Mr. Mercer breathing." "Yes."
"Your voice." "Yes." "And later."
Vale held your gaze. "And later." Then his voice changed.
Sharper. Command.
"On my count. Pressure release and angle together. I have your position. You follow my hand. You do not stop unless I say stop." Your whole body went cold.
"Okay." "Say it." "I follow your hand. I don't stop unless you say stop."
"Good." The monitor alarmed again. Vale did not look away.
"One." You felt his hand guide yours. "Two."
Your fingers loosened by a degree. "Three." You moved.
Slow. Not pulling. Not jerking.
Not escaping. Following. Vale's hand over yours.
The wound releasing around your glove by awful fractions. The foreign body shifting from something pinned under your palm to something held between your fingers with the most careful grip of your life.
Your body screamed to yank free. You did not. "Stop," Vale said.
You stopped. Halfway. Your hand still partly inside.
The object partly drawn out. The worst possible place. Your breath came in ragged gasps.
Vale's eyes checked the markers. The wound. The object.
The monitor. "No shift." You sobbed.
"Good," he said. "Final count." "I can't." "You are."
"I can't." "You are." "My fingersâ"
"Follow my hand." "Valeâ" "Look at me."
You did. He was the whole world now. Not Jack.
Not later. Not love. This.
Vale's face. Vale's hand. Vale's count. "Final count," he said. "One." Your hand followed.
"Two." The wound released another fraction of your glove. "Three."
The object came free. For one impossible second, you were holding it. Not under your palm.
Not hidden inside Mr. Mercer's body. In your hand. Small enough to hold.
Heavy enough to end everything. Your mind tried to understand that and failed. Vale's hand was already there.
Open. Steady. "Do not look at it," he said.
Too late. You had already seen enough. Metal.
Blood. Wrongness. "Eyes on me," Vale said.
You snapped back to him. "Hand it to me." Your arm moved.
Slowly. So slowly it felt like time had become thick around your wrist. Your fingers did not tighten.
Did not loosen. Did not shake. Vale's hand came beneath yours.
"Not yet," he said. You froze with the object suspended between you. A sob tore through your throat.
"Vale." "Not yet." Your shoulder screamed.
Your fingers burned. The monitor shrieked. Mr. Mercer's blood slicked your glove.
Vale adjusted his grip by a fraction. "Now," he said. You released it.
Vale took the object. Fully. Cleanly.
No drop. No shift. No end.
For one impossible second, nothing happened. No blast. No sound.
No light. Only your empty hand hanging in the space where the object had been. Covered in blood.
Shaking now. Finally shaking. Vale did not move immediately.
He held the component exactly where it was, both hands steady, his eyes locked on the containment setup beside him. "Hand clear," he said, not into the radio.
To you. To the room. To himself, maybe.
Your breath came out broken. "My hand is clear," you whispered. "Yes," Vale said. "Keep it that way."
His eyes flicked once to the sealed containment case at his side. His squad would be waiting beyond the corridor. Watching. Ready. They would not need him to explain every second. Not while he had the thing in his hands. He lowered the component into the containment cradle with excruciating care.
Once. Slow. Exact.
Then his left hand lifted just enough to activate the case mechanism. A soft click. A lock.
The smallest sound in the world. His radio crackled once from the floor, voices layered under static.
"Vale, confirm status." Vale did not answer. He had both hands on the containment case now.
His attention had narrowed completely. To the case. To the route.
To every inch between Trauma One and wherever his team planned to take it. Your hand was out. Empty.
Free. You stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
Like it had come back from somewhere it should not have survived. Mr. Mercer was still breathing.
The monitor was still screaming. The blood pump was still clicking. The room had not ended.
You had not ended. Then Jack's voice broke through the radio lying on the floor. Raw.
Uncontrolled. "Is she clear?" Vale's eyes flicked toward the radio.
Only once. He did not reach for it. Did not answer.
Couldn't. Not now. Not with the containment case in his hands and the component inside it.
Your eyes filled instantly. You wanted to answer. You wanted to tell Jack you were clear.
You wanted to tell him your hand was free. You wanted to tell him you loved him yourself, because Vale had refused to be your courier and maybe, impossibly, he had been right.
But your throat would not work. The radio crackled again. "Vale, confirm."
Then Lena's voice, tighter. "Trauma One, status?" Vale still did not answer. He looked at you instead.
"Stay where you are," he said. Your mouth trembled. "Valeâ"
"Do not follow me. Do not move toward the door. Medical will come when the route is clear." "Where are you going?"
"Out." "With it?" "With it."
Your stomach dropped. He lifted the containment case carefully. Not fast.
Never fast. But with controlled urgency, the kind that changed the pressure in the room. Every movement had purpose now.
Every breath looked measured. The case was sealed, but no one in the room pretended sealed meant safe.
Vale backed away from the bed first. One step. Pause.
Another. He did not turn his back on the field until he had cleared the edge of the trauma bay table. Only then did he angle toward the doors.
The radio kept murmuring from the floor. Static. Questions.
Command trying not to sound like command was afraid. Jack's voice cut through once more. Your name.
Not a question this time. A fracture. You closed your eyes for half a second.
Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Open them." You did.
"Stay standing," he said. "I'm trying." "You're succeeding."
"Feels different," you whispered. "It usually does." He reached the trauma bay doors.
The corridor beyond was empty. Bright. Too quiet.
For one terrible second, Vale stood in the threshold with the containment case held steady in both hands. Then he stepped through.
The door swung wider behind him. You saw the evacuated corridor beyond him.
Saw one bomb squad officer far down the hall, shield raised but not close. Saw another at the corner, hand lifted in a signal you did not understand.
Vale kept moving. One step into the corridor. Then another.
Farther from you. Farther from Mr. Mercer. Farther from the bed.
Not far enough. The radio on the floor hissed. Someone said, "Hold perimeter."
Then the world went white. There was no sound at first. That was the strangest part.
No roar. No bang. Just light.
Pressure. The whole room hitting you at once.
The force punched through the trauma bay like a hand through glass. The door blew inward. The windows shattered. The monitor tore sideways. Something slammed into the wall hard enough to break apart. Heat and air and noise arrived together, too big for your body to understand. You were thrown backward.
Not falling. Thrown. Your feet left the floor.
Your shoulder struck something first. Then your back. Then the ground.
The air left your lungs in one hard, silent burst. For a second, you could not tell if you were still in your body.
The ceiling lights flickered above you. Or maybe they were sparks. Or maybe your eyes were not working right.
Sound came back wrong. Muffled. Distant.
Like you were underwater. The monitor was screaming, but it sounded far away. The fire alarm flashed without meaning. Somewhere, glass was still falling. Somewhere, someone was shouting.
You could not hear the words. Your ears rang with one long, high note that swallowed everything else. You tried to move.
Pain answered from everywhere. Your right hand curled against the floor. Empty.
Free. Still free. That mattered.
You didn't know why yet. Only that it mattered. Your mouth opened.
You tried to say Jack's name. Nothing came out. Or maybe it did.
You couldn't hear it. Smoke drifted across the trauma lights. The room tilted.
Darkness crowded the edges of your vision. The last thing you saw was the trauma bay door hanging half-open in its frame.
Beyond it, shapes moved in the white haze. Running. Shouting.
Too far away. Too muffled. And then everything went black.
I posted this a while ago over on Wattpad and I decided that it is time to bring this over here now for you all to enjoy :)
Summary - A routine night shift turns into the worst kind of emergency, leaving Jack facing an impossible choice when every second counts.
Word Count - 11600ish
Readers POV
At two forty-three in the morning, The Pitt was not quiet. It was never quiet. It just changed volume depending on the hour. By midnight, the department had been loud in the obvious ways: stretchers rattling through ambulance doors, family members asking for updates every seven minutes, monitors chirping over each other, somebody crying in the waiting room because the vending machine had eaten their card. By two forty-three, it had gone into a different kind of noise. The tired kind.
The kind made of phones ringing too long, printers jamming, half-finished orders, low voices behind curtains, wheels squeaking over linoleum, nurses saying, "I'll be right there," in the exact tone that meant they had already said it five times.
You stood at the nurses' station with trauma shears clipped to your scrub pocket, two labels stuck to your wrist, and a computer frozen on the medication record. You tapped the mouse. Nothing. You tapped it harder. Still nothing. Jack stood beside you, looking down at the screen.
"Threatening it won't help."
You didn't look up. "I'm not threatening it."
"You're staring at it like you know where its children go to school."
"I do. They're all in radiology, refusing to upload images."
His mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. That was usually all anyone got from him at this hour. You reached for the keyboard and hit enter again. The screen stayed frozen.
"Brilliant," you muttered. "Love a machine with boundaries."
Jack leaned one forearm against the counter, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Try logging out."
"If I log out, I may never get back in."
"That sounds dramatic."
"This hospital once locked me out because I entered my password too emotionally."
"That explains several things."
You turned your head and gave him a look. Jack looked back, perfectly bland. The fluorescent light cut shadows under his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a smear of dried betadine near one cuff. He looked tired in that clean, contained way he had, like exhaustion had asked for permission before settling on him. Infuriating. You clicked the mouse again. The system gave one weak blink and unfroze.
You lifted both hands. "See? It responds to fear."
"Says the man who makes residents apologize to CT."
"They should."
"They absolutely should," you said, and reached for the med scanner.
Across the station, Perlah was on the phone with lab, using her calmest voice, which meant someone was in danger. Princess stood at the counter with a tray of specimens, labelling each one with the focus of a woman who had entered a temporary spiritual agreement with order. A call bell went off. Then another.
From Curtain Three, a woman called, "Excuse me? My father still hasn't gotten his sandwich."
Perlah hung up the phone and said, "Lab says they never got the green top from Bay Six."
Princess held up a bag without looking. "That green top?"
Perlah stared at it. Princess stared back.
You whispered, "Nobody move. It might be a trap."
Jack took the specimen bag from Princess and checked the label. "Bay Six."
Princess pointed toward the tube station. "It was waiting for the printer."
"The printer doesn't process labs."
"It had an attitude. I was letting it calm down."
Perlah came over and snatched the bag. "I'll walk it down before this place invents a new failure point."
She left with the grim purpose of someone going into battle.
Jack watched her go. "She's handling the night well."
"She threatened to divorce the tube system ten minutes ago."
"Healthy boundaries."
You scanned the medication and signed it off before the computer changed its mind. "You always this supportive of workplace conflict?"
"Only when it's justified."
"That's every night."
"Then yes."
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack looked at you. Only for a second. But there it was again. That almost-warmth. That almost-softening. The look that made you forget, briefly and stupidly, that you were at work. You looked away first. Safer. The problem with Jack was that most people saw the sharp edges and stopped there. The dry comments. The clinical stare. The way he could flatten a room with one sentence and no raised voice. All of that was real. But it was not all of him. You knew that now.
You knew because he remembered which patients made you clench your jaw. Because he put coffee near your charting hand on bad nights and pretended he had just "overestimated his own caffeine needs." Because he stepped in when a family member got too loud, not to take over, but to stand beside you while you handled it yourself.
Because he had a way of seeing too much and saying almost nothing. Tonight, he had seen Curtain Twelve. You had known he had. The patient had been septic, febrile, frightened, and strong enough to grab your wrist when you leaned over to adjust his line. It had lasted maybe three seconds before you got him to let go. Princess had been there. Shen had been called. The man had apologized afterward, confused and shaking. It was over. It should have been over. But Jack's eyes had dropped to your wrist three times since. You kept pulling your sleeve down without meaning to. Jack noticed that too. Of course he did.
You tried to ignore it by moving. That usually worked in the ED. There was always something else to do, somewhere else to put your hands, another task to fold yourself into until whatever awkward, tender thing had started to rise between you sank back down again.
You checked on Bay Five, who insisted his breathing was "fine now" while still requiring oxygen. Ellis adjusted his orders and gave him the kind of look that made him reconsider lying to women in scrubs. Shen finally got cardiology to answer by using Jack's name like an institutional threat. Princess found two missing saline flushes in a linen cart and declared it "evidence of collapse."
Normal. Annoying. Alive. By three ten, you were back at the station, rewriting a discharge instruction because the printer had decided to cut off everything after return immediately ifâ which felt medically bold. You reached for the tape dispenser and winced before you could stop yourself. It was small. Barely anything. The kind of automatic reaction you would have ignored on any other night, from any other bruise. Your wrist had twisted awkwardly when Twelve grabbed you earlier, and the movement pulled at the sore place just enough to make your fingers pause. You recovered quickly. Not quickly enough. Jack was three feet away, signing a chart. His pen stopped moving.
You looked at the papers very hard and pretended not to notice him noticing. That was usually the safest method with Jack. If you gave him an opening, he would walk through it with that quiet, terrible focus of his, the one that made patients confess symptoms they had planned to take to the grave and made residents suddenly remember protocols they had been ignoring. You reached for the tape again with your other hand. Jack said nothing. Which meant he was absolutely going to say something. You could feel him beside you, still and silent, while the department kept moving around both of you.
Princess passed behind the station with a stack of clean blankets and paused long enough to look between your wrist and Jack's face.
"Nope," she said under her breath, and kept walking.
You shot her a warning look. She ignored it with professional ease.
Perlah leaned around the corner from the desk phone. "Radiology says the portable chest from Four is 'in process.'"
You latched onto that like a life raft. "It's been in process for forty minutes."
Jack's gaze did not leave your wrist. "Did they define process?"
Princess, already halfway down the hall, called back, "They defined it as 'in process.'"
"That's circular," Jack said.
"That's radiology," you answered.
It almost worked. For about three seconds, the conversation went back to normal. You wrote another line. The printer coughed. Someone laughed down the hall. Shen's voice rose from Bay Six, calm but deeply tired. Then your sleeve slipped back as you reached for the discharge packet. The red mark showed again. Jack set his pen down. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you heard it. You looked at him. He looked at your wrist.
And then, quiet enough that it did not belong to the station, he said, "Let me see."
You glanced toward Curtain Three, toward Princess disappearing down the hall, toward Perlah still half on the phone. Nobody was watching directly. Everyone was probably listening a little, because this was The Pitt and walls were a myth, but no one was making it obvious. You could have told him no. Not because you wanted to. Because saying yes felt like letting him stand somewhere closer than either of you usually admitted he already did. But Jack did not reach for you. He just waited. A request. Not an order. That was worse, somehow. You turned your wrist over. Jack took your hand carefully. Not dramatically. Not like you were fragile.
Like he was trying very hard not to make you feel watched. His fingers settled around your palm first, warm and steady. Then his thumb shifted the edge of your sleeve back just enough to see the faint red mark circling the skin. It barely hurt. You had seen worse bruises from IV pumps and supply carts and the med room drawer that stuck every time someone needed something fast. Jack's jaw tightened anyway. You watched his face instead of your wrist. That was safer, and somehow not safer at all.
He did not look angry exactly. Not in the easy way. It was quieter than that. Controlled. Focused down into something small enough to survive at the nurses' station. If he had been another man, he might have made noise about it. Asked too many questions. Turned concern into a spectacle. Jack didn't. He just looked. That made it harder to breathe. His thumb did not press the mark. It rested just beneath it. Warm. Steady.
A point of contact small enough that anyone walking past could miss it, but you couldn't. You felt it all the way up your arm, under your ribs, in the place where your heart had gotten embarrassingly used to making bad decisions around him.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
Quiet. Still not quite doctor. Not quite anything else either.
"No," you said.
His eyes lifted to yours.
You amended, because Jack had a gift for making lies feel useless, "Not much."
His gaze held yours for a beat. Long enough that the sounds around you seemed to thin out â not disappear, exactly, because The Pitt never allowed anything that generous, but fade to the edge of awareness. The phone ringing. The printer grinding. Princess saying something down the hall. Shen's voice from Bay Six, calm and deeply tired. All of it kept going. You and Jack didn't. His thumb moved once. Not over the bruise. Just beneath it. A slow, careful sweep against your pulse. You wondered if he could feel it jump. You knew he could. That was the problem with him.
He noticed everything and let you pretend he hadn't. Jack's eyes dropped to where his thumb rested against your skin. His expression stayed almost unreadable, but something in his face had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. Not clinical. Not anymore. There was no reason for him to keep holding your wrist. He had already seen the bruise. Already assessed the mark. Already confirmed you were not hiding anything worse under your sleeve. He should have let go. You should have pulled away. Neither of you did. Your fingers shifted once against his palm. Barely. An accident, maybe. Except Jack looked at them. Then back at you.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. His thumb stilled. For one dangerous second, you thought he was going to say something. Not a joke. Not a clipped instruction. Something real enough to make the station lights feel too bright. But Jack was Jack. And the room was full of patients and nurses and unfinished charts and every reason in the world not to cross whatever line the two of you kept walking up to and pretending was just part of the floor. So he said nothing.
He only turned your wrist a fraction more, checking the mark from the other angle with a care so quiet it almost hurt worse than words.
"You should ice it," he said at last.
There it was. A safe sentence. A clinical sentence. You almost smiled because it sounded so much like him and so little like what was actually happening.
"I'll add it to my glamorous post-shift plans."
His eyes lifted again. "You have plans?"
The question was too casual. You heard what sat under it anyway.
You shrugged lightly, because you were not brave enough to do anything else. "Sleep. Maybe laundry. Maybe staring at a wall until my soul comes back."
"Ambitious."
"Don't be jealous."
"I'm devastated."
His hand was still around your wrist. His thumb was still against your pulse. You looked down at it, then back at him. Jack noticed. Of course he did. This time, his expression changed before he could stop it. Not much. A flicker of restraint. The faintest tightening around his eyes. Like letting go had become a choice instead of a reflex. Like he knew exactly how long he had been touching you. Like he knew you knew too. Your mouth went dry.
"Jack," you said.
Not warning. Not question. Just his name. His fingers flexed once around your hand. Then, slowly, he released you. Not all at once. His thumb left your pulse first. Then his fingers loosened from your palm. Then your hand was yours again, and somehow that felt colder than it should have. You tucked it against your side before you could do something stupid, like reach for him again.
"Thanks," you said, because you had to say something.
Jack nodded once.
His voice was even when he answered, but quieter than before. "Tell Shen if Twelve gets agitated again."
"I will."
His expression told you he did not fully believe that. Your expression told him you knew. Neither of you pushed it. That was the thing between you lately. Everything unspoken, and somehow all of it too loud. For a second longer, Jack stayed where he was. Close enough that his sleeve nearly brushed yours. Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes and the line his mouth made when he was keeping too much behind it. Then Princess's voice carried from down the hall.
"Radiology says the portable chest from Four is still 'in process.'"
The station exhaled around you. The moment broke. Not cleanly. Not completely. Just enough for both of you to pretend it had.
You frowned toward Princess. "That's what they said ten minutes ago."
"They have committed to the bit."
Jack reached for the chart you had been about to grab and handed it to you. "Bay Five needs reassessment before he negotiates another cigarette."
You took the chart. "He offered me three dollars and half a pack of gum earlier."
"Was the gum sealed?"
"No."
"Then no deal."
You smiled. This time, Jack almost did too. The station settled back into motion.
You checked on Bay Five again, adjusted his nasal cannula when he tried to claim oxygen worked better if it was "nearby," and reminded him that lungs were not spiritual. Ellis laughed into her chart. Shen finally walked past with a face that suggested cardiology had answered the phone and made him regret wanting that.
By three twenty, you were back at the station again, rewriting the discharge paper because the printer had cut off the final line a second time. Jack came up beside you with a chart in one hand and his good pen in the other. You looked at the pen. He looked at you.
"No," he said.
"I didn't ask."
"You looked."
"I admire quality stationery."
"You steal quality stationery."
"I prefer redistribute."
Jack handed you a different pen from the cup. You clicked it. It didn't work. You clicked it again. Nothing. You held it up. Jack looked at it, then sighed and gave you his.
You accepted it with great dignity. "That was very brave."
"It was a lapse in judgment."
"Still counts."
"Give it back."
"When I'm done."
"You've said that before."
"And yet here we are."
His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned closer to read the discharge paper. It was not necessary. The font was large enough. Neither of you moved away.
"You misspelled dizziness," he said.
You looked down. You had.
"You saw nothing."
"I saw malpractice."
"It's three in the morning."
"Dizziness still has two z's at three in the morning."
"Does it?"
"Usually."
You corrected it. Jack stayed there, close and quiet, his attention ostensibly on the paperwork. Your attention was on the warmth of him beside you. On the place where his hand had held your wrist. On how he had not said what he was thinking, and how somehow that made it worse. Then the ambulance radio crackled. The whole station shifted before the words even came through. Everyone heard the tone first. The clipped urgency. The incoming.
"Medic Seven to Mercy, inbound with trauma alert."
Jack straightened. You felt the change in him instantly. The warmth, the almost-smile, the quiet station version of him vanished behind something stiller. Sharper. The radio continued.
"Adult male, early twenties. Blast injury from unknown device. Penetrating abdominal trauma, burns to torso and upper extremities. Hypotensive en route. Altered mental status. ETA four minutes."
For a breath, nobody spoke. Blast injury. Unknown device. You looked at Jack. His face had closed. Not panic. Never panic. Something older than that. Something trained into the bones. You knew pieces of his army history the way most people knew pieces of Jack â incompletely, carefully, mostly through what he did not say. But you knew enough to recognize when certain words landed badly. This one landed. Then he moved.
"Trauma One," Jack called, voice cutting clean through the station. "Now."
The department snapped with him. Princess was already reaching for the blood cooler.
Perlah grabbed the phone. "Surgery and anesthesia?"
"Yes," Jack said. "Tell them penetrating abdominal blast injury, unstable, possible retained foreign body. Shen, airway side. Ellis, monitors and access."
Shen came out of the physician workroom, expression gone alert. "Unknown device?"
"Unknown," Jack said.
Just that. But it changed the air. You stripped off your old gloves and moved to the trauma sink. Jack turned toward you.
"Left side," he said.
Not a question. Not quite an order either. He trusted you there.
You nodded. "Already there."
His eyes held yours for half a second. Whatever had passed between you at the station was still there, pushed down beneath the incoming trauma, beneath protocol, beneath the part of both of you that knew how to work when the room got loud. Then Jack looked toward the ambulance doors. The sirens were close now. Growing louder. You pulled on fresh gloves, your wrist still warm where his hand had been. And waited for the doors to open. The ambulance doors opened hard enough to rattle the frame. Noise came with them.
Wheels over linoleum. Monitor alarms. A paramedic's voice cutting through the department. Rainwater hitting the floor from jackets and boots. The metallic smell that always seemed to arrive before the stretcher did. Blood. Smoke. Burned fabric. You had half a second to see Jack's face. Still. Not blank. Jack was never blank. There was always something moving under the surface with him, even when he didn't let it reach daylight. But this was different. The words from the radio had followed him into the trauma bay. Blast injury. Unknown device. For one breath, he looked like a man hearing something from a long way away.
Then the stretcher crossed the threshold, and Jack was back.
"Trauma One," he said. "Straight in."
The paramedics moved fast. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell beneath the soot and blood and the harsh white light of the bay. His clothes had already been cut open in places, most of his shirt peeled away, the edges of it blackened and wet. Burns marked his chest and shoulder in angry red patches. His left arm was wrapped above the elbow with a tourniquet, blood dark around the torn sleeve below it. But his abdomen was worse. No. Not abdomen. Side.
Left flank, low and ragged, half-covered by an EMS dressing that had already soaked through. Blood had spread beneath the padding and down onto the sheet in dark, fast streaks. You moved to the patient's left side without needing Jack to point. That was where he put you. That was where he trusted you. Shen took airway. Ellis moved to the monitor. Princess came in with the blood cooler and set it where you could reach. Perlah stood at the threshold with the phone pressed to one ear, already calling surgery. The lead paramedic started report before the stretcher stopped moving.
"Twenty-three-year-old male, Evan Mercer. Found in a garage after reported device failure. Fire was still securing the scene when we left. Burns to torso and upper extremities, penetrating injury to left flank and abdomen, altered en route. Pressure eighty over palp, pulse one-forty, respirations shallow. One eighteen in the right AC, fluids running. Tourniquet left upper arm placed at zero-two-fifty-eight."
Jack listened without interrupting, eyes moving over the patient, over the lines, over the tourniquet, over the soaked dressing at his side.
"What kind of device?" he asked.
The paramedic shook his head. "Unknown. Fire said homemade. We weren't given details."
"Any concern he brought anything active in with him?"
"Not that they told us. They cleared him for transport once they got him away from the workbench. They told us not to pull any debris, minimize movement, get him here."
"Did anything shift during transport?"
"Not that we saw. Dressing stayed in place. Bleeding got worse in the last three minutes."
That mattered. You saw Jack file it away. The patient moaned beneath the oxygen mask. His eyes opened and rolled toward the lights.
"Mr. Mercer," Shen said, leaning in. "You're at Mercy. Stay with us."
The patient jerked weakly against the straps.
Jack stepped closer. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Dr. Abbott. You're in the emergency department. We're going to take care of you."
The patient's mouth moved beneath the mask. Nothing came out.
"On my count," Jack said. "Ready? One, two, three."
Everyone moved. The transfer was brutal and clean. The patient slid from stretcher to trauma bed in one coordinated pull. The monitor shrieked as leads were switched over. Ellis called out numbers while Princess snapped open blood tubing.
"Pressure seventy-eight systolic," Ellis said. "Pulse one-forty-six. Sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather."
"Shen?" Jack asked.
"Airway's not great," Shen said. "He's tiring. Burns near the neck, no obvious soot in the mouth. Voice weak."
Jack said, "Prepare for intubation. I want anesthesia in here."
Perlah called from the door, "Anesthesia's coming. Surgery too."
"Good. Two large-bore IVs if we can get them. Blood now. TXA. Burn dressings after hemorrhage control."
You cut away enough of the remaining fabric to expose the dressing EMS had placed. The gauze was soaked through. Not just stained. Saturated. Blood welled at the edges with each shallow, frantic breath the patient took.
That was standard. Normal. Trauma nursing, not surgery. Control the bleeding. Maintain pressure. Don't go hunting. Don't extract anything. Keep the patient alive long enough for the people with scalpels and better lighting. You placed both gloved hands over the dressing and leaned in with firm, even pressure. The gauze gave beneath your palms. Warmth pushed up between your fingers. Mr. Mercer bucked against the bed.
Shen caught his shoulder. "Easy. Easy."
Mr. Mercer's eyes went wide. He tried to speak around the mask.
"Noâ"
Jack looked at him. "Mr. Mercer, stay still."
"No," he gasped. "Don'tâ don't touchâ"
"You're bleeding," Jack said. "She's holding pressure."
Mr. Mercer shook his head weakly, panic cutting through shock. "Don't move it."
Your hands stayed where they were. Pressure over dressing. Nothing more. But the blood kept coming. Too much. It slid hot under your palms, slicking the gauze until the pressure dressing no longer felt like pressure at all. It shifted beneath you, unstable and soaked, and the patient's pressure dropped on the monitor with a sharper alarm.
"Sixty-eight systolic," Ellis said.
Garcia entered then, gown half tied, hair pulled back, already gloving as she crossed the room. "What do we have?"
"Blast injury," Jack said. "Unstable. Penetrating left flank and abdomen. Active hemorrhage. Possible retained foreign body. Dressing's saturated."
Garcia stepped to the opposite side of the bed and looked down. Her face sharpened.
"That dressing isn't doing anything," she said. "We need direct pressure at the source."
Jack looked at the wound. Then at you. A single beat. A decision neither of you had time to make gently.
"Can you maintain pressure if we open the dressing?" he asked.
"Yes," you said.
Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.
Garcia's eyes flicked to Jack. "We don't pull anything."
"We don't pull anything," Jack said. "We expose only what we need to control hemorrhage."
Anesthesia came in behind Garcia, mask hanging around his neck, respiratory at his shoulder.
"I hear airway and hypotension," anesthesia said.
"You heard correctly," Shen said. "He's tiring."
Jack didn't look away from the wound. "Prepare for intubation. Hold until I say."
Anesthesia's hand paused, but he nodded. "Understood."
Jack looked at you. "Ready?"
You nodded.
"Slow," he said. "Only the dressing. Hands steady."
Garcia cut the outer wrap. You kept pressure until the last second. Then the dressing opened beneath your hands. Blood surged. Dark. Fast. Immediate.
"Pressure," Jack said.
You moved before the word finished. Not exploring. Not searching. Just following the bleed. Your right hand pressed deep into the torn opening at his side, fingers sinking past slick tissue and ruined fabric, down to the place where the bleeding seemed to pulse hardest. Your left hand braced over your own wrist to hold the pressure steady. The heat of it swallowed your glove. Mr. Mercer screamed.
Shen leaned close. "Mr. Mercer, stay with me."
"Pressure?" Jack asked.
You swallowed hard.
"Better," you said. "Not controlled."
Garcia leaned just close enough to see without touching. "You're tamponading something."
"I can feel resistance," you said.
"Debris?"
"I don't know."
You did not move your hand. You did not lift. You did not go deeper. You just held. That was the job. Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Let surgery get there. Mr. Mercer's hand jerked toward his side.
Ellis caught it gently but firmly. "No, Mr. Mercer. Don't grab."
His eyes fixed on you. On your arm. On where your hand disappeared into the wound in his side.
"No," he gasped.
Jack leaned over him. "Mr. Mercer."
"No. No, no, no."
"Listen to me," Jack said. "You're bleeding. She's stopping the bleed."
Mr. Mercer shook his head. Tears mixed with soot at the corners of his eyes.
"Don't move it."
The room tightened. You felt your own breathing change. Jack saw.
"What?" he asked.
You kept your eyes on him because looking at your hand suddenly felt impossible.
"There's something against my palm."
Garcia went still.
Jack's voice stayed controlled. "Describe it."
Your mouth had gone dry.
"Hard," you said. "Smooth edge. Not loose."
Anesthesia's hand stopped above the medication tray. Shen looked from the patient to Jack. The monitors kept beeping. Nobody else moved. Jack's face did not change. That scared you more than if it had.
"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, voice low and controlled, "the foreign body in your flank â what is it?"
Mr. Mercer stared at him. His breathing hitched hard.
"I don't know."
"Mr. Mercer."
"My brother said not to pull it."
The words dropped into the trauma bay one at a time. You felt each one. Jack's eyes moved back to yours. Still calm. Too calm.
"What exactly did your brother say?" he asked.
Mr. Mercer's eyes filled.
"He said if part of it got stuck, don't pull. Don't let it shift."
Garcia's face changed. Anesthesia looked at Jack. Shen did not move. Princess stood by the blood cooler, suddenly pale above her mask. Mr. Mercer sobbed once, weak and terrified.
"He said it could still go."
The room lost all its air. Could still go. Your hand stayed inside his side. Pressed against blood and torn tissue and the hard, wrong shape beneath your palm. For one strange, awful second, your mind did not give you fear. It gave you details. The heat of the wound. The pressure of your left hand bracing your right. The ache already starting in your shoulders. The slick pull of blood around your wrist. The blood warmer humming. Jack's face. God, Jack's face. He looked down at where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then at the wound. Then back at you. The old stillness was there again. Not panic. Training. Memory. Calculation.
Something awful and familiar moving behind his eyes.
Garcia spoke first, very quietly. "Jack."
"I know," he said.
Anesthesia's voice was low and tight. "Is he saying there's an active explosive component inside the wound?"
"No one says that yet," Jack replied.
His voice was calm. Too calm. He lifted one hand slightly, palm down. A signal to the room. Hold. Stay. Do not react. Then he looked at you. Only you.
"Do not move your hand," Jack said.
Your throat locked. Your whole body wanted to nod. His voice sharpened immediately, not loud, but absolute.
"Don't nod. Don't shift. Don't do anything with your body except breathe."
You froze. Everything in you went still. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's side. Exactly where it was. Jack's eyes stayed on yours.
"Just keep looking at me."
So you did. The rest of the room blurred around the edges. Your right hand was buried in the wound. Your left hand braced over your own wrist. Your palms were warm with blood. Something beneath your hand might have been a piece of metal. Might have been nothing. Might have been everything. But Jack was in front of you, eyes steady, voice low and certain.
"Good," he said. "Exactly like that."
Your breath came too fast. You tried to slow it. Failed. Jack saw that too.
"Breathe with me," he said.
You didn't want to. Not because you didn't trust him. Because breathing felt like movement. Because your ribs moving felt dangerous. Because every tiny part of your body suddenly seemed capable of betrayal. Jack understood before you said it.
"You can breathe," he said. "Slow. Small. Nothing else moves."
You followed him. In. Out. Small. Careful. Your eyes stayed on his. Behind him, the room remained frozen in pieces. Garcia's hands were lifted away from the field. Anesthesia stood still near the airway cart. Shen held his position at the patient's head. Ellis had one hand hovering above the monitor controls but did not touch them. Princess stood near the blood cooler, face pale above her mask. Perlah was at the threshold with the phone still in her hand, eyes wide and fixed on you. Jack did not look away from you.
"Perlah," he said, voice still quiet.
Perlah startled, then caught herself. "Yeah."
"Call security. Quietly. Possible explosive hazard in Trauma One. No overhead page yet. Then get hospital command. Tell them we need police bomb squad."
Perlah swallowed. "Okay."
"Slowly," Jack said.
She moved. One step back. Then another. The room watched her leave like even the air had become tripwire.
Garcia's eyes stayed on your arm. "If she's tamponading the bleed and stabilizing the object, we cannot move her hand."
"She's not moving," Jack said.
"I know."
"She's not moving," Jack repeated.
The words landed harder the second time. Not harsh. Final. You were grateful for it. Terrified by it too. Because he was right. You could not move. Not your hand. Not your wrist. Not the fingers pressed against the hard edge inside Mr. Mercer's side. Not the wrist Jack had touched ten minutes ago when the world had been annoying and alive and ordinary.
Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."
Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.
"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.
Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."
"Then prepare. Don't proceed until security and command are in the loop."
Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."
Mr. Mercer was crying now, silent tears cutting through soot on his cheeks.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. We didn't think it wouldâ"
"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, still watching you. "You're going to stay very still. You're going to let Dr. Shen help you breathe. You're not going to reach for the wound. Do you understand?"
The patient gave the smallest nod.
Jack's eyes flicked to him. "No nodding. Say yes."
"Yes," Mr. Mercer whispered.
"Good."
A sound left you before you could swallow it. Barely a sound. Almost nothing. Jack's attention snapped back.
"You're okay," he said.
You couldn't answer. He corrected immediately.
"You are doing okay," he said. "That's different."
That nearly broke you. Because it was different. Because you were not okay. But you were doing it. You were standing there with your hand inside a patient's side, not moving because Jack told you not to move, because a terrified patient said the thing beneath your palm might still go off, because the ED had suddenly become the centre of a blast radius and you were holding the middle of it against a stranger's body. You kept looking at Jack. He kept looking back. Security arrived at the trauma bay doors. Two officers. Both trying to look calmer than they felt.
Perlah stood behind them, phone still pressed to her ear. Jack did not turn fully away from you.
"Possible explosive hazard in patient wound," he said. "Restrict access to Trauma One. Quietly clear adjacent bays and the immediate hallway. Get hospital command here now. We need police bomb squad. No overhead announcement until command decides. Nobody runs."
One guard swallowed. "You want the ED evacuated?"
"Not yet," Jack said. "We don't know enough, and moving everyone at once creates more risk. Immediate area first. Then command makes the call."
The guard nodded and moved. The second stayed at the door.
"No one enters without my permission unless they are security, hospital command, or bomb squad," Jack said.
"Understood."
The door area cleared. The room felt smaller. Your hand did not move. Your arm was already beginning to burn. Not badly. Not yet. But enough to remind you that muscles were stupid, disloyal things. Jack saw your eyes flicker.
"Stay with me," he said.
"I'm here," you managed.
"I know."
His voice softened by half a degree. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for you.
"Keep looking at me."
So you did. The monitor alarmed louder.
Ellis read the number, voice strained but steady. "Pressure sixty-eight systolic."
Garcia cursed under her breath.
Anesthesia said, "Jack, we're running out of airway."
Jack's eyes stayed on you for one heartbeat longer. Then he looked at the room.
"Okay," he said, voice low and absolute. "Nobody moves unless I tell you."
He looked back at your arm. At the wound. At the thing beneath your hand. Then at you.
"Nobody moves."
Nobody moved. For three seconds, maybe four, the trauma bay held itself in an impossible stillness. The monitors did not care. They kept screaming. Mr. Mercer's pulse raced across the screen in sharp green spikes. His oxygen saturation hovered too low. His pressure sat in the kind of range that made everyone in the room want to do something with their hands. But nobody did. Not without Jack. Not with your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank, braced against a foreign body that might be harmless debris, might be unstable metal, might be the thing everyone in the room was suddenly trying very hard not to imagine.
You kept your eyes on Jack. That was the only instruction you could follow without thinking. Just keep looking at me. So you did. His face was steady. Pale under the trauma lights, yes. Sharper than before, yes. But steady. You hated him a little for that. You needed him for it more.
"Okay," Jack said, voice low. "We're going to slow this down."
Garcia's eyes flicked to the monitor. "He doesn't have much slow left."
"I know."
"Pressure's still dropping," Ellis said from the monitor. Her voice was tight, but controlled. "Sixty-four systolic."
Jack nodded once, like he had already built that number into the room.
"Blood keeps running," he said. "No one crosses her side of the bed."
Princess stood near the blood cooler, frozen with one hand hovering uselessly in the air.
Jack looked at her. "Princess."
She blinked. "Yeah."
"Blood tubing. Can you reach the pump without crossing behind her?"
Princess looked. Calculated.
Nodded once. "Yes."
"Slowly."
Princess moved like the floor might object. One step. Pause. Another. She reached the pump, adjusted what she needed, and backed away with the kind of care usually reserved for live wires and sleeping infants.
"Blood's running," she said.
"Good."
The word had weight in Jack's mouth. Not praise exactly. More like a rope thrown across the room. Everyone took it.
Shen stayed at the head of the bed, jaw tight, one hand supporting the oxygen mask. "He's tiring."
Mr. Mercer's breaths had turned shallow. Fast. Wet at the edges. Anesthesia stood beside Shen, meds ready but untouched, body held in the miserable restraint of someone trained to act and forced to wait.
"Jack," anesthesia said, "if he arrests, we lose every option."
"If you intubate and he bucks or we shift his torso, we may lose the room."
The words were quiet. No drama. That made them worse. Your fingers wanted to tighten. You did not let them. Jack's eyes moved back to yours instantly.
"Don't change pressure," he said.
"I'm not."
Your voice sounded thin.
His softened by a fraction. "Good."
Garcia watched your arm disappear into the wound. "How's your hold?"
You took a careful breath. Small. Jack's eyes stayed on you.
"Stable," you said. "I think."
"Bleeding?"
You did not look down. You couldn't. Jack looked for you.
"No major change," he said. "She's tamponading enough to buy us time."
"Not much," Garcia said.
"No," Jack said. "Not much."
That was the thing about him. He did not dress bad news up. He did not hand you false comfort and ask you to swallow it because it was easier for him. If Jack said something, he meant it. If he didn't know, he didn't pretend. Right now, that should have scared you. Instead, it made the floor feel a little more solid. You kept your hand still. Kept your palm exactly where it was. The foreign body stayed pressed against the heel of your hand, hard and wrong beneath slick heat and torn tissue. Security had begun moving outside the bay.
You could hear it in fragments through the glass and open doorway. Low voices. Footsteps. A stretcher wheel squeaking away from the adjacent trauma room.
Someone asking, "Why are we moving him?"
A security officer answering too calmly, "Maintenance issue in the trauma corridor. We're moving you somewhere quieter."
Maintenance issue. You almost laughed. The sound got nowhere near your mouth.
Perlah appeared at the threshold, phone still in hand, face pale above her mask. "Security is clearing the immediate hall. Hospital command's been notified."
"How long for police?" Jack asked.
"Dispatch says units are close. Bomb squad is being requested through city."
"Estimate?"
"Not yet."
"Get one."
Perlah nodded and stepped back carefully, like even the doorway had become dangerous. A minute later, Lena Handzo appeared behind security. Night-shift charge. She did not enter the room. She stopped exactly where the security officer told her to stop, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes taking in everything with brutal, efficient speed. The patient. Garcia. Anesthesia. Shen. Jack. Your arm. Her face did not change. That was how you knew she understood.
"Abbott," Lena said.
"Lena."
"Perlah says possible explosive hazard."
"Possible," Jack said. "Foreign body in the left flank. Patient reports it may be part of the device. Her hand is controlling hemorrhage and stabilizing it. She cannot move."
Lena's eyes came to yours. No panic. No pity. Only command. Only: I see you. Stay steady.
Then she looked back at Jack. "Adjacent bays are clearing. Security has both ends of the corridor. I'm moving ambulatory patients first, quiet and slow."
"Good."
"Waiting room?"
"Not yet," Jack said. "If the waiting room hears bomb, we get stampede risk."
"Agreed."
The administrator beside her â hospital command, suit jacket over a dress shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragged from a sleep room or office couch â looked like he wanted to say something. Lena beat him to it.
"We stage evacuation," she said. "Immediate corridor first. Then the department in zones once police gives us routes. Nobody runs. Nobody says explosive in front of patients."
The administrator swallowed. "Hospital policy requiresâ"
"Hospital policy doesn't move sixty patients safely in thirty seconds," Lena said, not looking at him. "Give us three minutes and a plan."
Jack gave the smallest nod. You saw it. So did Lena. For a second, the two of them spoke the language of people who kept departments alive when the building tried to eat itself. Then Jack looked back at you.
"Stay in this room," he said.
You blinked once. Not too hard.
"What?"
"Not the hallway. Not the department. This room."
You realized your thoughts had started to follow the noise outside. The stretchers. The patients. The people being moved because of what was under your hand. You brought your focus back to him.
"Okay."
His gaze held yours. "Better."
The room narrowed again. Jack's face. Jack's voice. Your hand. The foreign body beneath your palm. Mr. Mercer made a small, broken sound beneath the oxygen mask.
"Am I going to die?"
The question hit the room differently than the alarms. You felt it under your hand. Not movement. Not pressure. Just the human awfulness of him being awake enough to ask. Jack's face changed as he looked down at the patient. Focused differently.
"Mr. Mercer," he said, "right now you are alive. We are going to keep working from there."
Mr. Mercer's eyes rolled toward him. "I'm sorry."
"Save your energy."
"I didn'tâ" His breath hitched. "We didn't meanâ"
"Mr. Mercer."
Jack's voice cut cleanly through the panic. The patient went quiet.
"You are going to breathe slowly," Jack said. "You are going to listen to Shen. You are not going to reach for your flank. You are not going to help. You are not going to apologize. Do you understand?"
Tears tracked through the soot on Mr. Mercer's face.
"Yes."
"Good."
Jack looked at Shen.
Shen nodded once and leaned closer to the patient. "Follow me. Small breaths. In. Out. That's it."
Your own breath tried to follow. Jack caught it. Of course he did.
"One breath at a time," he said to you.
You gave the smallest nod before you remembered. Your stomach dropped. Jack's eyes sharpened. Nothing happened. Your hand had not moved.
His voice stayed level. "You caught it."
Your mouth trembled once. You locked it down. Outside the bay, Lena had already started moving the department around you. You could hear her in pieces.
"Not that way. Use the east hall."
"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."
"No, do not say Code Black in front of the waiting room."
"Perlah, you're with security. Princess stays until Abbott releases her."
"Clear Trauma Two first. Then Curtain One through Four. Quiet."
Her voice stayed low. Firm. Unhurried. Exactly what the hallway needed. Exactly what you needed not to hear too much of. Because if you thought about the whole department, you would come apart. Jack seemed to know that before you did.
"Small room," he said.
You stared at him.
"What?"
He kept his voice quiet, pitched for you and no one else. "Make it small."
You swallowed. "The room?"
"Smaller."
Your fingers stayed locked in place. "How?"
"My face. Your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. That's all."
That was almost funny. Almost.
"You make crisis sound like a mindfulness exercise," you whispered.
"I make crisis sound survivable."
You breathed once. Careful. Small.
"Okay," you said.
Jack nodded. "Good."
The administrator's voice carried from the doorway, lower now but still strained. "Do we need to evacuate the entire ED?"
Jack did not turn fully away from you. "Prepare for it. Don't initiate full movement until police arrive unless threat changes. Immediate zone first. Critical patients only if they can be moved safely. Everyone else stays calm."
"Can the patient be moved?" the administrator asked.
Garcia answered before Jack could.
"No."
No hesitation.
The administrator blinked. "No?"
Garcia's eyes were cold. "He's hypotensive, bleeding, airway unstable, and there is a possible explosive foreign body in his flank being manually stabilized by a nurse who cannot move. So no."
The administrator went quiet. Good.
Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."
Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.
"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.
Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."
"Then support ventilation. Prepare for intubation. Do not proceed until police and bomb squad are in the loop unless he crashes."
Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."
The room moved in millimetres. Not inches. Millimetres. Shen shifted the seal on the mask with exquisite care. Respiratory adjusted tubing. Anesthesia watched Mr. Mercer's chest rise just enough. You did not look away from Jack. You could hear everything. You could feel too much. The patient's blood warm around your glove. The pressure of the foreign body beneath your palm. The careful brace of your other hand around your own wrist. Your arm had begun to notice the position. Not pain yet. Not really.
Just a growing awareness in your shoulder, a low pull through muscle and tendon that said this was not something a body was meant to hold forever. Not forever, you told yourself. Eight minutes. Or twelve. Or however long it took for someone who knew what they were doing to walk through the doors and tell you how to survive this. Jack's eyes flicked once to your shoulder. Then back to your face. He didn't ask if you were fine. Maybe he had learned. Maybe he knew better than to give you the opportunity to lie.
"Still with me?" he asked.
You breathed in carefully.
"Yeah."
"Good."
That was all. No speech. No softening that would make the room look too closely at either of you. Just the word. Good. You held onto it.
Lena reappeared at the doorway. "Police are coming through the ambulance bay. Bomb squad is being routed now."
"How long?" Jack asked.
"Dispatch says at least twelve minutes."
Twelve. You tried not to count it. Twelve minutes sounded short until you were not allowed to move.
Garcia glanced at your arm. "How long has she been holding that position?"
Ellis looked at the clock. "Since zero-three twenty-three."
Only minutes. It felt longer.
Garcia's face tightened. "We need a plan before fatigue becomes part of the problem."
"It's already part of the problem," anesthesia said.
"Not yet," Jack said.
He looked at you when he said it. Not pretending. Not comforting. Assessing. You understood the difference. He wasn't telling them you could do this forever. He was telling them you were steady now. For some reason, that helped more than if he had told them you were okay.
Lena's gaze moved from Jack to you, then back again. "I'm opening the evacuation plan for the full ED. Quietly. We'll move by zones if police confirms route."
"Do it," Jack said.
"And Abbott?"
He looked at her.
"When the bomb squad gets here, this becomes their scene."
Jack's face did not change.
"I know."
Lena studied him for one second. Maybe two. Like she heard what he did not say. Then she nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Mercer's eyes fluttered again.
Shen's voice stayed calm near his ear. "Stay awake if you can, Mr. Mercer."
"I'm tired," the patient whispered.
"I know."
"I'm cold."
Princess looked at Jack. Jack nodded once.
"Blanket from the warmer," he said. "No crossing her side. No touching the wound. Lay it from the legs up."
Princess moved with awful care. A warm blanket unfolded over Mr. Mercer's lower legs, then his hips, stopping well away from your arm and the injury. Normal nursing care in the least normal room in the world. Mr. Mercer cried harder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
You wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. You couldn't trust your voice. Jack did it for you.
"Mr. Mercer," he said, "save your strength."
"Tell my momâ"
"No," Jack said.
The word was sharp enough that the room looked at him. Even you. Jack's eyes stayed on Mr. Mercer now.
"You are not giving messages right now," he said. "You are breathing. That is your job."
Mr. Mercer's mouth trembled.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Keep doing your job."
Then Jack looked back at you. Like there had not been a knife hidden in that sentence. Like he had not just stopped a dying man from doing the exact thing you would later need to do. Your throat tightened again. You did not know why that hurt. Only that it did.
Lena's voice came from the door. "Bomb squad ETA eight minutes."
Eight. Jack's gaze stayed on yours.
"Don't count backwards," he said.
You gave the smallest breath of a laugh, barely enough to move air.
"Bossy."
"Efficient."
Then he looked back to the room. "We use the time. We do not stare at the clock."
Garcia watched the bleeding. Shen watched the airway. Lena moved the hospital around the blast radius. Jack stayed in front of you. You watched him. And under your palm, the foreign body stayed exactly where it was. Eight minutes did not pass cleanly. Time in the trauma bay stopped behaving like time. It became numbers instead. Pulse one-fifty-two. Pressure sixty-two. Sat eighty-eight with assisted breaths. Blood running. Second unit ready. Police on site. Bomb squad inbound. Your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank. The foreign body under your palm. Jack in front of you. That was the shape of the room. Everything else moved around it.
Outside the trauma bay, The Pitt was being quietly dismantled piece by piece. Not evacuated all at once. Not at first. That would have been chaos. A stampede in a department full of chest pain, intoxication, fever, fractures, elderly patients with walkers, children with frightened parents, nurses pushing stretchers, doctors trying to decide who could move and who absolutely could not. So Lena moved it like she moved everything else. In zones. With a low voice and no patience for panic. You could hear her beyond the glass, firm and clipped and too calm.
"Curtain One through Four, east corridor."
"No, not that way. East corridor."
"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."
"Do not say bomb in front of patients."
"Safety relocation. That's the phrase."
"Who is with Bay Six?"
"Then find out."
Security stood at both ends of the trauma corridor. Police had come in through the ambulance bay and were keeping everyone back. Hospital command hovered near the doors with the anxious uselessness of someone discovering that a laminated emergency policy was not the same thing as an emergency. Inside Trauma One, no one wasted motion.
Princess had backed away from the blood cooler after setting up the second unit. Ellis stayed at the monitor, face pale, voice steady. Shen held airway support with the tight focus of a man trying to keep a dying patient alive without letting the patient move. Anesthesia stood beside him, ready for the moment the risk of not intubating outweighed the risk of movement. Garcia watched the wound. Jack watched everything. Not just you. That would have been easier and worse.
He watched the patient's pressure. The blood pump. Shen's hands. Anesthesia's medications. Garcia's body language. The doorway. The hall. Lena. Security. The place where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. And you. Always back to you. A check. A question. A promise he had no right to make. You had stopped trying to name what sat between you. There was no room for it now. No room for the memory of his thumb under your bruised wrist. No room for the almosts and maybes and silences that had been building for weeks. Except, somehow, that was all there was room for.
"Sat's holding at eighty-eight," Ellis said.
"Holding is generous," anesthesia muttered.
"It's the word I have," Ellis said.
Jack did not look away from the monitor. "Keep assisting. No intubation unless he loses respiratory drive completely."
Anesthesia's mouth tightened. "Understood."
Mr. Mercer made a thin sound beneath the mask.
Shen leaned closer. "Stay with me, Mr. Mercer. Small breaths."
The patient's eyes fluttered. "My brother?"
Jack's face changed by less than a breath.
"Police are speaking with him," he said.
That was new. Your eyes moved to Jack before you could stop them. His gaze caught yours. Yes, his face said. They had found the brother. They knew more than they were saying. A cold line opened down your back. Before you could ask, Lena appeared at the threshold again, one hand over the phone tucked against her ear.
"Police have the brother," she said. "Bomb squad is two minutes out. They're getting information from him now."
Jack's jaw flexed.
"Is he stable enough to talk?"
"Panicked, but talking," Lena said.
Garcia's eyes stayed on the wound. "If there's information we can use, we need it."
Lena nodded once. "They're relaying to bomb squad, not us."
Anesthesia looked up. "Why not us?"
"Because if it's what we think it is," Jack said, voice low, "they'll want the room cleared before they say it out loud."
The silence after that was worse than the alarms. You stared at him. He did not look away. The hallway behind Lena had changed again. There were fewer voices now, but more movement farther away. Bigger movement. Stretchers. Wheelchairs. Orders passed between staff. The wide machinery of a hospital trying to shift its own weight without collapsing. A security officer approached Lena from the side.
"Immediate trauma corridor is clear," he said. "Police are expanding perimeter. They want the whole ED evacuated."
Lena's face did not change. But the air did. The whole ED. Not adjacent rooms. Not the trauma corridor. Everything.
Waiting room. Curtains. Bays. Hall beds. Psych holds. Boarders who had been waiting upstairs for beds that did not exist. The old woman in Curtain Two who needed oxygen. The kid with the broken wrist. The man in Bay Five who thought oxygen worked if it was "nearby." The septic patient in Twelve. People who had come to The Pitt because something was wrong and now had to be moved because something worse had followed someone else inside.
Your stomach turned. Your hand did not move. Jack saw the change in your face.
"Don't take it," he said.
You could barely hear yourself. "They're evacuating the whole ED."
"Yes."
"Because ofâ"
"No," he said.
The word cut through the thought before it could finish forming. Your eyes burned.
"Jackâ"
"No. Because of the device. Because of the risk. Because that's protocol. Not because of you."
Your throat worked. You wanted to believe him. You mostly did. It didn't help as much as you needed it to.
Lena looked toward hospital command. "We evacuate by acuity and mobility. Ambulatory to the east hall and outpatient corridor. Stretcher patients to radiology holding if police clears it. Criticals go to pre-op and PACU overflow. Psych stays with security escort. Anyone on oxygen gets portable tanks before movement."
The administrator blinked. "Can we move patients into PACU withoutâ"
"Yes," Lena said.
He opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it. Good man.
"Call upstairs," Lena continued. "Tell them ED is unloading into every available monitored space. I do not care whose census sheet gets ugly."
Security spoke into his radio, then nodded. "Police cleared east hall and outpatient corridor. Ambulance bay is locked down. Incoming ambulances diverted."
"Not critical trauma," Jack said, still watching the monitor.
Lena's eyes flicked to him.
"If a critical trauma is ten minutes out, they can't circle the city," Jack said. "Robby or McKay can make that call outside. But no one comes through this corridor."
Lena nodded. "I'll route command through Robby."
"Robby's here?"
"Just arrived."
Something moved across Jack's face. Not relief. Not exactly. Robby meant backup. Robby also meant someone who could look Jack in the eye and say no. You saw Jack understand both things. He said nothing. The ambulance bay doors beyond the hall opened again, and a new kind of quiet entered with the people who came through. Bomb squad. You knew it before anyone said it.
Maybe it was the way the police officer near the door straightened. Maybe it was the way Lena shifted aside without being told. Maybe it was the shape of the two responders who stopped behind the marked line, one with a hard case, the other speaking low into a radio. The lead tech was a man in dark gear, hair cropped close, face composed in a way that did not belong to hospitals. Calm like roads blocked at midnight. Calm like wires and blast radius and choices made very slowly.
"I'm Sergeant Vale," he said. "Bomb squad. Nobody changes position."
Jack answered immediately. "No one has."
Vale's eyes moved across the trauma bay. Patient. Wound. Your arm. Garcia. Shen. Anesthesia. Ellis. Princess. Jack. Then back to you. He did not ask if you were okay. You were grateful.
"We spoke to the brother on the way in," Vale said.
The words changed the room again.
Jack's voice stayed level. "What did he say?"
Vale did not answer. Not yet. His eyes moved to the number of people in the bay.
"I'll brief essential personnel only."
Jack's expression hardened. "My trauma team is essential."
"Not all of them," Vale said.
Garcia stepped forward half an inch, then stopped herself. "This patient is unstable."
"I understand."
"With respect, Sergeant, if he bleeds out or loses his airway while you're clearing the room, the device won't matter."
Vale's gaze stayed level. "With respect, if that device functions the way the brother described, nobody in this room gets to use the airway."
Silence. No one breathed right for a second. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's flank. You felt heat. Blood. The hard, smooth edge pressed beneath your palm. For the first time since this began, the foreign body stopped being unknown. Not to them. Not to the bomb squad. They knew. And they were not saying it in front of everyone. That scared you more than the guessing had.
Jack looked at Vale. "Who stays?"
Vale answered without hesitation. "The nurse with her hand in the wound. Me. One medical lead outside the immediate radius to advise. Everyone else leaves until assessment is complete."
"No," Jack said.
Flat. Instant. Lena closed her eyes for half a second in the doorway. Like she had been waiting for that and hated being right.
Vale looked at Jack. "This is not negotiable."
"I'm the attending."
"You can advise from outside."
"The patient is unstable."
"And the device is unstable."
"You don't know that until you assess it."
"We know enough," Vale said. "That is why I'm clearing the room before I give details."
Garcia's mouth tightened. "I need to be able to control hemorrhage."
"You cannot operate around a live device."
"I'm aware."
"Then you are outside until I tell you otherwise."
Garcia looked furious. She also looked like she knew Vale was right.
Anesthesia spoke next, low and tense. "If he crashes while we're outsideâ"
"I'll call you back if I need you," Vale said.
"If you need us, it may be too late."
Vale's eyes flicked briefly to Mr. Mercer. "I know."
That was the first human thing in his voice. Not softness. Not comfort. Just the truth. Jack did not move. His shoulders had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. You had seen him calm all night. You had seen him controlled. This was different. This was refusal settling into his bones.
"I was in the army for years," Jack said, voice low. "I've seen devices in bodies. I've seen what happens when people move wrong."
The room seemed to hear everything under that. Blast trauma. Blood in places blood should not be. Rooms that did not stay rooms. Vale's expression changed by the smallest degree. Not softened. Understood, maybe.
"Then you know why you can't stay," Vale said.
Jack's eyes stayed on him. "Then you know why I won't leave."
Not her. He did not say that. He did not need to. Everyone heard it anyway. Then Mr. Mercer's monitor alarmed again, high and shrill. Ellis flinched but did not touch anything.
"Pressure fifty-eight," she said.
Garcia looked at Jack. "He needs more blood."
Princess shifted automatically toward the cooler.
Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Stop."
Princess froze. The blood pump clicked steadily.
Jack's eyes cut to Vale. "You cannot freeze all care."
"I can freeze movement until I know what's safe."
"He dies if we do nothing."
"He may detonate if you do anything."
The sentence landed like a physical thing. You heard someone inhale. Maybe you. Jack's face turned hard enough to frighten you.
"Then tell me what it is."
Vale looked at the room again. At all the people. Too many.
"No."
Jack took one step toward him. Small. Controlled. A movement with no wasted motion. Vale did not flinch. Lena stepped into the doorway. Not into the room. Just enough.
"Jack."
He did not look at her.
"Not now," he said.
"Yes," Lena said. "Now."
His jaw tightened.
"Abbott," Vale said, "you have ten seconds to step out before I have security remove you."
Jack almost laughed. There was no humour in it.
"Good luck."
Lena moved then. She crossed the threshold carefully, hands visible, her eyes locked on Jack rather than the bed. She did not come near you. Did not come near Mr. Mercer. She stayed on Jack's side of the room, outside the path Vale had claimed.
"Lena," Jack warned.
"No," she said.
One word. Charge nurse voice. Not loud. Immovable. Jack finally looked at her.
"You need to leave," Lena said.
"I'm not leaving."
"You are."
"I am the attending physician responsible for that patient."
"You are a body in a blast radius."
His eyes flashed. "Don't."
"I will not let you dress this up as medical necessity if it isn't."
The room went still around that. You felt the words hit him. Because they were true. Because everyone knew they were true. Because you knew they were true too. Jack looked at you then. For one breath, everything else dropped away. Not the patient. Not the bomb. Not the blood. Just the noise around it. Jack looked at you like if he held you there with his eyes hard enough, he could make the next five minutes survivable. You wanted to let him. You wanted to be selfish. You wanted to say, Stay.
Instead, you heard yourself say, "Jack."
His face changed. That soft version of your voice had always done something to him. You had seen it before in smaller rooms, over smaller wounds. Not like this. Never like this.
"Don't," he said.
You swallowed. Your hand did not move.
"I need you to go."
His eyes sharpened with something almost like betrayal.
"No."
"Yes."
"You don't get to ask me that."
"I'm not asking."
Lena went very still. Jack stared at you. You forced yourself to keep looking at him because if you looked anywhere else, you would break apart. Your voice shook once and then steadied.
"You told me to keep the room small."
His throat moved. You kept going.
"I can't do that if you're arguing with the bomb squad."
His mouth pressed into a hard line.
"That's unfair," he said quietly.
"I know."
"You're using my own instructions against me."
"Yes."
A tear slipped down your cheek. Still, your hand did not move.
"I need you outside," you said. "Where I know you're not standing next to me if this goes wrong."
Jack's eyes flashed. "Do not say that."
"Jack."
"No."
"If you stay, I'll be thinking about you."
The words came out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too late to take back. His face went still. You breathed in carefully. Small. Shallow.
"I can't think about you," you said. "I have to think about my hand."
For a second, no one moved. Then Jack closed his eyes. Just once. A blink too long. When he opened them, something had changed. Not acceptance. Never that. Understanding. The terrible kind. Outside the room, the ED evacuation widened again. You heard Lena's radio crackle from her shoulder.
"All units, full ED evacuation is active. Repeat, full ED evacuation active. Move by zone. Maintain east corridor. No patient traffic through trauma."
Full ED evacuation active. The words made your stomach turn cold. Jack heard them too. So did everyone.
Vale glanced once toward Lena. "Now, Dr. Abbott."
Jack looked at your arm. At the wound. At the place where your hand disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then back at your face.
"You listen to Sergeant Vale," he said.
You almost nodded. Caught yourself.
"Okay."
"You do exactly what he says."
"Okay."
"You do not improvise."
Your mouth trembled. "That's rich, coming from you."
For the first time since Vale arrived, Jack's mouth almost moved. Almost. Then it vanished.
"I'll be right outside."
You wanted to say that wasn't enough. You wanted to say it was too far.
Instead, you whispered, "I know."
Lena stepped closer to him.
"Jack," she said softly.
He did not move. She put one hand on his arm. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just contact. A reminder that he had a body and it needed to leave the room. Jack looked at her hand like he might argue with that too. Then he let her pull. Only Lena could have made it look like she wasn't dragging him. Only Jack could have made being dragged look like a tactical retreat. He stepped back once. Then again. Every inch looked carved out of him. At the doorway, he stopped. Vale's patience had clearly reached its edge, but he held. Jack turned his head. Not fully.
Just enough to look at you one more time. You held his gaze. There was so much in his face now that it hurt to see it. Fear. Fury. Helplessness. Something else too. Something neither of you had said, but which had been living between you so long it almost had a pulse. You did not say it. Not yet. Not with him there. Not when it might make him step back into the room. So you gave him the only thing you could. You kept your hand still. Jack saw. His face broke for half a second. Then Lena pulled him across the threshold.
The security officer closed the trauma bay door behind him. The sound was soft. Final. For a moment, Jack stood on the other side of the glass like he had forgotten how to exist there. Lena stayed beside him, her hand still wrapped around his forearm. Not because she could hold him if he truly decided to go back in. Because she would try. Behind him, the hallway was no longer The Pitt as you knew it. It was evacuation. Security. Police. Stretchers disappearing around corners.
Staff moving patients away from the room where you stood with your hand inside a man's body and the centre of the disaster under your palm. Jack did not look at any of it. He looked only at you. Vale stepped closer. Not blocking him completely. But enough that your world had to change shape.
"Okay," he said, voice calm in a different way than Jack's. "Now I can tell you what we're dealing with."
Your stomach turned cold. Outside the glass, Jack went utterly still. Vale set the hard case down with careful precision.
"Look at me," he said.
Can't wait to read the rest, read the entire story here now.
Loving Dr Abbott - {Code Black - Part 2} - Wattpad
âą {content} dick only respond to you calling him baby
The apartment was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, save for the rhythmic humming of the washing machine and the faint scent of fresh linen.
You were currently knee-deep in folding the endless mountain of laundry on the bed. You grabbed the next item from the basket, held it up, and instantly stopped, staring at it in absolute disbelief.
It was a pair of Dickâs favorite boxersâor at least, what used to be boxers. At this point, the fabric was so worn down it was almost translucent, and there were two distinct, gaping holes near the seam. They were hanging on by a single thread and sheer willpower.
"Dick, are you serious?" you called out toward the living room, where your boyfriend was currently stretched across the rug doing his afternoon mobility routine. "Dick, come look at these!"
No answer. Not even a rustle of his sweatpants.
"Dick?" you said, a little louder, peeking your head around the bedroom door.
He was flowing smoothly from a deep hamstring stretch into a cobra pose, looking entirely serene and completely oblivious to your existence.
You blinked. You knew for a fact he wasn't deafâthe man had peak-human Bat-family hearing and could spot a footstep on a roof three blocks away. You opened your mouth to yell his name again, but then the realization hit you.
You had called him 'Dick.'
In the three years youâd been together, you almost never called him by his actual name. He was "babe," "baby," "honey," or, on particularly chaotic mornings, "sweetheart." Calling him Dick was practically a foreign language to his subconscious.
A mischievous grin spread across your face. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms.
"Richard?"
Silence. He shifted into a shoulder bridge.
"Grayson?"
He sighed softly, deepening the stretch, completely locked into his own world.
"Officer Grayson?"
Nothing.
You took a slow breath, held up the shredded boxers like evidence in a court trial, and dropped your voice to its usual fond, affectionate tone.
"Hey, baby?"
Dickâs head snapped up instantly. His bright blue eyes locked onto yours, a warm, easy smile instantly spreading across his face.
"Yeah, sweetcheeks? What's up?" he asked, popping off the floor with effortless agility and strolling toward the bedroom. He leaned into your space, instantly tilting his chin down for a kiss.
You held up the holy pair of boxers right between your faces like a shield, staring at him with an amused, disbelieving look. "Are you serious right now?"
Dick paused mid-lean, blinking at the ruined fabric, then up at you like a confused puppy. "What?"
"First of all, these are going in the trash. Second of all, I just called your name four times."
"No, you didn't," he said smoothly, sliding his arms around your waist anyway. "I would've heard you."
"I said Dick."
He flinched subtly, screwing up his nose as if the word tasted weird. "See? Hearing it now, it doesn't even sound like a real word. Who is he? Sounds like a stranger. I don't know him."
"It is literally your legal name!" You laughed, reaching up to tap his cheek.
Dick gently caught your wrist, tugging you a little closer until your chest was resting against his.
"My name," he corrected softly, his voice dropping into that low, warm register he saved just for you, "is baby. Or babe. I also accept 'hey handsome' if you're feeling fancy."
"You're ridiculous," you murmured, though you couldn't stop the smile tugging at your lips.
"I'm a man conditioned by love," he declared heroically, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "If you start calling me Dick, I'm going to assume I'm in trouble, or that Bruce is standing right behind me. Neither of those options are good for my heart."
"So if I need to save you from a falling building, I just have to yell 'Look out, babe!'?"
"Precisely," Dick grinned, kissing your cheek before eyeing the ruined boxers in your hand. "And for the record, those are vintage. They're aerated. It's tactical."
"They're going in the trash, baby."
"Fair enough," he sighed dramatically, wrapping his arms around you tighter.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Just thinking about Clark being able to hear you masturbate due to his sĂșper hearing
Like, he's your neighbor in your shity apartment who has walls so thin like a paper, so that's the excuse he thinks for hearing you
You just come from a really bad day from work, so pent up that you just want to relieve stress, so you just disregard all your clothes in way of your bedroom and plop in your bed
He hear all of that, from the moment you open your door, then he just hear the slick of your pussy and get all red and flustered, but he can't help but keep hearing. The amount of slick that he's sure you're making a mess in your bed now, the little whimpers and moans
Soon enough he's rock hard in his sweats, his hand sliding down to palm himself, and don't get him wrong, he's a good boy, a gentleman, you and him are good neighbors to each other, but the sweet sound of your voice make him pull down his sweats and stroke his dick
He's trying to move his hand at the same time your fingers go inside and out of you, and oh to his delight he hears you other hand moving to rub your clit, making you moan louder. He knows you're close, he's dizzy with the sound of your fingers coated in your slick, he wish it was his fingers or the other part of him that needed you so bad
When you come hard, so does he, so sad that it's in his palm and not in you, but he's so shy to ask you out, so he has to just fantasy about you while hearing
A frown reached your eyes when what seemed to be the sunlight hit your face, blinding you with the warmth and brightness of its ray
Sitting up on your bed, making the soft blanked fell to your laps as you took a deep breath taking in the lingering scent of musk and burnt wood that belonged to your husband, a soft yawn escaped your lips,
It was early in the morning, around 7am
The spot beside you was empty, which didnât surprise you because that husband of yours seemed to be foreign to the idea of sleeping in, even on weekends
You sigh and stood up, leaving the warm mattress behind as you made your way downstairs to the kitchen, where you knew Damian would be in
As soon as you stepped out of the bedroom the smell of coffee hit you immediately, your lips curved in a soft smile as you recognized the familiar smell,
The more you approached the kitchen the more you could hear the soft and slow instrumental coming out from the kitchen
You made your way in the kitchen, and immediately spotted your husband sitting on a kitchen chair, a leg folded above the other with a cub of black coffee in his hand, while he hummed quietly the tune of the chorus in the background
You smiled and leant against the doorway,
âMorningâ the creaking of your voice made it seem even more domestic,
âGood morning.â He replied setting his cup slowly on the table âdid you sleep well?â
âI did,â your eyes drifted to the radio set on the counter right beside the spices storage,
You recognize immediately the instrumental playing, your hand reached out to pull the volume up as you hummed along the song,
Sabah Wa Massa - Fairuz
Ever since you met Damian and started dating, he made it very clear that he was addicted to the Lebanese singer,
He loved that woman more than his own brothers, you believed.
Every morning heâd just drink his black sour coffee listening to that mesmerizing voice singing about Love, longing and most of the time a deep sadness,
The melancholy of that woman was so soothing and beautiful, it was incredibly comforting
âEinia, the coffee is ready if youâd like to drink some.â His deep voice sounded so harsh contrasting the slow background
You shook your head softly âIâll make some tea, your coffee is way too sour for meâ
His eyes softened âcoffee is purposed to be sour, belovedâ Then his face turned into a tiny frown when he saw you turning around reaching for the teapot
Your head moved along the soft rhythm of the song as you fill the teapot with water and some herbs,
He uncrossed his legs and pushed himself up from the chair, approaching you from behind,
âBeloved, you forgot something,â he murmured his hands settling on your hips,
You lean back toward him, âhm?â
His lips found your neck, placing soft pecks there âit usually never slips out of your mind through.â
You tilt your head to the side, giving him more of your neck, trying to remember what you could have forgotten
âI donât know what youâre talking about, hunâ you murmured
âHm,â he continued kissing your neck until he reached that spot just behind your ear, which made you squirm
âWhat is it?â You asked again, your hand reaching behind to settle behind his head, pulling him closer
He does not give an answer, his teeth sinking into your soft flesh instead, making you gasp in the softest way
Then a switch turned on in your head, finally remembering what could have slipped out of your head
âAwh you want your morning kiss?â Your teasing voice made him pull you closer,
You turn around to face him, you giggled when you took in the look on his face, he looked like a pouty cat, how cute
âYouâre so spoiledâ you teased your hand brushing his cheek, he was so soft with you, so human
He frown slightly âwhat do you mean by that, Einia?â
âForget it,â you smiled and bring your hand to his hair, messing it up a bit
You make him lean down and gently pressed your lips against his,
He immediately melts in the kiss wrapping his arms tightly around you, his lips tasted like coffee and toothpaste which made you pull him even closer
When you guys pulled back, his eyes locked into yours, then he leant down placing a tender kiss on your forehead, before pulling back to go sit back on his chair as if nothing happened
You could see how content he was after the affection you two shared,
You smiled and turn back to make your tea, Fairuz still rocking your soft morning.
A/n: Helloo! Ugh so Iâve been having the worst write block these days, I have literally no energy to write the requests and Iâm SO TIRED
I tried to come back with something very short as you see, and Iâve been so back into my DC era lately!!! It makes me so happy!
Iâll be writing more about DC cuz itâs what Iâm the more into lately
Sorry if this is a bit shitty as I said Iâm trying to motivate myself to get back into writing UGH
"c'mon, baby, gimme one more,â jack pants, his lips right against yours. his fingers had been plunging deep inside your cunt for the past long minutes. you've lost count already. brain turned to mush, all thoughts wooshed away.Â
âjackie,â you whine, gripping his forearm, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm.Â
âyeah, baby. i want you to come for me again. come for your jackie, sweetheart,â he kisses he corner of your lips.Â
it's too much. his thick fingers splitting up your cunt, the metal band of his ring now warm against your skin, but it only spurs you on. jack's thumb circles your poor, throbbing clit in time with his thrusts, making your eyes roll back shut.Â
your orgasm builds fast, barreling you over the edge. with your head thrown back, you let out a sinful moan as you come. your legs close around his arm, but jack doesn't stop.Â
he rides it out with you, fingers moving slowly inside you as you come down.Â
âgood job, baby, cum so pretty f'me,â he whispers, voice raspy. jack chuckles when your pussy squeezes again. âlook at that, she doesn't wanna let me go.â
his fingers slide off you slooooowly, a wet pop following.Â
âlook how wet you got my fingers,â he taunts, smirking down at you. jack locks his eyes with yours, bringing his fingers up to his nose and taking a sniff of them. âi love this cunt so fucking much, baby,â he groans, licking his fingers clean. âlet me say it to her,â jack slides down your body until his face is buried in your pussy.
Summary: You and Brendon unexpectedly find out you are pregnant. (0.7k)
Warnings: requested, pregnancy, soft!Brendon, use of pet names, medical inaccuracies, mentions of an injury from an axe, nurse!reader, established relationship
There's a lovely old lady in Trauma 1. She got wheeled in with a gnarly detached finger. Apparently, she was trying to cut open a coconut with an axe and obviously she missed.
She keeps talking to you, being the most sweetest patient on the heavy painkillers as you wait for the ortho to arrive.
Just as your Brendon arrives, the lady's eyes dip to your stomach and then she checks you out again.
"Oh my god, congratulations! How far along are you, mama?" She asks with a wide smile, and your face goes white. You notice Brendon go deadly still from the corner of your eye.
"I'm sorry, what? I'm-I'm not..." You try to explain but your brain refuses to cooperate with your mouth.
"Oh, no need to be shy about it. I was a midwife for almost 50 years, I can spot a pregnant woman from a mile away." She continues her well-intentioned but badly timed rambling.
Everybody in the room is quiet, eyes on your slightly bulging stomach, and your minds starts thinking about the possibility of being pregnant. You thought you were just bloated.
You and Brendon aren't taking any precautions not to get pregnant, you agreed that if it happens one day, you wouldn't be opposed to it. But still, this takes you by surprise.
"Whitaker, talk me through what happened." Brendon's stern voice fills in the silent room. The attention moves from you to him and you quickly excuse yourself, ignoring everyone's understanding gaze. You know, they won't say a peep about it. But your slight panic isn't about that.
Dana immediately clocks your distress. "What's wrong, hon?"
"Could you...Could you please draw my blood?" You ask sheepishly.
Dana just nods seriously and leads you away to an empty room.
-
Five minutes later, you are fiddling with your fingers, sitting on a stool and waiting for the results, and for Brendon to come.
You keep refreshing the blood work on your tablet to finally see the results.
You think about the last time you had your period and realise it was definitely over 2 months ago. You've just been so busy at work and then just enjoying your time with Brendon that you just didn't notice.
You are too in your head that you don't even notice Brendon finally coming to find you.
He ducks in front of you, warm hands settling on your thighs. "I'm sorry it took me so long, she kept asking questions about the surgery. Are you okay, sweetheart?"
"I'm fine, just wasn't expecting it, that's all." You say, sneaking your hands around his and giving a little squeeze.
"Are you okay?" You ask Brendon, who's being your anchor right now so you don't conpletely panic.
"I'm okay, baby. No matter the results, I'm all for it. Even if you've changed your mind about having kids, I'll be here for you, okay?"
"Have you changed your mind?" You know you haven't. Not when Brendon's the perfect fucking husband. And even if he can be cold with adults, he's always all soft and kind with children patients and his nieces and nephews.
People think he is an asshole (yeah, it's kind of true) but he's in fact just the biggest softie.
"I haven't changed my mind, I still want kids with you, but I want whatever you want more." He kisses both of your palms as he says it.
"I want kids with you too." You whisper with watery eyes.
"Good, sweetheart." He grins at you, more excited than stressed about the situation, which reassure you even more that Brendon will be an awesome dad. "So should we look at the results?" Brendon drops a kiss on top of your head as he comes to stand behind you.
You nod and shakily open your blood work again. Your eyes immediately land on the pregnancy test result that says positive.
"Oh my god." You let out a quiet, little sob, and Brendon just stares in disbelief. There's a ridiculous amount of happiness on both of your faces.
"Come here, sweetheart." Brendon puts the tablet away, helps you out and crushes you against him in a tight, tight hug.
"We're gonna be parents." You say into his shoulder breathlessly.
"Yes, doll, the best parents. And now apparently the whole ED will know about it as well."
You both chuckle at that, and continue holding each other until the fact you are indeed pregnant settles in. Just taking it in in your own little bubble.
summary: after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.
pairing: brendon park + fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
warnings/tags: surgery mention, overprotective!brendon hehe, established relationship, excessive supervision as a love language (but not in a bad way!)
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first thing you realized after your surgery was that the anesthesia haze was temporary.
The second thing you realized was that Brendon Park being insane about your recovery absolutely was not temporary.
It started in the hospital. The fracture had been bad enough. It was a clean break, the orthopedic resident had explained while showing you the scans, but unstable enough to need surgical fixation after your spectacularly humiliating fall down a rain-slick stairwell outside your apartment building.
You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.
You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.
Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.
He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.
"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.
Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.
The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.
"She just came back from imagingâ"
"She's already been medicated."
"With what?"
"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.
His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"
"Yeah."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes, because my leg is broken."
His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.
And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.
You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.
Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.
He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).
"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.
She stared at him. "...Yes?"
"What approach?"
"Brendon."
"What?"
"You are not interrogating my surgery."
"I'm verifying."
"No, you're being annoying."
Then came the surgery, which went well.
Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.
The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.
"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.
"I know."
"You use the crutches every single time you get up."
"I know."
"You do not try to hop."
"I'm not an animal, Brendon."
"You joke now," he muttered.
The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."
You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.
Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."
You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.
"Brendon."
"Hm?"
"You took my coffee table away."
"It has sharp corners."
"It's a coffee table."
"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."
"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."
The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.
And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.
Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.
You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.
"What are you doing?"
You stared at him. "Were you awake?"
"I am now."
"I need the bathroom."
"Okay."
"...Okay."
But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.
You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you."
"I can use crutches by myself."
He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.
"Brendon."
"I'm making sure you don't slip."
"You cannot stand in here while I pee."
"Yes I can."
"Brendon."
He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.
"Why are you still there?"
"I'm supervising."
"You're insane."
"You love me."
Unfortunately, that was true.
And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.
"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."
"You'd need help reaching me first."
Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.
You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.
Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.
There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.
You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.
So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.
One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.
You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.
"What are you doing?"
You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"
"You should've called me."
"For a book?"
"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."
He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.
And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.
Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.
Something in his expression softened immediately.
"Honey."
"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."
His hand slid carefully around your waist.
"You're not made of glass."
"You treat me like I am."
"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."
"Well, technically it wasâ"
"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."
He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.
Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.
Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.
You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.
"Hey."
His eyes flicked to yours.
"I'm okay."
His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.
"You were screaming," he said quietly.
"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."
You hadn't realized that stuck with him.
"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing youâ"
He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.
"Oh, honey."
His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."
"You are insane."
He rested his forehead briefly against yours.
"You scared the hell out of me."
And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.
Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.
And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.
Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.
"What the hell are you doing?"
You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"
"You could spill that."
"Yes."
"You could slip."
"Brendon."
"You have one functioning leg."
"I know."
He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.
"You are unbelievable."
"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."
"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."
You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.
Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.
You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.
"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.
"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."
"In the middle of the night?"
"I woke up."
Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.
"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."
"There's a typo."
"You are impossible."
But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.
By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.
So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.
Make your own sandwich.
That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.
You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:
"What are you doing?"
You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.
"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.
"You weren't in bed."
"I was just making lunch!"
"You should've called me first."
You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"
"No, I'm not sayingâIt's just that you're still recovering."
"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"
"I know."
The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.
"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."
"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."
He exhaled slowly.
"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
"Because I love you."
You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.
"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."
"Last time I checked it was called caring?"
You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."
He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.
His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.
"I love you too," you murmured.
"I know."
"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."
"That seems excessive."
He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?
Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...
You'd never felt more loved in your life.
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
his wife ââ michael robinavitch
michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.
summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.
content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.
authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.
word count: 4079
Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robbyâs neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.
Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. Heâs a private person. Residents donât ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear.Â
Santos thinks that maybe heâs faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks ⊠Well, she isnât quite sure what to think. But she doesnât think its what Santos or Whitakerâs thinking.
So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends.Â
The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction.Â
âIs my husband around?â You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. Itâs not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you donât blame him. Itâs understandable. But itâs rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means itâs important.
The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart heâd picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth.Â
âTrauma one. Heâs in a mood.â Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You werenât surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when heâs stressed.Â
âNot surprising.â You huffed out a dry laugh. âWhen isnât he?â
âTrue that.â The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But youâre able to diffuse him unlike anyone else.Â
âAlright if I hang around?â You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming.Â
âOf course.â Dana assured you, well aware you donât like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. âEverything okay?â
âYeah, just Levi.â You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, heâs 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didnât mean he didnât avoid doing dumb shit.Â
Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out.Â
âWhatâre you doing here?â You heard your husbandâs gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didnât show up here without a reason.Â
Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That canât be right.Â
âYour son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.â You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldnât, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. âNaked.â
âWhy is he always my son when he does something stupid?â Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am. âActually, donât answer that.â
He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didnât need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things heâs done in his 20s.Â
Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.
Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe theyâd heard this correctly.Â
âAnyways. Heâs alright. But he called Jack who called me.â
âFuck.â Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. âYou going to get him?â
He gave you a look that said you gonna go or⊠not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars.Â
âYeah.â You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. âLetting him sweat a bit.â
âYouâre evil.â He commented dryly.Â
âItâs why you married me.â You grinned.Â
He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He wonât even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons heâd fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. Heâs cherished raising children with you. Heâd never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him.Â
But he was aware that you werenât going to let this stint slide.Â
âThatâs why youâre here?â He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later.Â
âPartially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.â You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack wouldâve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you.Â
Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since heâd met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, youâd been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. Heâd immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when heâd been in the army and deployed).Â
As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldnât keep things from you and Robby. Especially when itâs important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasnât going to lie.Â
âGood thinking.â He nodded, appreciative youâd told him instead of letting him be blindsited later.Â
âIâll head out.â You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like youâd go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. âHopefully wonât take too long but iâll let you know.â
âAlright, thanks.â Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when youâd separate for the day. âSee you after work.â
âI love you.â You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
âI love you, honey.â
You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car.Â
âYouâre married?â Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that.Â
He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. â26 years.âÂ
He doesnât hide heâs married. He just doesnât find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if heâs not prompted, he doesn't talk about them.Â
âHow⊠when ⊠what?â Santos stammered, in disbelief heâs been married. To you. For 26 years.Â
âYou didnât know?â Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.
âDonât act like you didnât react the same way when you found out.â Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look.Â
He canât even deny it. When he discovered his attendingâs long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didnât seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. Heâs grown to know that over the last few years when heâd seen you two interact.Â
Robby is a man inlove.Â
âHowâd you meet?â Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how youâd met. Especially since youâd been married for so long.Â
Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening youâd met. It was forever seared into his memory.
1995.
Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients.Â
The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. Theyâd all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology.Â
He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs.Â
You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since youâd both graduated and begun your careerâs, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where youâre both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes.Â
The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job.Â
âGod, can you believe it?â She said in disbelieving scoff. âI mean, who in their right mind thinks that itâs okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.â
âThatâs so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.â You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.
âI wish.â Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. âBut I will say that I need another drink.â
âIâll get some.â You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. âDonât venture anywhere.â
âNo promises.â she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. Sheâs just worse than you, especially when intoxicated.Â
You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she wonât venture far if she decides to.Â
You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They werenât interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didnât take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.
âWhat can I get for ya?â He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasnât too loud but to be safe.Â
âVodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.â You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.
Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. Itâs you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when heâd noticed you earlier. Heâs not shy but he respects youâd been with a friend and heâd been with his. He barely noticed the bartender heâs spoken to before, placing the beers heâd asked for in front of him.Â
âThanks.â He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar.Â
Robbyâs attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. âHerâs too.â
The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what youâd asked for to figure out the total cost.Â
Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Youâve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this.Â
âThatâs awfully nice of you.â You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. Itâs not actually fair. âWhatâs the catch?â
âNo catch.â He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy.Â
âBut it got you talking to me.â He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge.Â
âAh, so that was your plan, huh?â
âNo, kinda just happened in the moment.â He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But youâd made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines.Â
âIn the moment.â You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasnât a complete lie, but he wasnât telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldnât question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didnât plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to.Â
âThat hard to believe?â He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused.Â
âNope, but you canât tell me you donât already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.â You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and youâre sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girlâs attention.Â
The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man youâd been interacting with.Â
âYou got me.â He chuckled, not going to deny it. âBut they donât seem like something youâd be interested inâ
âNow that's a line.â You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile.Â
That smile? That nearly stopped his heart.Â
âMaybe it is.â He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. âDid it work?â
âIâm not at liberty to answer that.â You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you werenât immune.Â
âBesides, I have my friend to get back to.â You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.
âAh, that's one of mine.â he chuckled, eyes having followed where youâd directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadnât quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he wonât complain.Â
âYeah?â You quizzed but werenât completely convinced he hadnât coordinated that.Â
âNot my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck.Â
Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. âDonât move.â
He didnât say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadnât even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man youâd left.
As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadnât felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well ⊠ever.Â
âGonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?â
âMichael. But you can call me Robby.â
âI donât see how that correlates.â You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert.Â
âRobinavitch.â he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling.Â
âAh, gotcha.â You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return.Â
He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all.Â
The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasnât happened in a long time.
He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didnât go into details but you had admitted youâd had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered.Â
You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of.Â
You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, youâd been talking to him since about 9, knowing youâd been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless.Â
âNot to cut this shortâŠâ You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat youâd been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he wouldâve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that heâd admit that. â...but I should go, it's nearly 12.â
He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? Thatâs how long heâd been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. Youâd both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didnât need to worry about her being alone.Â
âYeah, it was great talking to you.â He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasnât going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didnât want to do that with you.Â
âYou too.â You replied with a smile of your own. âBye, Michael.â
âBye.â He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadnât even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before.Â
Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldnât help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. Youâd spoken for hours. Not like youâd spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadnât felt before. Not with your exes.Â
You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didnât ask for any form of contact details for you.Â
With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him.Â
Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends.Â
âOkay. We have something. Thereâs this ⊠this⊠I don't know ⊠spark. It's there.â You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldnât help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. âWeâve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you donât ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!â
His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said.Â
âWhat?â You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest.Â
âIs it too late to ask for your number?â He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if youâd said no? Thatâd have just about broken his heart.Â
âYouâre asking now?â You asked dryly. âBecause I yelled at you?â
âFirst, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.â He corrected genuinely but firmly âsecond, i wanted to but i got nervous.â
âNervous?â you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadnât been nervous the entire time youâd spoken to him. Not openly anyways.Â
âYeah. Nervous.â He admitted without shame. âBeautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.â
âEnough with the lines.â You responded dryly. He hadnât really given you lines but that didnât automatically exclude him from going to use them.Â
âNot a line. I'm serious.â Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didnât leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasnât trying to be smooth. Just honest.Â
You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You donât think you can fake this kind of honestly.Â
âStill want my number?â
Present.Â
âI love her.â Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words.Â
Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents.Â
âSheâs incredible.â He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship.Â
âCareful, youâre sounding human.â Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too.Â
âDonât let my daughter hear that, sheâll use it against me.â He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didnât need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.
Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But heâd instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain. Â
Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, youâre going to let me eat you out
Wife: if he says that heâs made a mistake and wonât do it again, youâll eat me out
Husband <3: deal
âIâm sorry ⊠DAUGHTER?!âÂ
He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. Heâs the chief attending here. At home? Heâs just a man whoâs obsessed with his wife.
cw: ooc!Park?, pregnant!reader, morning sickness mentioned, weight gain discussed
âHas the dryer been giving you issues?â Brendon asks as he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen where youâre making breakfast.
âNo,â you reply as you add the golden pancake to the pile, âwhy? Do you have holes in your clothes? Are the clothes coming out damp? Iâve told you that sometimes the linens need more time to dry all the way.â
âItâs not that,â he grumbles as he piles up a short stack of pancakes onto his plate, smothers them in butter and drowns them in syrup. He cuts into the stack and shoves a forkful into his mouth, speaking with a full mouth, âmy clothes are shrinking.â
"They're shrinking?" You ask after blinking away your shock.
He nods, gulping down a cup of orange juice in one go. He pours himself another glass and goes in on the pancakes again, "they're fitting my tighter than they were a few weeks ago."
You hum thoughtfully as you build your plate. A few weeks ago even the thought of all this food would have sent you sprinting to the bathroom, but now, safely into your second trimester, you can safely fulfill all your cravings. You'd woken up this morning craving crispy bacon and fluffy pancakes and couldn't get out of bed fast enough.
Last week you were craving cereal at three in the morning and Brendon walked into the kitchen after an on call shift to catch you eating it from one of your serving bowls. A few days later you both went grocery shopping and came home with three different frozen pies. And since your morning sickness had subsided, you'd snacked on various fruits and vegetables covered in chili powder.
You take a bite of bacon and eye your husband, "I haven't had any issues with any of my clothes shrinking. Is it just one piece or?"
"All my clothes," Brendon shakes his head as he places his now clean plate into the sink. He starts in on the plate of bacon, chomping away on one piece and then another before adding, "scrubs are getting tight. I can't even tie them anymore."
You watch on with amazement as he casually puts away half the pack of bacon in one go. That bacon was supposed to last a few days!
You think on it as you cut into your breakfast. A few weeks ago his clothes started getting smaller. What else was going on a few weeks ago? He'd had a few call-ins, you had a scan, your morning sickness stopped when you got into your second trimester, andâ before then you couldn't even be around strongly scented food. Brendon ate most of his meals alone and they were his usual meal prepped and measured meals. Ever since the nausea had passed, you hadn't shied away from your cravings and your husband hadn't either.
You wanted steak? Well, Brendon would get one too. Those pies? You weren't going to eat alone! His mother taught him better than that! You told him you wanted ice cream, but he would be the once to suggest ice cream sandwiches between two home made cookies.
You giggle as the realization hits you, "honey, maybe it's not your clothes that are shrinking..."
"What does that mean?" He asks with furrowed brows, wiggling his fingers over the bowl of fruit.
You set your fork down, "I think you're gaining sympathy weight."
His jaw drops, looking at you with a mix of shock and betrayal. You hold up your hands defensively, "honey, it's not a bad thing. Just think about it, okay? When I snack, you do too. You never let me eat alone now that I can keep food down and I can't even remember the last time I saw one of your meal prep containers in the fridge."
His lips pout adorably, "I'm still going to the gym when I can... but it is much less often since you've been pregnant."
"And I really, really appreciate you being home with me more."
"Is it noticeable?" He asks.
You fit him with a deadpan expression and point down to your bump, "I've been more focused on growing our kid, honey. No, I haven't noticed and even if I had, I wouldn't love you any less. You're still the most handsome man I have ever laid my eyes on."
He smirks as he brace his arms on the counter, "yeah? You like dad bods?"
You roll your eyes with amusement as you refocus on your food, "chill, I'm already pregnant, B."
feedback is appreciated! divider from cursed-carmine <3
âHey, Dana? Got a sec?â Robby asked in a low voice, leaning over the counter.Â
âWhy?â She took off her glasses and looked at him.
âI got a patient in Trauma 2 and sheâs⊠jittery. I need an ortho consult for her arm and hip but she doesnât want to. She keeps asking to be transferred to Westboro or any other hospital.â He explained, âAnd sheâs got bruises that arenât from the accident.âÂ
Dana looked over at Trauma 2, where you were sitting, leaning back, staring at the ceiling. You were cradling your arm to yourself, the team had wrapped it but it still needed to be looked at once the X-rays came down.Â
You smiled and nodded as someone administered medication and it was obvious that you wanted to leave even though you were being as polite as possible.Â
âIâll check it out.â Dana patted Robbyâs shoulder and moved towards the room you were in.Â
Meanwhile, you were sitting and hoping that someone would come with the good news that you were getting transferred.Â
âHey- Iâm Dana.â She entered, closing the door behind her and drawing the curtain. âYou got a minute to talk?âÂ
You smiled and sat up a little, then winced in pain. âSorry- Just really sore. Am I getting the transfer?âÂ
âUh- Not yet.â She looked over her shoulder then pulled a stool to sit next to the bedside. âIs there a reason you donât wanna be here? At this hospital?âÂ
âYeah, I usually go to Westboro or Sacred Heart. I was just near here so they brought me here and I wasnât very lucid to advocate for myself.â You gave a nervous laugh.Â
âAnd thereâs no other reason?â She asked, eyeing you carefully.Â
âNo, maâam.â You swallowed but she noticed you stiffening up a little.
âOkay⊠okay. Is there someone we can call or-â She started but you shook your head.
âNo! I mean- I- No. Iâm fine. I just wanna get out of your hair-â You said immediately.Â
âOkay.â She nodded, watching you fidget with your wedding ring. âYou married?â She asked softly.Â
âI- Yeah-â You smiled, looking at your hand. âThree years now.âÂ
âHeâs a good guy?â She asked.
âHe looks mean but heâs-â You pause then sigh deeply. âAre you here to ask if Iâm being abused?â
âDr Robby saw bruises that werenât related to the crash. We have to do our duediligence.â She explained with a gentle smile.Â
âIâm not- Itâs not abuse-â You flushed deeply. âWeâre just very passionate and heâs stronger and gets very-â You cleared your throat as you shied away from explaining that your husband was an animal in bed.Â
âRobby called for an ortho consu-â Park entered and stared at you, saw Dana, then turned and walked away.Â
âThat was new.â Dana mumbled then looked at you. You laughed nervously, trying to not show anything. âSo, Iâm gonna ask again, can I call someone for you?âÂ
âI- My husband is my emergency contact but I donât wanna bother him.â You said quietly.Â
âHoney, you might have a broken arm and a fractured hip. Youâre gonna need to call someone.â She said softly, reaching to hold your hand and give it a squeeze. âMaybe a sibling? Or a parent?âÂ
You shook your head again. âNo. Theyâd all call him immediately so-â You sighed. âIâm fine⊠Really.â You gave a small smile.Â
A few minutes later, Garcia walked in, confused. âShark refused the consult.â She whispered to Dana and gave you a smile to start your consultation as Robby came back again.Â
Broken radius, and fractured ilium with a lot of bruising on your ribcage.Â
You nodded through the diagnosis and then the explanation of how you may need surgery for the arm but everything else can be wrapped and heal on its own. And then once again, someone emphasised that you needed to call someone.Â
The room was full of interns, student doctors and Robby, explaining your condition when Park walked back in. He was no longer in scrubs but the same jeans and shirt heâd been wearing when heâd left home in the morning.Â
Robby raised a brow as he entered. No one had ever seen him on the floor in casuals.
âWe good?â He asked slowly.Â
âGood. Continue.â Park nodded and pulled a stool to sit next to your bedside, taking your hand in his.Â
It took Robby a good thirty seconds to finally realise why you wanted to be transferred to another hospital. You were saving them from the Shark, not trying to run away.Â
âBrendon- I was just-â You looked at Robby worriedly.
âI know.â He nodded, eyes still locked on Robby.Â
The room that had been buzzing was now very, very silent. One intern was now focused on the IV pump, another found the curtains very fascinating. The student doctors were transfixed on the floor.Â
âOkay.â Robby clapped his hands, âLearning momentâs over. How about everyone go so I can have a moment with our patient and⊠spouse?â He added carefully and Park nodded once. âRightâŠâÂ
Once the room was empty and only the three of you remained, Robby turned to you both again.Â
âHow bad?â Park asked. His voice was unwavering but he was obviously worried with how hard he was holding your hand.Â
Robby silently pulled up the Xrays to show him. Park sighed deeply then looked at you.Â
âYou shouldâve called me.â He spoke gently which made Robbyâs brows meet his hairline.Â
âI didnât wanna pull you from your shift.â You whispered back.
âMy shift?â Park hissed and Robby cleared his throat. âWeâll talk about this later.â He pouted and turned to Robby, shoulders dropping a little. âGarcia will do the surgery since I canât.â
Robby nodded in agreement, looking over his shoulder, a small crowd was just walking past, constantly sneaking peeks of Shark and you, and whispering.Â
âAs soon as weâve got an OR, weâll move you up.â Robby explained. âAnd uh-â He paused. âDana might wanna talk to you-â
âDana? Why?â Parkâs brows furrowed.Â
âThe bruises-â You whispered to him and he glares at Robby.Â
âI am not explaining how I love my wife.â He was appalled at even the notion.Â
âRight! Of course! But you know! Hospital policy.â Robby backed away with a smile and exited the room quickly.Â
You turned to Park with a smile. âYou really have a reputation, huh?â You laughed softly. âThey have no idea how gooey you are at home.â
âStop⊠Iâm a tough guy.â He smiled a little.Â
âThe doctor before- The woman. She called you Shark. I never thought they seriously called you that.â You giggled some more and he rolled his eyes, leaning to kiss your forehead.Â
âI told you Iâm a scary guy at work.â He said softly.
âSure thing, fish boy.â You mused.Â
Outside the room, Robby was explaining the situation to Dana, whilst Whitker and Santos were eavesdropping.Â
âWhat⊠is happening right now?â Mel asked Dennis as she too stared at the scene unfolding in Trauma 2.Â
âShark might actually be human.â Dennis whispered back.Â
âWho wouldâve thought.â Trinity nodded in surprise.Â
was sort hopin' that you'd stay, baby we both know the that night were mainly made for saying' thing that you can't say tomorrow day
almost 10 years after your divorce, robby sees you in the ED with a child who looks just a little bit too much like him
wc: 25,718
content warning: angst, hurt/comfort, second chance romance, single!mom reader, secret child,medical jargon, medical gore, inaccurate medical details,, age gap [reader is 37 , robby is 50ish], might be slightly OOC robby, reader has hair long enough to be put up in a claw clip, child injury, mentions of broken bones, i play fast and loose with timelines
notes:
you are here -> next part
A dense heavy heat had settled over Pittsburgh, typical for the end of June as summer decides to make its home in the city, the kind that promised summer thunder storms as well as sunburn and heat exhaustion. It was suffocating, lungs having to work over time to just breathe and carry you through the day, and it was sticky. Sweat beading on foreheads and down backs, clothes sticking to skin.Â
It was also the kind of heat that lead to recklessness and an increased patient presence in the emergency room - people falling of bikes, burns from barbecue accidents, severe sun burns and heat stroke because people forgot to protect and hydrate themselves, car accidents caused by sun glare on the roads, people messing around in pools or getting distracted and not watching their kids leading to incidents of almost drowning. It was a lot and the Pitt was in chaos.Â
Doctors shouting orders over the beeping of heart monitors and the clicking wheels of gurneys as paramedics bring more patients in. Nurses rushing from station to station in a haze of movement and noise, carrying cooling blankets and dishing them out in the waiting room and halls because there simply wasnât enough space in the trauma bays, while also keeping an eye for disorientation and other side effects.Â
Robby had just stepped out of a bike accident, a teenager whose shoulder had dislocated upon impact with the ground and who was suffering from some internal bleeding after being hit in the stomach with the handles as they crested over a hill, he had done what he could. Stabilised him and got him prepped for surgery, the case was no longer in his hands.Â
He steps up to the nurses desk, hand running down his face as he takes a deep breath. The clock was just ticking over to 1pm, what would be the half-way point of the shift, but something inside him knew he was going to be here much longer than 7pm. He smiles softly to Dana who offers him a bottle of water, somewhere along the way she had been put in charge of making sure everyone stayed hydrated because lord knows everyone would have forgotten and then they would really be in shit when doctors and nurses started dropping because of heat stroke.Â
He offers a soft âthanksâ as he takes slow sips of the water, it's ice cold and heâs grateful for the shock it delivers to his system, for the way he can already feel the headache brewing starting to fade. His hand shakes a little as he holds it, but soon settles as Dana hands him a chart after a few seconds.One for the last patient, and he fills it in quickly so heâs ready to jump into action for the next patient that comes through. Which doesnât take long.
âMale, 9 years old. Took a fall at the park, a potential fractured ankle and a small head contusion.âÂ
He goes to move, to take a step away from the nurses desk to get the patient, but Dana stops him. A gentle hand on his arm to hold him in place, and he gives her a puzzled look.
âCollins, this oneâs yours.â
Robbyâs eye brows pinch up in confusion and he goes to argue but then he looks to the child on the stretcher, eyes casting over the face of the paramedics and to the frazzled mother at their side. It takes him a second, his brain racing to catch up with what heâs seeing. He refuses to believe itâs real, that it wasnât his imagination and heart playing tricks on him like it had a thousand times before.Â
He shakes his head, rubs his eyes, then looks again to see if the face has morphed but it hasnât. Itâs you. It had been nearly ten years, and yet here you stood. Eyes wide with worry and hands clutched in the little boys as he sniffles and rubs away the tears in his eyes.Â
Eyes that look strangely like his, a deep hazel with flecks of green and gold that reflect little starbursts when hit with the light. He scans the boy, taking in his face and features. The wild unruly dark hair, the tip and point of his nose, even the way his mouth curves down in a frown are so shockingly similar that Robby has to remember to breathe.Â
He stands still for a heartbeat, mind racing with a thousand possibilities and reasonings. It could simply be coincidence, you had met someone new and started a family with them. He could be adopted and just share similarities with Robby and because he hadnât seen you in so long he was grasping at any form of connection.Â
But then your eyes meet Robby's. Thereâs a flicker of unnamed emotion, then panic, then protectiveness as you step closer to the gurney and position yourself so Robby can no longer see the boy. He goes to take a step towards you, but is gently pulled back by Dana as she whispers, ânot nowâ, just barely heard over the pounding of his heart that matches the rhythm of the monitors around them.Â
Then Doctor Collins approaches, a warm smile on her face as she takes the two of you back to the peds bay. Youâre gone in a matter of seconds, the door to peds sliding closed and breaking whatever tension had been building in Robby. He stumbles backwards, tailbone hitting the edge of the desk as he reaches his hand behind him to stabilize himself.Â
Dizziness now swarmed his head and made the world spin. His whole world had just tilted on its axis and he didnât know how he was going to go on now, if he could even go on like he was before. Thereâs a thundering in his ears, the rush of his own blood as his heart pounds so heavily against his ribs heâs surprised it doesnât just rip out and throw itself on the floor. Nausea wells in his stomach, burns at his throat, and he canât seem to get a full breath in.Â
Then thereâs coolness against the back of his neck, like ice pressed against his skin. His hand is lifted to a chest and through muddled sounds he can just make out someone asking him to follow their breathing pattern. He tries, and initially fails, but the icy coldness starts to shock his nervous system back into a normal rhythm and he does it. Deep breaths rattle against his chest and fill his lungs with blessed air, his heart starts to slow down just a little and the rushing in his ears fades. His head still spins a little, but itâs manageable now.Â
Heâs sitting now, but Robby doesnât know when that happened, in one of the desk chairs and heâs shielded behind the barriers around the nurses stations where prying eyes canât watch him seemingly fall apart. Dana is in front of him, his hand still placed on her chest as he mirrors her breathing, eyes full of concern but not scrutiny. As if she expected this to happen the minute you walked through the door.Â
Thereâs silence for a few beats, seconds really, as Robby comes back into his body. He feels the sticky heat of the room, how his scrubs rub uncomfortably against his skin, the creaks and cracks of his joints as he clenches and unclenches his free hand as if heâs trying to hold onto something that exists only in his imagination. Sounds filter back in, the shuffle of feet and the beat of heart monitors suddenly overwhelming and loud and he flinches back at them slightly.Â
He removes his hand from Danaâs hold and leans forward with his elbows and his knees as he rubs at his face anxiously. Thereâs a choked sound from him, like holding back tears, as he looks at her.Â
âHow old is he?â
Dana lets out a sigh, eyes scanning over this face because they both already know the answer, â9 almost 10.â
âFuckâ
Robby leans back fully into the chair now, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose as if they could stop him from crying. It works, for now.Â
âYou know you canât go in there.â
Danaâs voice is soft, calming, a mother setting a boundary with an upset child. She knew what he was going to do before he even did, and he just sighs and throws his head back against the rim of the chair. He wants to go in, to see you. To see his son. The word felt like a cinder block in the dead center of his chest. But he canât.Â
âI knowâ
And he doesnât, at least not right away. The next three hours are a blur of patients and treatments, instinct over riding choice as he flows through them with head (and heart) half way in peds and with what was happening there. Then he gets a pediatric case, a five year old girl who had slipped on the edge of the pool and hit her head, Dana insists he reassign it but everyone else is busy with their own patients. So, he goes with the young girl and her family through the sliding glass doors and into the pediatric unit.Â
He spots you almost immediately, eyes drawn to you like you were his center of gravity. You're sitting on the bed, eyes staring intently at Collins as she goes over treatment, but your hand is in the boys. Clasped tight and rubbing soothing circles into the skin as his other hand plays with a toy plane. Distracted, happy if the smile was anything to go by. Kids always were resilient little things.Â
He can finally take you in properly, not much had changed in the 10 years since he had seen you. Your hair was a little different, maybe a little bit shorter and styled in a way he hadnât seen before. It framed your face beautifully. There were little crinkles at the side of your eyes, the beginning of crows feet starting to form and laugh lines decorated your forehead like a map leading him to treasure. Your eyes were the same. Beautiful, sharp, always observing and watching. A kaleidoscope of colours that he had spent endless nights getting lost in all those years ago. Even under the clean fluorescence of the hospital lights, there was something golden and magnetic about them.Â
You were as beautiful as the day you met, and the day he lost you.Â
As his patient is transferred to the bed, with the help of Mataeo and Donnie, he offers her a warm smile. Her parents stand at the end of the bed, hands clasped together so tight that Robby worries theyâll cut off each other's circulation, he had never understood a parent's worry before. Not truly. He could empathize with them, but he had never felt that bone-deep panic and fear of wondering if your child would be okay even if it was a simple graze on the knee, but as his eyes snap to the young boy at your side some part of him finally understands.Â
The cinderblock presses down against his chest, makes it hard to breath and makes every move he makes disjointed, he has to think about what heâs doing now rather than following routine. He knows he has no right to feel like that, he didnât even know the boy but as he watched the way he smiled up at you and how he laughed with Collins as she told a silly story, he canât help the way his heart twists itself into knots. Heâs not sure if it's worry about his health, or the grief of never knowing him that causes it.Â
As he treats the girl in front of him, who had proudly proclaimed her name as Amelia, he keeps his eyes off you. He patches up the cut on her forehead with some derma-bond, making sure to tell her if wouldnât leave a scar when it healed because she was sad she wouldnât be pretty anymore with a scar, and goes through the concussion protocol with practised ease. Though heâs pretty sure sheâs cleared of any concussions, he asks Mataeo to put in a CT order just so they can be sure.Â
His eyes drift over to you again, only to find you watching him as Collins motions him over. Your shoulders are rigid, tension obvious as you move almost robotically while turning to the boy who had asked you a question. Where there was a harshness in your eyes when you looked at him, thereâs now softness and love as you whisper low enough for only him to hear. Thereâs a giggle that passes his lips, soft and sweet and it sends a sharp spear of grief through Robby's heart.Â
âEverything okay Doctor Collins?â
Robby approached slowly, making sure to stay at the foot of the bed by Collinâs side and not up close to you. His eyes stay on the boy, who's smiling up at him warmly and there's another stab to his heart. Collins looks up at him, offering up the tablet with a smile and a nod.
âYeah, just want a second opinion on the x-ray.âÂ
As he eyes the x-ray, he takes in the name Isaac. It had been his grandfather's name, one he had told you he wanted to use if you had ever had kids. He has to clear his throat to try and subdue the well of emotion that was rising inside of it. He spends much longer looking at the x-rays than he really should, using it as a distraction so he could avoid looking at you and Isaac.Â
He looks away when you clear your throat, eyes slightly downcast so youâre not looking straight at him. He hands the tablet back to Collins, eyes moving to Isaac who busies himself with the multiple planes and cars in his lap.Â
âLooks like a Salter-Harris type threeâ
Collins nods to his words with a soft sigh, âThatâs what I thought.â
Both Robby and Collins give Isaac a sympathetic smile as Robby takes a step back from the bed, âIâll put the call into orthoâ
Collins nods as she turns her attention back to you and Isaac, taking time and care to explain what the next steps of treatment would be. Your eyes snap up to Robbyâs for just a fraction of a second, not even a full heartbeat, and he can see the panic and worry in them. The need for reassurance that this was the best path, but he canât give that. Instead he ducks his head down and turns around, slipping out past the sliding glass doors where he takes a deep breath he didnât know he was holding.Â
âYou alright?â
Danaâs voice stretches over the thrall of beeping machines and hushed conversations from where she stands at the nurses desk, hand propped on her hip as she eyes him up and down. As if sheâs taking emotional stock of him in case he collapses again.Â
âYeah Iâm good.â
Thereâs a scratchiness to voice, a husky timber that shows he is not, in fact, good. Dana nods her head unconvincingly, eyes moving to the ambulance bay doors as she tilts her head towards them, âWhy donât you go get some air? Weâre good hereâ
Robby just nods his head, ducking down and keeping his chin close to his chest as he shoves his hands into his pocket and makes his way out to the ambulance bay. It's quiet there, beeping and voices being contained by sliding glass doors, there's no rig with blaring sirens and flashing lights. The heat feels heavy against his chest, but it's a welcome relief compared to the cinder block that had lodged itself between his ribs and right against his heart.Â
As he leans against the wall, head gently thudding against the brick as he repeatedly rubs at his face, Robby wishes he was a smoker and could smoke away all the feelings inside of him as he thought back to that final fight.Â
_____
It was late December, in that space between Christmas and New Years where time didnât seem real and people seemed to exist in a vacuum of joy and holiday spirit. In a rare occurrence of meteorological mystery, the sky over Pittsburgh is clear. The moon and stars twinkled and streaked the city in rays of silver, it was almost dream-like. Time frozen still as the world took a much needed breath.Â
But inside your apartment, it was a war zone. Robby had come home to lamp lights dim as you rushed around the apartment and picked up clothes and documents. Special, sentimental items, shoving them in different boxes and a suitcase that lay on what was once your shared bed. But neither of you knew the last time you had both slept in it together, it was probably a few weeks before Christmas after one too many drinks at your office holiday party.Â
Youâre silent as you pack, donât even acknowledge Robby as he steps into the room. Your eyes are sharp, clinical, narrowed into a glare any time you look at him. When he first walked in, he was shell shocked. Hand hovering over the coat rack where he intended to place his hoodie, but he was frozen in place. His mind whirled and tried to reckon with what was happening.
âHoneyâŠâ
His voice was soft as he spoke, footsteps light as he tried to approach you. A predator approaching a wounded animal, trying to convince them they are safe. The cat and the mouse. The cat desperately trying to claim theyâve changed and the mouse refusing to believe it a second time.Â
You are having none of it, eyes narrowed into a tight glare that causes Robby to shrink back and if looks could kill he would be dead 50 times over. He puts his hands up, a sign of silent surrender, as you continue to move around the room. He desperately wants to stop you, to change things. To make things better.
âTell me what's going onâ
You freeze, body hunched over the coffee table where some of your favourite books lay, your shoulders were already tight with tension but now theyâre even tighter. Coiling up like a cobra ready to strike. You're slow as you rise, deliberately slow, and thereâs a look in your eyes that is absolutely deadly.Â
âWhats going on?â
Thereâs an edge to your voice, a dangerous undercurrent of devastation and rage culminating in a deadly strike against Robbyâs heart. He looks confused, face scrunched up and eyes wide, and devastated. Body curling in on itself protectively, shoulder slumped and head dipped just enough that he can still maintain eye contact with you. A man bracing for impact just before it comes.
âWhat's going on is Iâm done.âÂ
Your last word is edged with a finality he hadnât heard before, not in previous arguments, and one that left no space for argument or for fixing things. You throw your hands up, not dramatically but in resignation.
âIâm done with the empty promises and the waiting and the lies.â
Your voice breaks then, the quiet devastation that had been festering for months crawling to the surface, claws digging into your heart and not letting go. Tears form at your lash line, but they donât fall. You refuse to let them.
âI am tired of begging you to be here. To be home. To be present. To be my fucking husband.â
His ring feels heavy on his finger now, the metal burning its way through flesh and into bone. A reminder of the promises he had made two years ago, one he knows heâs failed to maintain recently. Thereâs a weight in his chest, a heavy grief and pain that lodges itself under his ribs.Â
His face morphs from confusion to sadness, grief evident in his eyes and in the slope of his mouth as it turns down into a frown. It almost breaks you, the wolf turned into a puppy. But you canât let it.Â
âIâŠâ A half-step forward, a hand reaching out to touch you that falls by his side, a rattling breath as emotion rises inside of him. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, Robby wasnât one to cry. Not one to break. He was the pinnacle of strength. But this, this was shattering him.Â
âIâm trying⊠please⊠donât do this.âÂ
Thereâs a crack in his voice, one that pierces the armour you had drawn around yourself. But mentally, you just pull it closer around you. Refusing to let any weaknesses through.
âI booked that trip you wanted, got tickets to the concert you wanted to go to. Iâm try -â
You cut him off then, one hand in the air as you rapidly blink away the tears that had formed. Thereâs a terrifying calmness in your voice now, one thatâs more devastating than the silence or shouting. A quiet finality. A confirmation that this was the end.
âWere you trying when you took that overtime shift instead of coming out to dinner for my birthday?âÂ
A step towards him.
âWere you trying when, instead of being by my side after my grandma got sick, you went out with Jack?âÂ
Another step.
âWere you trying when you told me a major trauma had come in and you had to stay later, only for my friends to see you out drinking?âÂ
And another.Â
â Youâre never here. I love you but I didnât marry a ghost.â
Your voice was sharp, clear. Every letter edged with the tip of a blade as you spoke, one that cut deep into Robbyâs skin. Leaving him bloody and bruised, scars forming in jagged marks across his heart. Then you were gone, a friend arriving moments later to load your things into their car before you drove off into the night. Leaving Robby in a half-empty apartment, hollow of all the things that made it a home.Â
_____
Itâs the sound of your voice that pulls him out of his reverie. Soft, sweet like honey as it dripped down his spine and caused a shiver to rattle his body. He opens his eyes to look at you, tracking you as you pace back and forth in place. Your phone is up to your ear, voice low as you explain to whoever's on the other end that Isaac needs surgery. When you notice him, eyes widening just a fraction, you quickly end the call with a promise to work from home and a goodbye.
Silence stretches over you, a prickly blanket that sticks into your skin. Itâs uncomfortable. More suffocating than the heat. You sigh, eyes cast to the ground, then thereâs a deep breath. A step, and then another, until youâre leaning back against the wall beside Robby.Â
Another beat of silence, the sound of beeping horns and pedestrians filling the space. You close your eyes for half a second, head leaning back against the wall as you take a deep breath. Robby breaks the silence first.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â
His voice breaks, cracking right at the end. The emotions he had been so desperately trying to hold onto finally spilling out.
âIt wouldnât have changed anything Michaelâ
Your voice is softer now, a whisper thatâs almost lost in the wind as you look to the ground, foot pushing around an invisible piece of dirt. âYou were a ghost, and he needed a father. IâŠâ
You look up at Robby now, the words catching in your throat as you take a gulp and a deep breath, âI didnât trust that you could be that.âÂ
Another stretch of silence, the rush of blood and a strong heartbeat filling Robbyâs ears. First there's anger. Anger for the fact that you had kept this from him. Anger for the fact that he didnât see his first steps, his first words, his first tooth falling out. Anger for the fact that he had messed up once and you took something so important away from him.Â
Then thereâs realisation. That it wasnât just once. It was time and time and time again where he failed to show up for you. Failed to be there when you needed him. Failed in being a husband. He had thought providing stability and comfort, a hand to hold when things got hard, was enough. But it wasnât. What you needed was consistency, showing love in the small little things of everyday life and not the grand romantic gestures he always used to try and pacify you (something he had only realised after being told off by Dana when the divorce was finalised). He didnât give you that.
That then leads to understanding. He understood why you did it, it was self-preservation. He had hurt you before, and he could hurt you again, could have hurt your son, if you had stayed. Another deep breath, this time from Robby, as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks away from you.
Thereâs a crack of thunder in the sky, then a flash of lightning. Suddenly thereâs heavy rain, the pavement slick wet in a matter of seconds. Protected under the shelter of the ambulance bay, only a few small ricochets of water hit you. Suddenly the air isnât stifling or sticky, it doesnât suffocate. Itâs clear. Clean. Cleansing the world to allow for new beginnings.Â
âCan I meet him, properly?â
Robby eyes are on you again, hope lacing every colour and fracture of gold as they reflect the sun rays through the clouds. You take a deep breath, hands clenching in front of you. Itâs been ten years, you're a different person than you were at twenty-seven, and maybe (hopefully) Robby is too.
âYes, you can.â
Itâs nearly three hours later, the clock just ticking over to 7.30 pm that Robby comes to see you again. His last patient was treated, handover was completed with Jack who looked at him quizzically when he didnât head for the locker room.Â
âYou staying late?âÂ
Jack's voice is quiet, it's not unusual for day shift to stay late. Especially after such a chaotic shift, but things had mellowed out. The late afternoon thunderstorm slowed things down to a manageable pace, so there was no need for Robby to stay.Â
âIâve got something I need to do before I go.â
Jack raises his eyebrow, a question brewing on his tongue that he swallows down when he sees your maiden name listed next to a peds case. One click and he sees you listed as the mother and emergency contact. A puzzle piece slots into place, something to file away for later.Â
Then Robbyâs gone from the handover desk, disappearing behind sliding glass doors and colourful walls with painted animals. His heart beats heavy against his chest, the cinder block that had lodged underneath his rips starting to crack just a little, the weight lightning just a fraction. Anxiety roils in his stomach, flipping over and over and causing nausea to rise in his throat.Â
Then he sees you and Isaac. His leg propped up in a sling high above the bed, his head pressed into your chest as you lay beside him on the bed. Your voice is quiet, whispered so as not to disturb the other patients, but melodic as you read to him. There is an old, well-worn and obviously loved, copy of The Golden Compass in your hand.Â
Robby recognises it immediately, having seen the copy in your shared home once upon a time. He remembered briefly, the sound of your voice as you read it to him one night when you first started dating. The sound of your voice pushing him over the edge to sleep. Sometimes, he still heard it in his dreams.
He stops for a second, just a little bit away from the bed, and takes a deep breath. His heart quietens down, his anxiety dissipates just a little. Then thereâs a sensation of peace. A quiet recognition of it was always meant to be this way. He wasnât ready to be a father back then, hell he probably wasnât even ready to be a husband, but now the moment seemed right. Â
Your eyes glance up, some unnamed but not unknown instinct telling you that Robby was there. You smile at him, quiet. Soft. But still guarded. Still observing. Isaac follows your movement, his head turning slightly to turn to Robby. Heâs tired, eyes flickering closed every few seconds as he tries to fight to stay awake, but he still smiles. Warm, bright. Loved.Â
âHiâ
Again your voice is quiet, barely carrying over the sound of monitors and machines that fill the room, but Robby smiles at it. Gentle. Soft. A man who recognises how precious this moment is and wants to bottle it up to carry with him forever.Â
âHiâ
Robbyâs voice is similarly quiet but where there is a quiet confidence in yours, thereâs a hint of anxiety and unsure energy mixed in his. You motion your head to the side, towards the visitors chair you had been sitting in earlier that now lay at the side of the bed closest to Isaac. He hesitates for just a moment, your eyebrow raising slightly as your smile widens. You had never seen the man so unsure in the hospital. Then he sits, pulling up close to the bed where he now leans his forearms against the guard rails.Â
Thereâs silence for a moment, the echo of heart beats through monitors surrounding you both. Then Isaac turns to him, hand reaching out gently cupping his jaw as he stares at Robby intently. Then thereâs a wide smile on his face, a giggle passing through his lips.
âYou have the same eyes as me! Mom likes to call the gold flakes little starbursts.â
Something catches in Robbyâs throat at the contact, emotion welling inside him and rising to the surface once again. Under the dimmed down lights, you think you can see tears starting to well in his eyes as his adams apple bobs. His hand reaches up to softly cup Isaacâs, gentle. Feather-light, barely touching him at all.Â
âYeah buddy I do.â
Robbyâs voice is softer now, a quiet kind of reverence for the life in front of him leaking through. It's the same voice you had after giving birth and Isaac was set against your chest. A parent, falling in love with their child in a single moment. Robbyâs eyes flash to yours, filled with sadness and grief but also love and gratitude for this moment. He is all too aware that you could have told him no, but you didnât and hope bloomed in his bones.Â
âIsaac,â Your voice is soft as you call to your son, and he turns to you with a quizzical look as his hand drops from Robby. Thereâs unnamed emotions in your voice, a combination of fear and anxiety and hope all merging into one.
âYeah mom?â
Anxiety fills you, causes your fingers to shake as you dog ear your book and set it to the side, one hand reaches out to gently brush at Isaacâs hair more a comfort for you than him.
âYou remember how, when you asked me about your dad, I told you he was a very good doctor that I knew a long time ago? Who had starbursts in his eyes and goodness in his veins?âÂ
Isaac nods his head, head now laying down against the pillow where he can dart his eyes between you and Robby. You can see the wheels turning in his head, connections starting to form, he was a very intelligent child afterall.Â
âWellâŠâ Your voice catches in your throat and you have to clear it gently before you continue, âThis is Michael, heâs your dad.â
Isaacâs eyes bulge slightly, realisation settling into place. Then thereâs a frown on his face, one that is exactly like Robbyâs and you gently trail your hand down from his hair and too Isaacâs cheek where your knuckles rub softly against the skin in soothing motions. Thereâs silence again, not tense. But anticipatory. A spark not yet meeting a flame.Â
Isaacâs eyes move to Robbyâs, tears starting to fill in the waterline, his voice shaky and breaking as he talks, and yours and Robbyâs heart break at the sound.
âWhy werenât you there?â
You instantly curl around Isaac more, pulling his head into your chest once again as the tears start to fall, one hand threading through his hair to rub gently at his scalp while the other rubs soft soothing circles in his shoulder.
âOh babyâŠâÂ
Concern laces your voice, as soft whimpers leave Isaac. Robby is shell shocked for just a moment, frozen in time as the question settles against his skin and his mind races for an answer. Then instinct takes over, a hand reaching out to Isaacs where he gently threads their fingers together, thumb rubbing circles into the skin. He expects Isaac to pull away, but he doesnât. Instead his small fingers tighten against Robbyâs hand. Then thereâs a breath, a single heart beat, before Robby speaks.
âOh buddyâŠI,â He clears his throat, his own tears now starting to slowly fall and streak his face in lines of salt, the cinder block on his chest cracks again. Debris falling and allowing him to breath fully for the first time all shift âI didnât know.â
Robbyâs eyes snap to your momentarily, not in blame or accusation, but a look of Iâm going to try my best to handle this.Â
âI wasnât very nice to your mom before we split up, so she moved away to keep you and her safe.â
Isaac nods into your chest, seemingly happy to accept the answer. The tears have stopped flowing, though the lines still streak his face, and you gently rub them off the skin. Isaac squirms away from the action, pulling the two of you apart and you let out a chuckle, it seems you had run out of your allotted affection time for the day. But he keeps his hand in Robby's.Â
âDo you wanna know how I broke my foot?â
Thereâs joy lacing the words, the kind that only a child could have when telling the story of an injury. To them, they were battle scars. Tales to be told around the playground and friends to show how tough they are. It makes you laugh, full, unrestrained, head thrown back slightly as you sit up and get off the bed.Â
You place a kiss on Isaac's forehead, eyes darting to Robbyâs for a second, soft smile now a little less guarded than it was before. âIâm gonna go get a coffee, do you want one?â
He looks at you, recognising youâre giving him a moment alone with Isaac, a huge step. One he doesnât know if heâs ready for, but it will only be for a few moments, so he nods.Â
âCan I have a soda?â
You turn to Isaac and scrunch up your nose, squeezing his cheeks playfully as you shake your head, âYouâre not allowed one until after your surgery bug, doctors ordersâ
He grumples, looking to Robby for a bit of back-up but Robby shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, âNo buddy, you need to wait.â
Isaac huffs, arms crossing over his chest as you walk out of the room. But it doesnât last long, you can hear him start the story of how broke his foot as the door slides closed behind you.Â
Robby is immediately enamoured with the story, the lilt of Isaacâs voice as he excitedly tells him about the trick he was trying to do on the jungle gym in the park. Something he had seen a gymnast do on TV that was relatively easy in theory, harder in execution. He couldnât help but smile as Isaac babbled on about how he had gotten this close (fingers pinching together until there was barely any room between them) but slipped at the last minute.Â
He promised him he would watch the video you had taken of it before it went wrong to see how well he did. As Isaac speaks, his hand falls away from Robbyâs and he mourns the warmth for a moment. The physical connection fizzled against his skin almost like a brand, one he was proud to have. Robby leans a little further forward, elbow now leaning against the guard rail as he uses his palm to support his chin. He smiles at the wide grin on Isaacâs face as he proudly proclaims he's going to try again once his leg is better.
One story turns to another, this time about how he took a dive at the pool and the water went up his nose and made his brain feel fuzzy, and then another and another. Snippets of Isaacâs life slipping out as though itâs as easy as breathing. Grief and sadness wedges itself between Robbyâs ribs for having missed the moments, thereâs guilt there too. An internal reckoning of how he treated you and that led to this. He promised himself he would do better this time.Â
As you watch Robby and Isaac from behind the door, a decent distance away to stop them from opening, with a warm smile on your face you feel a bump against your hip. You already know who it is before even looking and you bump back against him as his chuckle fills your ears.
âItâs good to see you kidâ
You turn your head and smile at Jack, warm. Friendly.Â
âGood to see you too Jack.â
He glances back through the glass doors of peds, eyes carefully watching Robby as he laughs at whatever absurd story Isaac is now telling him. His head is thrown back, his hand clutching his chest. Without even hearing it, you and Jack can both tell it's one of those unrestrained belly laughs that he only lets out when heâs fully relaxed.
Thereâs a moment of silence as you both stand there watching, the coffee in your hands warming you up and reminding you that you need to go back in. A deep breath, a settling feeling of peace and acceptance lodging itself in between your ribs. Â
âHeâs gonna be a good dad to that kid.â
You donât question Jack on how he knows, figure he put the pieces together from Isaacâs birthdate and how he now acted with Robby. He also just had a way of knowing things, maybe it was the veteran in him, always observing and watching. Pattern recognition and things like that kicking in until puzzle pieces fit perfectly into place.Â
Then you surprise yourself, the thought almost intrusive as it spills out of you before you can think, âYeah, he is.â
Then you're slipping away from Jack, heading back into peds with a smile on your face. Itâs then that Jack is joined by Ellis, arms crossed against her chest and eyes watching you disappear. âSoâŠâ
Jack raises an eyebrow as he turns away from the door and heads towards the nurses desk where his charting awaits him, she walks in step beside him.
âWho was that?â
Then thereâs a small, conspiratorial smile on Jack's face. Mischief lacing every feature and his voice drops low, almost teasing.
âJust Robbyâs ex-wife.â
Then he walks away to go see a patient, calm. Casual. As if he didnât just drop a bombshell in the middle of the emergency room that left Ellis with her jaw on the floor.Â
The doors of the peds bay slide to a close behind you, and you canât help but smile at the wide grin stretching across Isaacâs lips. For a boy who was fighting to stay awake only 15 minutes earlier, heâs now full of life and a new found energy. You never ceased to wonder where he found it.Â
You try and approach softly, but the heels of your shoes echo softly around the room. You cringe slightly at the sound, eyes scanning the faces of the other sleeping children and parents to make sure you donât disturb any of them. Instead of going back to sitting on the bed beside Isaac, you stand beside Robby. Just close enough to feel the fabric of his scrubs rub against your jeans and the heat that radiates from his body.Â
He looks up at you, eyes mystified and in awe of your son. Full of softness and warmth, guilt bubbled between your ribs. Itâs a feeling youâve felt before, many times, especially at night where your thoughts spiral and you lose yourself in questions of what if? It sits uncomfortably, like clawed hands reaching their way through your chest and holding onto your heart. Not squeezing, but letting you know itâs there.Â
A soft âthanksâ passes through Robbyâs lips, quiet like a whisper into the night, as you hand him the cup of coffee. Your fingers brush his, a micro touch more than anything but it still fizzles against your skin. Heat spreads through them, like you had touched a candle flame. Hot enough to feel and burn, but not enough to leave a permanent mark.Â
Thereâs a hitch in breath, both yours and Robbyâs, and his hand is slow to move away. As if he craves the contact but knows it's dangerous to ask for any more. You can see the tightening in his shoulders, the way his pinky twitches against the edge of the cardboard cup as if heâs holding himself back. You clear your throat before going to respond, an attempt to break the small amount of tension now building, but the sound of the door and hushed voices as they approach stop you.
You glance to the door, recognising the orthopedic surgeon as they stop at the bottom of the bed. Thereâs a brief smile from them, then a look of confusion as they see Robby sitting beside you. He smiles at them. Small, contained. Like heâs holding on to something precious thatâs about to be revealed to the world.Â
âDoctor Robinavitch, I didnât realise you were consulting on this case.â
A deep breath from Robby, realisation settling into his bones that this is real. He had obviously known it was real before, you had confirmed it for him. It had settled in his heart and his mind that this was his son, but he hadnât spoken it aloud to anyone else yet. Another crack in the cinderblock on his chest as he clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck.
âIâm notâŠâÂ
He glances at you, a micro beat, seeking both reassurance and permission which you give with a stiff nod. He notices the hesitation, the way your shoulders tighten just a micro fraction and how your grip now crinkles in the sides of the coffee cup, files it away for later discussion, and accepts the motion. He clears his throat again, eyes casting over to Isaac whoâs once again trying to fight sleep. His smile instantly softens, the hand he had on the guard rails reaching for Isaacs where he softly holds it.
âHeâs my son.âÂ
Thereâs a look of shock on the surgeon, and the nursing team's face (their eyes glancing towards one another in silent conversation) but it quickly passes. A softness spreads across their faces now, bed side manner kicking in as the surgeon clears their throat.Â
âOkay. Well, weâre ready to bring Isaac up to surgery now.âÂ
You nod to her words, drawing your arms tight around you as if they can shield you from the hurt a botched surgery might cause. From the anxiety once again welling in your stomach and forcing its way through your veins. Heavy vines rooted in your heart and spreading until they entangle your feet to the floor. You canât speak, afraid of the emotion that will spill out.Â
Robby notices the way your shoulders tense again. Almost spring loaded and ready to burst through your skin, the rise and fall of your chest as your breath starts to quicken. He wants to reach out to you, hold your hand in his and soothe you. Wants to tell you it will be okay, the surgeon knows what theyâre doing. But he doesnât. Instead, he stands next to you. Hand hovering at the middle of your back, not touching but you can still feel the heat. The ghost of his fingers as they brush against your top.Â
âWeâll have you in the OR waiting room during the surgery and then when heâs awake a member of the team will take you to his room, it will be in the in-patient pediatric ward.â
Her voice is soft, a small comfort to the anxiety, and her eyes are warm. Confident. This is a routine surgery and it will be okay, but it's hard to quell the anxiety once itâs taken root. You nod again, feet finally ungluing from where they are on the floor as you step pass Robby and up to Isaac.
A soft kiss pressed to his forehead, a hand running through his hair that he scrunches his nose up at. You smile softly at him, âThe doctors are gonna take you to fix your foot now bug.â
He nods, eyes barely open as he takes in your words.Â
âWill you be there when I wake up?âÂ
Another kiss, a sacred promise against his skin.
âOf course I will.â
He looks past you now, eyes on Robby as he stands just a bit away from you with his arms crossed over his chest.
âWill Michael be there?â
Robbyâs heart stutters at the use of his name, not dad. But he supposed he didnât deserve that title just yet. He takes a step forward, hand replacing yours to card from Isaacâs hair.
âIf you want me there buddy.â
Isaac nods, eyes finally losing their battle with sleep and you and Robby take a step back as the nurses move in to prepare Isaac for transport up to the OR floor. You canât speak again, heart hammering in your throat and stopping any words from forming, so Robby takes over.
âIâll take her to the waiting room.â
A nod from the surgeon, a gentle pat on your shoulder, and then they were gone.Â
Robby goes to touch you again, hand hovering at your elbow so close that you can feel it bump against you when you turn to watch the gurney leave. It sends heat through your close and into your skin, burns in a way that isnât entirely unwelcome. Then thereâs a hesitation, a few seconds where he thinks he might be better leaving it. Then a gentle touch, barely felt at all. Fingers light against your skin, like a whisper among the trees. Itâs grounding. Steadying. A hand reaching out in the dark to lead you into the light. You lean into it, just a fraction.
âCome on, we should go to the waiting room.â
Robbyâs voice is soft, but it still breaks through the anxiety fog in your mind. A stiff nod. Your body moves robotically as you grab your bag and book from the side of the bed, then youâre standing close to Robby again silently hoping heâll reach out and guide you. He does.Â
His handâs a little firmer now, arm wrapping around your back gripping your arm, a small bubble of protection if you were to fall. A deep breath, a steadying heart beat, a lean into the touch, Robby's arm tightening just a fraction, and youâre ready to move. Softly, without words, he guides you through the doors and through the ED, stopping only momentarily to have a hushed conversation with Jack.Â
You could have heard it, if you were listening, but the blood rushing in your ears made it hard to focus. You could just about hear the pulse of monitors, the rush of paramedics as the wheel in someone new and voices of patients as they shouted across the room. Then youâre moving again, Jack clapping Robby's back and offering you a smile as you walk away. The ride in the elevator up to the peds floor is silent, Robbyâs arm is still around you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your bicep and you welcome the pressure. You have to stop yourself from leaning your head against his shoulder. Instead, decide to lean back against the cool metal of the wall behind you. Thereâs a small âthumpâ as you do but thereâs no pain. Just the sensation of cold pressure sinking into your scalp. It feels nice.Â
Quickly, far too quickly for your liking, the doors slide open and Robby is once again leading you through winding halls and corridors. You really should take a mental note of where youâre going so you can get out of here easier once Isaacâs been discharged, but you canât right now. Then youâre sitting down on a chair in the corner of what you assume is the waiting room.Â
Itâs in the far corner, with a little coffee table littered with magazines and comic books. Thereâs a box beside it, filled with toys and colouring books and crayons. You suppose itâs to keep the kids occupied while they wait. There's few others about, which isnât surprising given itâs after 8pm and visiting hours are over, a few people linger. Talking to nurses and doctors in hushed tones with worried voices and faces. You canât look at them.Â
Robby disappears for a few seconds, telling you heâll be back in a second, so you sink down into the chair. Itâs nicer than the ones in the waiting room in the ER, cushioned and soft with a bit of extra room for you to lean back comfortably or to sit with your legs up. Itâs not individual chairs either, but a row of three or four before it divides into a new row. Something in your mind registers that thereâs enough room for someone to lie down and sleep if they need to.
Then Robbyâs back, his hand brushing yours lightly as he hands you a fresh coffee and for the first time you realise you had both left the other ones downstairs. You offer a soft thanks, adjusting yourself to draw your knees up under you and turning to face Robby as he sits in the second seat down from you. Close enough that he can hear you, far enough away that heâs not intruding in your space.
Silence spreads. Thick. Heavy with unasked and unanswered questions. You can see them brewing behind his eyes, in the way he stares at the ground and scrunches his eyebrows up. In how heâs holding onto the coffee cup so tightly youâre surprised it doesnât spill over and burn him.Â
âAsk them.â
Your voice is soft as you bring the coffee to your lips. Itâs hot and bitter and jolts your nerves just a little, replacing anxiety jitters with caffeine instead. He looks at you, eyes softer now but confusion and pain still lingers along the edges. Reflected back to you in the golden specs as the dim fluorescents shine on them. Robby shakes his head, looks back to the floor.
âItâs not the time.â
You snort a little, eyes rolling almost playfully, âItâs the perfect time. Surgeryâs gonna be what 2 hours? Then it will take Isaac a while to wake up. Besides, I need a distraction.â
A small smile, then Robbyâs leaning back and crossing one arm across his chest. Another sigh as he gathers his thoughts, youâre pretty sure you can see the gears turning in his head, hear them clunk into place. He turns to you then, arms unfolding and instead spreading against the back of the chairs. Itâs open. Comfortable. Much more than you expected from him.
âDid you know when it was finalized?"
A loaded question, one that could make or break the foundations you had just started to build. But a simple answer
âNo.â
He nods, âWhen did you find out?â
You take another sip of coffee, another deep breath and you make sure youâre maintaining eye contact.Â
âAbout a week after I settled in Nevadaâ
Another nod, you can see some of the stress leak out of him at that. His shoulders softened, his grip on the coffee loosening, another deep breath. Robby didnât think you would have kept it from him if you had known at that point, but some part of him still needed to check.
âIs that where youâve been the whole time?â
You shake your head and push a stray strand of hair behind your ear, âNot the whole time, no. We lived there for a few years and then I got a promotion just before covid hit and transferred to the New York office. We lived in Greenwich until moving back here.â
He pauses then, you had only been a train ride or a 6 hour drive away. So close to him, yet so far. A breath rattles out of him, uncontained. Uncontrolled. He didnât mean it, and he can see the way you cast your eyes down to the ground before meeting his again.
Another silence, prickly. Tension filled. A heavy weight on your chest as he asks another question. A deep breath from Robby, your eyes casting down into the coffee cup in your hands as if it held the answers to the universe.Â
âWere you ever going to tell me?â
A pause, your heart beat picking up once again. You knew the question was coming, had anticipated it in the back of your mind but it still filled you with dread.Â
âYes.â
Itâs soft, almost a whisper. Robby barely hears it and has to lean a little closer to make sure he heard it right. Thereâs a crack in your voice as well, the words having to fight their way up your throat. It wasnât pain stopping them from coming, but guilt. Another deep breath, a clearing of your throat. You meet his eyes again.
âWe only got back into the city a week ago, when we arrived I reached out to Dana and Jack on facebook to get your number because I didnât have it after changing mine after the divorce. But you know what those two are like, I would either get a reply in a minute or a month and this morning they hadnât even looked at the messages.â
Another nod from Robby, his free hand reaching up to rub at his face before he takes a sip of his coffee. It's cooled down a little, but the heat of it still melts a little part inside of him. That part that wanted to scream and shout and cast blame. But that melts away, thawing and giving space for recognition that you both fucked up but now was the chance to fix it.Â
He looks to you again, the pains still there but the confusions gone. Replaced with the hope of new beginnings, that look starts to crack at the shield you had built around your heart.Â
âWhere do we go from here?â
Robbyâs voice is soft, a whisper. A man quietly begging to be let in, and ready to show he deserves it.
A sigh from you, another glance to the coffee cup, âThat depends on you and Isaac.â
You look up at him again, see his finger twitching against the edge of the seat. His eyes darting not only to your eyes but across your face, looking for little micro signs of deception. But there are none, for the first time all night youâre unguarded. Softed. Willing to let him in and work on this.
âAs long as Isaac wants to see you, you can.â
Robby nods to that, âOf course.â
âBut,â You take a pause, a deep breath, eyes meeting his with the sternness only a mother can have, âI need to see you trying. You need to be there and show up, and I donât mean for every little thing thatâs a lot to put on you with your schedule. But I need to see you making an effort.â
You clear your throat, ready to go to war to get peace, âIf we set up times for you to meet, I expect them to be adhered to. If something comes in that is unavoidable and you need to stay, then I need to know. Clear, consistent communication. We go off our schedule, not yours. You canât just randomly show up and expect access, not at first anyway.â
Robby nods along to your words, cataloging every detail and filing them away.
âAll medical and schooling decisions are mine, Iâll ask for your input but the final decision comes from me. At least for the first few months, and then we can re-evaluate. You can be alone with him, take him out and do things with him, but I want to know when and where.âÂ
Another deep breath from both you and Robby, âAnd then for at least the first few weeks, especially as heâs healing, you come to my house and I supervise.âÂ
You clear your throat, words bubbling up before you can catch them, âI donât want him getting close to you only to have you disappear on him.âÂ
Robby flinches back at that, just a little, itâs cold. But honest. You had known him as a man who ran away into his work, but he couldnât do that here. It wasnât just you he would be letting down, it would be Isaac. And you loved your son too much to let him go through that pain, and maybe some part of you didnât want to go through it again either.Â
Robby clears his throat but nods, stiff but accepting. âOkay, those are reasonableâ
He shuffles forward slightly, just a little, his knee bumping into yours slightly as he does, âIâll make sure you get a copy of every one of my schedules. If thereâs no need for me to stay, or come in for overtime, and we have plans then I will stick to those plans. If something does, youâll be the first person I call. If Iâm busy, Iâll get Dana to reach out.â
He stretches his hand out to you now, open and willing. You can see the way his breath catches, how there's a slight tremor in his hands, as you reach out as well. You clasp your hand in his, the heat of it burning like a brand against your skin, and you shake.
âThen weâll re-evaluate in a few months.â
A nod from Robby, his hand dropping from yours. Then you both take a sip from your coffee.Â
After that, numbers are exchanged and schedules are discussed. Obviously with Isaac having to be in a cast for the next 6-8 weeks, and then potentially a boot, it throws your whole summer for a loop. But you let him know he usually plays baseball on the weekends, you were currently looking for a team for him to join because he loved the sport.Â
Every Tuesday was taco night, and Robby could join you for the next one when Isaac was out of hospital. You tell Robby how he loves cars and motocross and F1 and how sometimes, when he had been really good or did something well in school, you would let him stay up late to watch the races. Robby tells you heâs been working on restoring an old motorcycle, and maybe Isaac can help.Â
You tell him Isaacâs favourite subjects in school, science and history, and how you had once found him trying to collect frogs so he could see their life cycle in person (that made him laugh). How he loved to read, Percy Jackson was his favourite at the minute but he still wanted you to read The Golden Compass to him at bed despite having read the whole series three times that year already.Â
You also let him know that while you donât practise Judaism, you still teach him about it and its history. Every holiday season, you do a joint Christmas and Hanukkah celebration, and how Isaac loved lighting the menorah with you. You think you can see a rattle in his chest at that, despite not being there you had kept parts of him alive in your traditions with Isaac.Â
On your phone, you show him videos you had taken. The one from today and the accident being the first, because Isaac had wanted him to see it. Though Robby flinches when he sees Isaac coming down, he comments on how brave he is.Â
Then you go further back, baby photos and videos. First steps and first words. You donât miss the way Robbyâs eyes mist up at that, guilt stabs at your heart but you shove it down. Thereâs no longer any time to wonder about the what-ifâs in your mind.Â
In the process, Robby has gotten closer. Your legs are now over the chair, feet planted firmly in the ground, Robby is right beside you. Shoulder and tight pressing against yours, the heat searing your skin and causing you to lose focus half-way through sentences.Â
Eventually, you move on to conversations about yourselves. About work and family, he asks about your parents and siblings, you tell him you're an aunty now and show him photos of nieces and nephews. You joke about bad habits of Jack and Dana that they still do to this day and you remember just how easy it was to talk to Robby.Â
Then the conversation dies off, it's nearing ten pm. The waiting room is empty now, except for you and Robby. But the quiet is comforting now, wrapping around you like a blanket. The world stops for just a moment to breathe with you, to welcome in this new beginning.Â
Your name is called, Robbyâs called almost immediately after it and you make a mental note to update Isaacâs medical and school records to have Robby on as a parent.Â
When you meet the surgeon near the front, they smile at you, and all the anxiety you had felt before burns from your veins. The vines that had constricted your heart down in the ER, burst and melt to the floor leaving relief in its wake.Â
âSurgery went really well.â
You let go of the breath you didnât know you were holding, chest falling as the weight of worry drops from your shoulders. From the corner of your eye, you can see how Robbyâs shoulders soften as he takes a deep breath in.
âThere are a few things youâll need to know once heâs discharged, but that can be spoken about in the morning. Weâre gonna keep him overnight for observation and to make sure thereâs no complications from the sedation, but you should be good to go tomorrow afternoon.â
You nod your head, offering a small âthank youâ and shaking the surgeon's hand. Then theyâre telling you what room heâs in before disappearing again. Robbyâs hand reaches out to you, a slight tremble in his fingers as does, it wraps around your back and pulls you in close to his chest and you let him. Then finally, you fall apart.Â
The tears you had been holding back since the accident finally fall. Hard. Heavy. Ugly. Sobs you canât choke down claw their way out of your throat, echo around the empty room so loud it almost feels like youâre drowning in the sound. Thereâs a heart beat echoing in your ears, you canât tell if it's yours or the ghost of the monitor Isaac was on earlier in the day.Â
Thereâs a hand, Robbyâs, rubbing soft circles into your back. Gently at first, then harder. The pressure working out the knots that had formed over the hours in the ER, while also bringing comfort. You hear a whisper, barely, but you canât make out whatâs actually being said. Then itâs slightly louder, the familiar deep timber breaking through the echo of tears and heartbeats.
âItâs okay, heâs okay.â
Itâs shaky. Soft. A band aid being placed over a wound to stop the bleeding. Someone who is trying to convince themselves as much as theyâre trying to convince you.Â
A deep breath, though youâre not sure if it's you or Robby that takes it - maybe it was both. Chests rattling together, heart rates slowing down and beating in sync. You stay in Robbyâs arm for another minute, letting the tears dry up until all thatâs left is lines of salt and red rimmed eyes. Then you step back, hands swiping at your face to try and clear the evidence before going to see Isaac.
Robby doesnât say anything. Doesnât have too. He had seen it before, parents at their strongest when their kids were around and at their weakest when they found out they were okay. He understood.Â
You offer him a âthank youâ, a whisper beneath your breath and he simply nods and says âOf course.â
Then his hand is reaching out for yours again, tentative. Asking permission. You give it, reaching out and taking it in your own. He gives a small, reassuring squeeze, and then heâs leading you through winding corridors again until you reach Isaacâs room.Â
The lights are dim and the moon is now high up in the sky, sending twinkling shards of silver through the blinds. A halo of light dancing around the bed where Isaac now lay. His leg was now in a half-cast, still elevated above the bed. His eyes were open, just barely, blinking languidly as he rubs at them and tries to fight off sleep again. Beside the bed, are two arm chairs and on the other is a travel cot.Â
You rush to his side, dropping Robbyâs hand and taking Isaacâs instead.Â
âHi bugâ
A quick kiss pressed to his forehead, your other hand carding through his hair as he offers a sleepy smile.Â
âHi mammaâ
Tears prick your eyes, it had been a few years since he had called you mamma and it tugged at all the right heart strings. His eyes move from you, to Robby who stood at the bottom of the bed and was currently reading through the chart.Â
âHi Michael.â
The soft sound of Isaacâs voice pulls Robby away from the chart, he slots it back into place at the end of the bed and smiles gently at Isaac as he takes steps to stand beside you.
âHey buddy, how you feeling?â
âSleepy.â
You tilt your head at Isaacâs words as Robby lets a small chuckle pass through his lips, your hand releases Isaacâs and Robbyâs takes its place. It was a relief to you both to know heâs not feeling any pain.Â
Another kiss to Isaac forehead, a soft look and a gentle smile, âYou can go to sleep bugâ
A soft nod, Isaacâs eyelashes fluttering against his cheek like the flitting of a butterfly wing as it lands on a flower, âWill you both be here when I wake up?â
You glance to Robby, an eyebrow raised in a tentative question, then there's a small nod from Robby as he gives Isaacâs hand a small squeeze.
âYeah buddy, weâll be there.â
Another small nod from Isaac.Â
ââKay, love you mamma. Goodnight Michaelâ
Then he was asleep. Eyes fluttering closed as his chest rises and falls, the steady beep of his heart on the monitor an echo of safety and reminder that heâs okay. You take a step back, eyes still on Isaac. On the way his chest rises and falls, the little twitch of his eye and fingers as he sleeps. His eyebrow scrunching up just a little as he drifts into dreamland.
âYou should sleep.â
Robbyâs voice pulls you back to him, eyes glancing over to find him already looking at you with arms crossed softly over his chest. His eyes are warm and soft, but alert. Years of staying late at work and countless hours of overtime making him more immune to the effects of fatigue.Â
You are starting to falter, exhaustion settling into your bones and you blink slowly. Almost cat-like. Eyelids feeling like concrete, making every blink harder and harder. The adrenaline that had fueled your body and kept you awake for the last few hours, finally crashed around you and even lifting your arm to brush at stray hairs was a feat.
âDo you not have to go back down stairs in the morning?â
Your voice is soft, a whisper so as to not wake Isaac. Robby shakes his head, looks to the ground for a second, then back to you.
âJackâs gonna stayâ
Then you remember the whispered conversation, the hushed voices and words you couldnât quite hear before coming up to the pediatric floor. A promise kept planting a seed of hope in the deep recesses of your ribs. For the first time, since before you got married, Robby was keeping his promise and he was staying. The ghost had become a man once more.Â
You nod your head softly, âWake me in a few hours so you can get some sleep too.âÂ
Robby nods, but doesnât promise anything, and as soon as your head hits the pillow of the travel cot you drift off.Â
When you wake up, there's a soft morning glow filtering through the window. Pillars of golden light illuminate the room, streak it in a kaleidoscope of colours and warmth that radiates against your back. You can hear the hum of machines, the beeping of a heart monitor. Thereâs soft, whispered voices that filter in. Soft giggles and warm chuckles fill your ear, warms your soul like melts away fear. You hear the click of the wheels from a toy car as it glides against the guard rails of the bed, the sound of a child imitating a motor as they babble on about the type of car and the details of an F1 race it had been featured in.Â
You can smell fresh coffee, bitter and invigorating in the early hours, and the slight stinging scent of antiseptic and hand sanitizer. You scrunch your nose up at the scent, flutter your eye lashes as the soft light filters through your blurry morning gaze. After a few seconds shapes start to form.
The metal siding of the bed. The slope and curve of the bed as the top thatâs now propped up. The dark unruly mop of hair belonging to Isaac, heâs facing away from you but his shoulders are relaxed and you can see his shoulders shake with giddiness. You can see his arms moving, one dragging one of his toy ferraris over the bed rail, the other is gesturing close to his chest as he excitedly explains something to Robby.Â
You canât see him fully, just the shape of his legs from the other side of the bed and his hands. You can only assume heâs sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. You take a few moments to come back into your body, feel the scratchyness of your jeans and the stiffness of your joints. The tangled metal of an old chain resting against your chest, the pendant pressing into your cheek from where it moved in your sleep. Then you rise.Â
Careful. Slow. Quiet so as to not disturb the moment. Sitting up in the bed, your legs crossed, you can fully take in the scene before you. As you expected, Robby is sitting leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Thereâs a wide, unrestrained smile on his face. His teeth reflecting the soft golden glow of the sun. His shoulders are loose and thereâs a calm certainty in the air around him you hadnât seen the night before. A man ready to accept all the responsibilities that came with becoming a parent.Â
Thereâs a hitch in your breath, a rattling of your lungs and your heart and the little seed of hope that it planted itself beneath your ribs starts to bloom just a little. You smile at the scene, soft. Warm. Some broken part of you knitting itself back together in your soul.Â
You watch for a few minutes, Robby completely enraptured as Isaac details the latest F1 race you had let him watch. He nods along as Isaac talks, and laughs along with son when he lets out a giggle, you can tell he doesnât fully understand what heâs talking about (but then again you donât really understand the racing talk either) but heâs still there. Engaged. Present.Â
Robby notices youâre awake before Isaac does, the sun glinting off your necklace as you adjust it back into place and reflecting right into his eyes. He zeros in on it almost immediately. Itâs a simple chain, a little weathered but still in good condition, and the pendant is a sun with your birthstone sitting in the dead center. It catches him off guard and he has to double check that heâs actually seeing it right.Â
It was a necklace he had gotten you, on your second anniversary. When you were together, you rarely took it off and even planned other jewellery and outfits around it. An unknown feeling takes hold of his heart then, a gentle squeeze, not paralysing or damaging but justâŠthere. It doesnât know what it is, but it feels oddly similar to how he felt when he saw you walking down the aisle.Â
âLook buddy, moms awake.â
Isaacâs head whips round so hard you flinch slightly in fear he hurt himself, but heâs smiling. Eyes full of nothing but the type of joy that only children can embody.Â
âMom!â
You laugh lightly at his excitement, the happiness infectious and spreading through your body.
âGood morning bug, how are you feeling?â
âIâm okay! My leg was sore but the nice nurse came in and gave me some medicine to make me feel better.â
âThatâs good baby.â
You stretch your arms over your head, shoulders and elbows popping as you do and you can feel all your vertebra realign. You look to Robby now, smiling softly at him with a raised eyebrow.
âI thought I told you to wake me?â
He chuckles slightly, head shaking as he looks to the ground and then back to you.
âYou never specified how many hours and I didnât promise anythingâ
Thereâs a roll of your eyes, a huff from your lips as your arms fall back down and you cross them over your chest. Almost childlike and playful.
âThatâs not fair, you need to sleep as well.â
Robby laughs now, head thrown back slightly. It makes you feel fuzzy. Warm. The deep timbre of it slipping down your spine like honey, saccharine sweet and delicious. You try and shake the feeling, but it lingers in your spine.Â
âIâm fine, itâs not my first time being up 24 hours or longer.â
Another roll of your eyes, a finger pointed towards Robby almost accusingly.Â
âStill, you should have woken me up. What time is it anyway?â
You see Isaac look to the clock hanging on the wall opposite the bed, eyes squinting slightly as he goes to read it. You and Robby give him the time and space to do so.
âSixâŠfourty fiveâ
You glance to clock yourself and smile at Isaac, he had been struggling with reading the clock at his old school and pride swells inside of you.Â
âWell done bug.â
Isaac beams at you, prideful and happy that he had gotten it right. You can see how Robbyâs smile transforms, pride at the tips and the curve of his lips.Â
Then thereâs a knock at the door, and you look at it quizzically as does Robby. Both of you recognise itâs too early for the doctor to come and discuss the healing and discharge process.
âCome inâ
Your voice is soft, but still loud enough that it can be heard through the wooden door. As it opens, a smile breaks out onto your face as Dana takes a step in. You had seen her the day before in the ER, but hadnât gotten a chance to speak to her. She smiles back at you, eyes warm and welcoming and her arms immediately open as you step up from the bed. When you wrap your arms around her shoulders, she pulls you tight against her chest and squeezes your shoulders gently.Â
âHey kid, you look good.âÂ
Her voice is low, a whisper right against your ear. But the tone is warm, a lacing of I missed you hidden among the words. You had missed her too. You often joked that she was your favourite in the friend circle, much to Jack and Robby playful resentment. But it was only half-way true. She was your favourite and while you didnât keep in touch after the divorce, you still kept an eye on her social media and sent her a message every birthday and holiday, even sending gifts for major celebrations.Â
âThanks, you too.â
When you pull back sheâs still smiling at you, one hand squeezing your shoulders again and smiles at Isaac on the bed. Robby reaches his own hand up and squeezes back, a sign heâs okay, before dropping it back down.
âWhoâs this mom?â
Thereâs a brief look of confusion on Isaacâs face, you had just embraced a stranger to him after all, but it quickly changes to a look of interest. Dana was also obviously important to you.
âThis is Dana, sheâs an old friend of mine and your dads.âÂ
You both move towards the bed, you pushing the cot to the side so you can stand instead while Dana stands beside Robby. She places a hand on his shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze.
âHi Dana, are you a nurse?â
âI am little man. Iâm the one in charge of everything downstairs.â
Isaacâs eyebrows scrunch up a little, confusion taking over his face, âBut I thought Michael was in charge?â
You all laugh at the question.
âHe just likes to pretend he is.â
You chuckle again at Danaâs voice, eyes darting between Robby and Dana with a look of mischief in your eyes.
âDana really runs the show and everyone likes her better anyway.â
Dana laughs at that, as does Isaac, and Robby gives a look of faux offense as he pressed his hand into his heart.
âYou wound me.â
Then there's laughing again, Isaac joining and as he realises you were just teasing. You meet Robbyâs eyes and he glares lightly, but thereâs no malice there. Just a quiet friendliness and joy you didnât realise you had missed. You smile softly and quickly look away to Dana, taking a steadying breath as you do.Â
âI just wanted to come see if you guys need anything before I start my shift.â
You eye the bedside cabinet briefly, noticing an empty cup of coffee, before looking back to Dana.
âSome coffee and a soda for Isaac would be great.â
You immediately notice how Isaac perks up, soda was always a treat for him.
âI can have a soda?â
You nod softly, âOnce we talk to the doctor again you can have it.â
He looks to Robby now, who nods in agreement with your decision. He beams, smile wide and almost blinding. Excitement bubbles through him, to the point that heâs almost vibrating and you roll your eyes lightly at the energy while Robby chuckles.Â
âCoffee and a soda, got it.â
Dana steps away from Robby, and you move with her, pulling her into another hug before she leaves.
âThank you for checking in.â
Another squeeze of your shoulder before Dana pulls away, and another whisper.Â
âIt takes a village kid, just know you always got one here.â
Then sheâs gone. The sound of clicking hospital bed wheels and the shuffle of feet, voices muffled behind doors and hushed conversations with doctors filter in briefly as the door opens. When it closes, there's silence again. Warm and light with the rays of the sun. The arms of the universe wrapping you in a protective cocoon, if just for a moment. Your eyes meet Robby's again, just for a brief moment, but itâs all you need.Â
Theyâre steady, reassuring. Full of light and love and emotions you would rather not name right now. But theyâre there. He stayed and that was all you needed in that moment.Â
A few minutes later, a younger nurse that Robby introduces to you as Mataeo arrives with the coffee and soda, letting you know that Dana got called in with a patient as soon as she arrived on the ER floor. You both thank him, and Isaac smiles wide at him as Mataeo tells him his cars are cool and then heâs gone again.
The smell of fresh coffee as the steam rises from the cups finally cuts through the smell of antiseptic and sterility that came with hospital rooms and the heat spreads from your hands and up your arms, settling into your chest. You take a seat next to Robby, smiling softly as Isaac starts asking him about his job.Â
He explains it in child friendly terms and you can see Isaacâs eyes light up. He was a lover of science and asked so many questions that you giggled lightly at the overwhelmed look that over takes Robby. You choke a little on your coffee when you go to take a sip of it only for Isaac to turn round and ask, âhave you seen a dead body?â
The question was out of left-field and was asked with such sweetness and innocent curiosity that it catches you both off guard. Robby goes to answer, but then the door opens and the surgeon walks into the room with a smile on their face.Â
Youâre still choking when they walk in, hand hitting your chest a little to dry and dislodge the feeling and they give you a look of concern. As does Robby as he reaches over and gives a small hit to your back. Finally, it clears and the only evidence is the watering of your tear line.Â
âIâm okay.â
You smile now, fully turning to greet the surgeon now. Their face changes again, a ghost of a smile tugging at the sides of their lips as they stand at the bottom of the bed. Pleasantries are explained, Isaacâs asked how heâs feeling and the surgeon listens closely and the ghost of a smile turns into a full smile when he lets them know that heâs doing good.Â
Quickly, the conversation changes to discharge and healing and the surgeon explains that they usually like to monitor for 24-48 hours to make sure swellings going down properly but Isaacâs swelling was reducing pretty quickly and if the pattern continues you would be out by the afternoon.Â
As the surgeon talks, you flit your eyes between them and Isaac, whoâs busied himself with the toys on the bed again. Robby has reached a hand out over the back of your chair as he leans back, eyes kept on them while his fingers gently trailed against your shoulder. Itâs not a deliberate movement, more an unconscious one. You lean further back into the chair, allowing his fingers to fully settle against your shoulder.Â
They explain that the half-cast will be on for 4-8 weeks, depending on how well it healed and they would want you back in at the 4 week mark for more x-rays. Then would come the boot, which would be on for another few weeks. Your heart sank a little at hearing that at least it would be 6 weeks before Isaac could be fully weight bearing again, at most 10. Nevermind that he couldnât do sports for 3-6 after the boot came off.Â
But a gentle squeeze on your shoulder from Robby grounds you and stops you spiraling, you were just going to have to come up with creative ways to keep Isaac entertained over summer. As the surgeon asks if you have any questions, Isaac who didnât seem like he was paying attention pipes up, voice slightly saddened and gaze downcast at the cars in his laps. Somewhere along the way he had stopped playing with them.Â
âCan I have a soda?â
The surgeon chuckles lightly, smiling at him with gentle eyes, âYes sweetheart, you can have a soda?â
His eyes light up again, a small smile stretching across his lips as Robby opens and hands him the can of the soda. You roll your eyes affectionately as he lets out a small hum of satisfaction and a giggle at the carbonation as he takes a drink, turning back to the surgeon with a smile and a âthank youâ before they leave again.Â
A deep breath,another steady squeeze from Robby, your heart leaping into your throat as tears dot your water line. A single second of weakness. Then you're blinking the tears away, clearing your throat and taking another sip of coffee before turning to Isaac with a smile.Â
Thereâs a small, content smile on his face. Though his eyes reflect sadness and you can see tears in the corner, he doesnât let them fall. You know he doesnât want you to worry, so you lean forward and reach out to take his hand. Threading your fingers through his and rubbing soft circles into the skin with your thumb.
âItâs okay to be sad bug, youâre allowed to cry.â
A stiff nod from Isaac, his nose scrunching up as he sniffles and tries to stop the tears from falling. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand to try and dry the tears, but more form, and finally after a few minutes the fall. His hand tightens in yours, squeezing gently.Â
You hear Robbyâs breath hitch beside you, can feel his hoodie brush against your arms as he leans forward again and his hand reaches out to lay gently against Isaacâs arm. He gives a soft squeeze, fingers gently wrapping around the crook of his elbow and thumb resting against the bone where he also rubs soft circles into the skin. Isaac doesnât pull away, instead he lets his arm fall heavy into the touch.Â
You donât talk for a few minutes, you just hold Isaac in your hands. Letting him cry and process and grieve his first summer in a new city. The tears continue to fall, streaking salt rivers down Isaacâs cheek, the sniffles and soft sobs he lets out tugs at your heart and cracks it right down the middle. Slowly, the tears stop but the sniffling remains as snot falls from Isaacâs nose.Â
You let go of his hand, stand and grab a tissue before rubbing gently at his cupid's bow and nose to clean it away. You cup his cheeks gently, placing a kiss against Isaacâs forehead as you rub gently under his eyes to clear the streaks that had been left behind. Isaac shakes gently, and his head falls against your shoulder as you hug him gently.Â
You can feel Robbyâs hand pressing into your ribs as you lean over, just barely, a moment of realisation striking through you like a lightning bolt under your skin. The room now holds three heart beats, learning and working together, another hand has joined your own and is learning the shape of fatherhood one soft circle after another. Another kiss against the side of Isaacâs head and he pulls away softly.Â
Thereâs a small smile on his face, soft. Reassuring. Sadness lingers in the edges of his eyes, but it's not as prominent now. Instead, thereâs lingering hope and determination and you smile back at him.Â
âOkay, letâs make a plan and see what things we can still do this summer.â
You sit back beside Robby, whoâs already pulled his phone out and is scrolling through a list of places and activities on his phone. You can see the same look of determination in the golden specks of his irises as the sun hits them just right, it pierces through your ribs. Feeds the small bloom of hope that lives there, causes it to expand even further. A seed fully turning into a sprout, but not yet a blooming flower. You pull a notebook out of your bag, ready to write down ideas and potential dates.Â
The next few hours are spent planning, interspersed with visits from nurses offering kind smiles and warm eyes. Taking vitals and monitoring swelling, bringing both breakfast and lunch for Isaac which was devoured in seconds, you even get another visit from Dana. Itâs only for a few minutes, but she brought fresh coffee and sandwiches for you and Robby and even offers a few ideas for what to do as well, mentioning that thereâs a motocross event happening only 30 minutes from the city. Isaacâs eyes absolutely lit up with that, he was practically vibrating with excitement again as he begged you to go. You wrote it down and promised to look into it.Â
By the time the surgeon came in again, the sun was now sitting high in the sky and lit the room up in its warmth and golden light, and you had multiple pages of ideas and things to do. From museum trips and science events held at Carnegie Science Center to a trip to the national avery or aquarium, to art events being held at local comic books stores, to motocross events and races, and to baseball games (minor and major).Â
By the end, thereâs a wide smile on Isaacâs face as well as yours and Robbyâs. Isaac requests to see the book and a pen and you let out a small chuckle as he reads over the pages and puts stars next to his favourite ones before handing it back with a proud smile on his face. To no oneâs surprise, he starred the motocross and science events.Â
At that moment, the room began to feel less like a hospital and more like a sanctuary where a family builds itself brick by brick, pen put to paper and a future you never imagined suddenly coming to life and as Robby looks at you with a softness you hadnât seen in a long time, you can map the future in his eyes.Â
The last step was just to book everything, but your phone was dead and you were without a charger. Robby had offered you his phone, but just as you went to decline the door opened again and the surgeon and a nurse walks in with a wheelchair. The wheels click gently as they move across the linoleum floor and thereâs a squeak of brakes as the surgeon places it at the bottom of the bed.Â
Thereâs a warm smile on their face, and a clipboard in their hands. You catch a glimpse of a title saying âdischargeâ as they pull it close to your chest, and then thereâs a breath of relief that rattles its way out of your chest.Â
âGood news, the swelling has gone down much faster than anticipated and we are happy to let Isaac go home.â
Thereâs smiles all around and sighs of relief, weights dropping from chests and shoulders and melting into the ground. Robbyâs hand reaches out, sits gently against your shoulder blade, thumb moving just ever so slightly against the fabric of your shirt. You lean back into the touch slightly, an unconscious movement.Â
âThank you doctorâÂ
Your voice is soft, relief dripping off every word. You look to Isaac again, whose hands are now fiddling with the edge of the gown, fingers dipping under the hem slightly to scratch at his skin. Thereâs a smile on his face and relief in his eyes, the little starbursts shining like a galaxy in the sun as he thinks about getting home.Â
âIf you two want to follow me to get the discharge paperwork signed, the nurses can help get Isaac changed and all ready to goâ
You give a smile, a nod, and gather your things into your bag. Robby stands with you, and you both give Isaacâs hand a quick squeeze, before you walk out of the room. Once again, youâre led down winding corridors and passed rooms, but this time you take in the painted animals and flowers on the walls. The colours shifting in a recognisable pattern of something comforting to children, thereâs little decompression and play rooms for patients staying longer. Thereâs a rush of hushed conversations behind doors, of laughter and lightness as families try and find the good in a bad situation.Â
The waiting room is busier now than it was last night. Itâs not as scary, not as clinical. Thereâs families sitting around and children playing with the toys. Nurses and doctors bustle about, tablets and clipboards in hand, thereâs kind smiles on their faces as you pass them. As you step up to the desk, Robby presses in close beside you. His arm is wrapped protectively around your shoulders, part of his chest pressing in against your back as he moves you gently out of the way of a bustling nurse going by with a medical cart.Â
The surgeon hands the discharge paperwork to you, explains every detail as you fill it in and reminds you of the expected healing time as well as things you can do to make it a little easier. If thereâs some residual pain, some tylenol of ibuprofen every four hours should help, if there itchiness (as there usually is in a cast) use a low setting on a hair dryer and do not, under any circumstance, stick anything into the half-cast to ease the itch. Take the first few days easy and come back if thereâs any issues.Â
You hand over the paperwork, smiling and thanking her once again. Then thereâs a click of wheels, the screech of worn tires against linoleum, and Isaac is beside you again with two nurses. One pushing the chair, the other with a pair of crutches. They explain the crutches can be used at home, but they would recommend getting in contact with a wheelchair rental service for venturing outside. You offer them a kind smile, hand reaching out to shake theirs and give thanks.Â
Then you turn to Isaac again, smile softening. Almost reverent as you scan his body, hand reaching out to his which he happily takes.Â
âReady to go home bug?â
A hearty nod and a chuckle from you and Robby, who leans in close to your ear.
âYou need a ride?â
You glance him from the side, completely forgetting you had arrived in an ambulance and your phone was dead so you couldnât order an uber. Thereâs a deep breath from you, and from Robby. You can feel his chest expand against your back, the press of his ribs into your skin.
âIf you donât mind.âÂ
Soft. Hesitant. You had been doing this alone for so long, that help seemed foreign even if it wasnât unwelcome.Â
Robby shakes his head, lips turning up in a soft smile. He wasnât going to verbalise it, but he didnât want this to end. Because, finally, after so many years apart he had you again. Like there was some part of his soul that had left with you and was just now finally slotting back into place. Where he was previously lost and alone, wandering the desert under a starless sky thereâs now a guiding light showing him the way to the one thing he didnât know he needed. Family.
âOf course not, I just gotta stop by The Pitt first and grab my things.â
You nod, smile at the nurses as you take over behind the wheelchair while Robby takes the crutches and then step out of the waiting room. Glass doors slide closed behind you, quietly as you take one step after another into a shared future. Sunlight streams in through wide windows, a golden warmth blanketing you. Isaacâs voice is soft, some tiredness seeping into the edges as he talks about how excited he is to go home.Â
Unnamed hope fills you, flows through your blood like liquid honey. You had stepped into the hospital, a single parent, and now you were stepping out a family. The man beside you transformed from a ghost to flesh and bone, a beating heart and a warm touch, you could only hope he stayed that way.Â
And Robby, heâs warm beside you, arms brushing against you as you walk. He talks, voice warm and deep, a gentle cadence you remember in the very fibre of your being. Thereâs a gentleness to him now, eyes crinkled around the edges and laugh lines visible as he smiles.Â
His eyes very rarely leave you, muscle memory kicking in and carrying him through the hospital. Emotions you canât, or refuse, to name dancing on the surface. He doesnât say it, doesnât need to at that moment, but heâs changed. Thereâs something deeply soul shattering in his gaze, the quiet kind of reverence you had experienced all those years ago when you first fell in love. A quiet promise of forever that he intends to keep.
And to your surprise, he does.
___
It's late Tuesday evening, three days after you left the hospital, the sun is just starting to dip in the sky. Golden rays of light transform into something ethereal as theyâre replaced by stretches of coral and lavender, streaks of deep indigos and violets poking through as it dips lower and lower. It's a clear night, the moon already fully visible and keeping watch over your home with the gaze of a lover and protector. A keeper of secrets and harbinger of new beginnings.Â
Thereâs still a lingering heat in the air, still a humidity that seeps into your bones but itâs not as heavy. Itâs languid, slow. Forces you to move with intention, not just instinct. But the falling sun had brought with it a cool breeze, one that blows through the open windows and ruffles the curtains. Makes the house feel alive, the thrum of a heartbeat under skin. The air conditioning also helps, keeps the sweat from dripping down your neck and avoids the sticky sensation that comes with such high humidity.
Especially as you flit about the kitchen, pulling plates and cups out of cupboards. Setting up side dishes of guac and salsa and sour cream, all placed on a lazy susan in the center of the table. Tortillas are warming on the grill, the barbacoa bubbles away idly in the slow cooker, and Isaac sits at the table. Switch in hand, mind distracted momentarily from the heavy weight of his casted leg that rests gently on a chair in front of him.Â
Though you can tell heâs getting impatient, the little grunts of frustration you sometimes hear become more noticeable. The shaking of his un-injured leg, picking up speed and making the dining chair shake and rattle against both the table and the ground. You had told him Robby was running a little late, a bad accident coming into the ERjust minutes before he was supposed to leave. Isaac said he understood, but he couldnât help the impatience as the clock ticked over to 8:15pm.Â
Then, as youâre placing the tortillas on the table, thereâs a knock at the door. Three in quick succession, barely heard over the soft music you have playing. Theyâre tentative, almost nervous. Isaac immediately perks up, switch dropped to the table as he reaches for his crutches, a wide smile spreading on his face.Â
âIâll get it!â
The excitement in his voice kills any protest you had building, hands settling onto the edge of the table with a quiet sigh. You know he hated being cooped up like this, he was an active kid and liked to be on the move and the resting period was always going to be the hardest. You still worried, of course you did, but you recognised his needs for independence and his need to be involved in this. So, you let him go. Following just a few steps behind in case he stumbled, especially as there were still boxes lining the hallway because you didnât have the time to fully unpack everything just yet.Â
He struggles to unlatch the door, so you reach out and do it for him, taking a step back when he opens it to Robby. Thereâs a sheepish look on Robby's face, his hand gripping tightly on to his back pack while the other rubs nervously at his neck. You can see the apology already loaded on his tongue, his mouth opens but immediately closes as Isaac all but tackles him into a hug.Â
âMichael!âÂ
An âoofâ leaves Robby and a chuckle passes your lips, Isaacâs arms are wrapped tight around his body as he balances on one leg. Both crutches are now dangling in the air and hitting Robby in the shins, but he doesnât mind.Â
A smile splits across Robbyâs face half a second later, the shock of the impact and affection quickly passing as he wraps his free hand around Isaac. His hand landing on his head where he ruffles his hair affectionately.Â
âHey buddyâ
Robby's voice is soft, weary. Carrying the kind of tiredness only those in the medical profession understood, the weight of a long shift, a bad shift, sitting heavy in their bones and on their chest. Itâs in his eyes too, the dark circles forming under them and the sadness that permeates even through the joy of seeing his son. But he still smiles, still looks up at you as you lean against one of the clear walls of the small hallway with a warm smile on your face.
The silver light of the moon shines down on you through the door, halos you in its glow and with the warm light of a home behind you Robby freezes for a second. His mind buffers, his breathing hitches and he can think of a thousand ways to describe you and yet they simply wouldnât be enough. These were the moments he missed the most, he thinks. The quiet, messy ones where thereâs a stain on your shirt from the dinner, hair messy and untamed as it came undone throughout the day. The golden glow of your skin even after a day's work and cooking.Â
âHi.â
Robbyâs voice is somehow even softer now, a whisper thatâs almost lost in the wind. You duck your head a second, suddenly shy under his gaze. You had forgotten just how intense it could be. How it had made you feel like a teenager discovering romance when you meet for the first time. And here he was, looking at you like it was the first time all over again. Your cheeks heat, the rush of blood an involuntary thing, but you look up again. Smile softly at him, motion your head to the side a little and chuckle.
âHi, are you gonna come in?â
Isaac lets Robby go, wobbling a little as he does but Robby steadies him as he gets his crutches on the ground. You can both see Isaacâs hand open and close before he places it on the handle, like he wants to reach out and grab Robbyâs hand but he canât because of the crutches. You look at Robby, see the gears turning in his head before he swoops his free hand down under Isaac and lifts him into his arms, being careful not to jostle the injured leg in the process.Â
Thereâs a look of shock on Isaac's face as heâs momentarily displaced then a laugh bubbles out of him as he throws his head back in joy. Your hand had flown to your chest, placed gently over your now hammering heart as visions of either of them being hurt flooded your mind, but now it drops. Thereâs a deep breath, a sigh, a playful glare towards Robby who just gives a cheeky grin and a wink back.
âYouâre gonna give me a heart attack Robinavitchâ
You push yourself off the wall, finger pointing accusingly at Robby who joins Isaac in his laughter. You affectionately roll your eyes and turn away from the two, leading the way to the kitchen.Â
Robby follows, hand a little looser around the strap of his back pack as he kicks the front door closed behind him. Steps a little lighter than when he had walked up your path. Eyes brighter, more alive. The cinderblock that had lodged itself in his chest only a few days earlier cracks again, crumbles around the edges as dust falls through his bones and into the floor. Itâs still there, just a little smaller now. A little more delicate, one powerful hit and it would be gone.
Robby, very gently, sets Isaac down by the table and helps him into the chair making sure to take extra care when placing the injured leg opposite him. His bag is placed under the table, close enough so he can grab it but far enough that neither you or he would trip over the straps. He moves to help you get everything ready, muscle memory from a time before and a desire to simply exist in your orbit leading the way, but Isaac grabs his hand and smiles up at him.
âDo you wanna see my minecraft village?â
Robbyâs eyes soften, the crows feet at the side dissipating as he smiles gently at Isaac. He had no idea what minecraft was, he had heard a few of the kids in the ER and Harrison talk about it but he still didnât know what it was. He had filled it away with things like Fortnight and Roblox and slang terms he didnât understand, something he didnât need to know or care about unless a patient was talking to him about it. But, now he cares.
âYeah buddy.â
You watch the two from the counter, head tilted to the side and eyes cautious yet tender. You didnât know what to expect letting Robby back into your life and into Isaacâs, there was a cautious optimism that lived deep in your bones. Buried under layers and layers of doubt and fear. Fear he would disappoint. Fear he wouldnât show up. Fear he would disappear again. It was a dark shroud hanging over your shoulders, and yet, as you watch Isaac ramble on excitedly about minecraft and Robby (though looking very confused) smile and follow along with enthusiasm the golden light of hope and that cautious optimism started to shine through.Â
For the first time, you think things might just work out.Â
âOkay, time to put it away.â
Isaac pouts, his free foot almost stomping on the ground like a disgruntled rabbit, and he turns to you with pleading eyes. âBut mommmm,â He drags it out in childish impatience, looking at you with puppy dog eyes that he knows never really works, âI was just gonna show Michael my farm.â
Robby chuckles beside him, eyes darting up to yours for a moment to see how you handle this. He had a lot to learn after all, and your word was law. A deep sigh and you push yourself off the counter, to instead lean down on the table with crossed arms so you could look Isaac in the eyes.
âYou know the rules, no devices at dinner. ButâŠâ
A glimmer of hope and Isaacâs pout starts to dissolve.
âI can give you 30 extra minutes of play time before bed, you can use it to show Michael your farm or anything else. How does that sound?â
A wide smile breaks onto Isaacâs face and he quickly saves his game before handing the switch over to you. You offer him a wink as you take it and stand up again. When you look to Robby, there's a shadow of devotion one you had seen years before under a half moon arch of peonies and dahlias. Your heart stutters, breath catching in your throat and you have to clear it to regain a semblance of composure. Your heart betraying your brain as it remembers what being loved by him was like.Â
A warm, familiar blanket settles over you. Threadbare and torn at the edges, but still comfortable. The kind of blanket you reach for on a stormy night as lightning flashes outside and rain batters the windows, promising shelter and safety. An unspoken vow of forever weaved into the fabric.Â
You mentally throw it off your shoulders.Â
Of course, Robby notices the shift. The way your shoulders tense for half a second, the sharp inhale of breath as you turn away from them and the subtle shake of your head as if youâre trying to clear away something unpleasant. The walls you had built around you heart coming up once again. He sighs softly, eyes going back to Isaac whoâs now talking about the cool new science book you had gotten him that talks about animal biology. It hurts, your reaction, a knife blade slipping right between his rips and poking at the soft flesh of his heart.Â
The only reason it doesnât pierce it and devastate him is because he knows itâs warranted, he had hurt you and now he had to deal with those consequences. He knew forgiveness, and even true acceptance of him being back in your life, would take time.Â
Dinner passes by uneventfully, but itâs filled with laughter and smiles as Isaac tells stories and asks Robby questions about himself and his work. Robbyâs favourite colour turns into a story about the reflection of the sunset in the water as he walks through the park one summer evening. What he doesnât tell Isaac is that it was also the colour of your dress on your first date and the night he proposed. When you hear it, you canât help but look down at your plate and take a deep breath to steady your rapidly beating heart. You didnât think he would remember that, didnât think it would still be his favourite colour all these years later.
Itâs destabilizing, rattling you from the inside and though you try to keep yourself and walls stable, little micro fractures start to appear. Unnoticeable, little webs of golden light leaking through the walls like the starbursts in Robby's and Isaacâs eyes. You excuse yourself from the table, lifting empty plates and glasses and placing them in the sink. If you stayed any longer, you were sure to fracture completely.Â
As you work on cleaning the dishes, you keep an ear out on the conversation. Smiling softly to yourself as stories are swapped and laughter fills the now quiet evening air. You had turned the music off before dinner, and the streets were almost silent. Only a few cars passed by as time ticked over, if you strained you could hear the sound of wildlife and a soft wind rustling trees. The clatter of trash bins opening and closing, soft footsteps as people did late night walks. It wasnât silent, but it was peaceful. A sacred kind of feeling that felt like the world leaning in and breathing for the first time in centuries.Â
As you place the last cup on the drying rack, the slow cooker a problem for tomorrow, you glance towards the clock on the microwave where it reads 22:00. You turn around, arms crossed over your chest. Robby and Isaac are huddled close now, conspiratorial smiles on their faces as they whisper amongst themselves. You wish you could put the moment in a bottle and keep it forever.Â
 But unfortunately, it's past bed time.Â
âIsaac,â your voice is quiet, a kind of gentle that only comes from a mother looking at their greatest love. It absolutely wrecks Robby internally, sends his mind and heart into a tailspin as it thuds against his chest. It was a tone he had never heard before, it made him think of all the things he missed and all the things he had yet to learn and relearn about you. The possibility of it all excited him, made his pulse skitter under his skin as he took a calm, steadying breath.Â
âYeah mom?â
Isaac looks up with tired eyes, something you were sure he wouldnât admit to, but he blinks slowly and has to maintain concentration to open them fully again. You smile soft, love written into every line on your forehead and crinkle beside your eyes. Robby has to take another deep breath as his heart skips a beat.
âItâs time for bed bug,â
Another pout, a but loading on his tongue that's quickly dispelled with a shake of your head.
âItâs 10 oâclock bug, youâve had more time than we agreed."
He looks to Robby as if he could save him, he wants to spend more time with him after all, but Robby just shakes his own head.
âYou heard your mom, buddy, itâs time for bed.â
His pout deepens, but when he reaches up to rub the sleep out of his eyes you know he isnât going to argue.Â
âCan Michael stay?â
A sharp breath, a shared look between you and Robby, a question you werenât prepared for. Your chest rattles, eyes scanning over Robbyâs features. He had brightened up over the near two hours he had been in your home, but you can still see the lingering tiredness. The stiffness in his shoulders as he struggles to hold himself up, the dark circles under his eyes and the slow blinking that is so much like Isaacs another crack appears in your walls. You almost give in, almost.Â
âNot tonight bug.â
You go to Isaacâs side, hand gently running through his hair as you look between him and Robby. âIâm sure Michaelâs up early tomorrow for work, so he needs to go home and get some sleep too.â
A slow, sleepy nod from Isaac. His hands reaching out as he leans over as best he can to wrap his arms around Robby who instantly melts into the touch. His own arms wrapping around Isaac as he rubs at his back, he goes to place a soft kiss against the side of his head, but stops himself. Not yet echoing in the back of his mind.Â
âGoodnight Michael.â
âGoodnight Isaac.â
Robbyâs voice is hushed, melting into the skin around Isaac's neck as he gives a gentle squeeze, you barely hear it but thereâs a crack. A break of quiet adoration finally spoken into the universe. When Isaac pulls away, you take a step back and allow him to calibrate himself in his crutches before he waddles away slowly towards the next room.Â
âWhereâs he going?â
You turn to Robby, soft smile on your lips, âThe playroom, because weâre still unpacking it was easier to set his bed up down here for the time being. He has everything he needs and can maintain some of his independence.â
A nod from Robby as he grabs his bag from under the table. Thereâs something different about him now, not physically but you can still see it. Something had shifted in the very marrow of his bones and the fabric of his soul, thereâs a lightness around his eyes you hadnât seen since you had first started dating. A softness to the hard exterior of a man. A permanence in the way he looked at you, and Isaac, and the life you had built like this was now his forever and he had simply spent the last ten years looking for a way home.Â
Another shared look, softer this time. A shared acknowledgement of the new lives you were now building around you, brick by brick. Story by story. Dinner by dinner. It would take time, but maybe you could learn to love again.Â
You walk Robby to the door, that familiar blanket of warmth drawing closer around you but not yet fully settling around your skin as he turns to wish you good night. Thereâs a moment of hesitation with you both, silence stretching into the night and being lifted on a summer breeze. Neither of you make a move, just look.Â
Robby wants to reach out, to feel you in his arms and hold you there once again. But he doesnât, he doesnât want to push. To make you uncomfortable. Even if you looked devastatingly beautiful in the moonlight.Â
You want to reach out too, even if just to feel the warmth of his skin or the scratch of his beard against your palm as you cup his cheek. But you hold back, arms instead wrapping protectively around your chest. Protecting your heart from the now more noticeable crack in its walls.Â
âGoodnight Michael.â
Quiet, a whisper almost lost to the hoot of an owl and the crunch of gravel as tires drag across a driveway. But still there, more veneration than you had intended.Â
âGoodnight.â
Soft, sweet, reverent. Almost a solemn prayer and a promise wrapped into one. It wasnât a goodbye, it was an Iâll see you tomorrow.
And as the door closed, more golden light poked through your armored walls.
___
The next few weeks are filled with evening visits and dinners, weekends spent as a family unit. Your living room turned from an area of rest and relaxation to a graveyard of pillow and blankets, forts made and burned to the ground in imaginary war zones. Instead of silence or music, a random tv show in the background or the sounds of video games, there squeals of laughter. What once was dead space, is now alive. A thrumming pulse of activity, a lifeline you didnât know you desperately needed.
Isaac adjusts to his crutches, moving more fluidly and with less fear, and Michael shows up. Every night, even if itâs late and all I can do is a quick hello and a goodnight. Days off where he would lock himself up with medical journals and spiraling thoughts are now spent at your home, under a mountain of blankets and pillows you had deliberately pulled out of storage or with toy cars and race tracks in his hands. Stories are swapped, laughter spilled like wine and whiskey that warms him from the inside.Â
Then there's the closeness with you, hesitant touches as you brush against each other shifting into something more deliberate. Your shoulder pressed into his as he helps you in the kitchen, hand lingering just a moment too long as you hand him something, thighs pressed close together as you sit on the sofa and watch Isaac present a magic trick he had learned on youtube.Â
Then thereâs the first night he stays. It's July 5th and despite an exhausting day before in the ER, Robby takes Isaac out to the Carnegie Science Center during the day to not only spend time with his son but to give you space to work, unpack and breathe. Despite insisting you were fine, Michael could see the way you wobbled on the tightrope between exhaustion and burnout, one wrong step and you would collapse.Â
Isaac, of course, had an incredible time and was basically humming with barely contained excitement as Michael pushed him through the door on the temporary wheelchair you had rented. His voice loud and boisterous as he rattled off all the things they had seen, everything he had got to do and try. His eyes were alight with life and passion and you couldnât help but smile at him.Â
Behind him, the sun is just starting to set the brilliant gold of the day transforming into something softer as yellows and orange streak across the cloudless sky and if you look closely enough you can see some hues of indigo and violet mixing in. They frame Michael in a halo of colour, edges soft and shadow blurred behind him, as he steps through the front door.Â
There was always an air of permanent exhaustion around Michael, he supposed it went with the territory of being caked in the scent of anti-sceptic and blood and illness that he carried with him from being in the ER, yet he felt lighter than he had in years. Being with Isaac did more than bring him joy, it was actively reviving him. He had long ago accepted that his life would be short flings and one-night stands, loneliness displaced by the sound of voices on the tv as he tried to sleep. But now?Â
Now he saw what his life could be, full of life. Full of love. Full of hope. Hope for a future he had no idea existed only a month ago.Â
âYou coming in?â
Your voice is soft, teasing as you lean against the wall at the end of the hallway with your arms crossed and head tilted to the side. Michael had been standing there for a few moments too long, just watching Isaac as he transferred from the wheelchair to his crutches and settled into the sofa.Â
The boxes that had lingered around the door for the past few weeks are gone and as Michael moves inside he sees the living room is decorated with trinkets and books and candles. Photos line the walls and the bookshelf is impeccably ordered, the first one that catches Michaelâs eyes is one he had gotten you. Limited edition copies of The Lord of the Rings series, still perfect as if they hadnât been touched. Then he spots the photo next to it.Â
Itâs a recent one. Of him and Isaac surrounded by pillows and cars and books on the living room floor (where the coffee table now is) both with smiles on their faces. He never even noticed you taking the picture.
âYouâve had a busy day.â
A snort from you as you run your fingers through your hair and push yourself off the wall, âYeah, I uh⊠I couldnât keep still.â
Michael looks at you, a smirk on his face that crinkles his crows feet and sends a flutter through your heart.Â
âYou could have asked for help, you know.â
A soft sigh, a gentle look from the corner of your eyes as you rock back on your feet.Â
âI know, Iâm still getting used to this whole not doing it alone thing.â
Michael nods, then notices the two used and empty wine glasses on the dining table and shakes his head with a small laugh as you follow his gaze with a shrug.
âI also had Dana over to help.â
You nudge his shoulder playfully before stepping back, âGo sit down, Isaacâs requested a movie night and the popcorns just finished.âÂ
As you pass Isaac on the couch, you ruffle his hair and press a kiss against the top of his head and laugh softly when he scrunches up his nose.
âWhat do you want to drink bug?â
âA sprite pleaseâ
A nod from you, eyes moving over to Michael with a soft smile, âYou want a beer?â
Michael moves the sofa, covered in soft throw blankets and pillows, kicking his shoes off and placing them under the coffee table as he does, and gives a small nod before sitting at the end of the sofa. Isaac is in the middle of the three-seater, sitting closer to the other end than he is to Michael but despite their growing relationship he doesnât want to push any further than heâs allowed. But then Isaacâs tugging on his hand, pulling him closer to him to show off the features of the toy they had picked up at the bookshop.Â
He leans in close, arm wrapping around the back of the sofa to allow him as close as Isaac wants, to look it over. Thereâs buttons and lights and a remote that Isaac hands him with an excited smile, at the look a pleasant crack ricochets through his body right down the middle of the cinderblock that had been slowly eroding over the past few weeks.Â
It's no bigger than a brick now, sitting tucked tight underneath his ribs instead of the domineering pressure on his chest it had once been. Still there, lingering, but buried under layers of soft cotton and the butterfly wings of Isaac eyelashes as they blink up at him. Grief now replaced with learning and light and love.Â
You join them a few seconds later, popcorn bowl placed in Isaacâs lap and Michael notices the peanut m&mâs and candied almonds and canât help but tuck his chin to try and hide his smile. He knew that was your influence, and of course you catch it as you hand him an open beer.
âWhat are you smiling at?â
Thereâs a small spark of electricity up your arm as your fingers brushed, and you stop, for just a moment. Fingers pressed softly against one another as Michael wraps his hand around yours. Thereâs mischief and teasing in the starbursts of his eyes, the golden hour light making them shine even brighter than normal. His eyes dart to the popcorn bowl, then back to you, fingers tightening just a little.
âSome things just donât change.â
Thereâs a playful roll of your eyes, an unconscious smile stretching across your face as you finally pull your hand back and let him take the beer from you. Then youâre gone again, just for a moment, then youâre handing Isaac his sprite in a non-spill cup that he can keep beside him and placing a glass of wine on the coffee table for yourself before throwing a bag of candy at Michael with a playful glare.Â
It hits his chest, bounces to his knees and he laughs. Full, unrestrained. But his eyes never leave yours as you settle in next to Isaac on the other side, he brings his free hand up to his face and attempts to hide the smile between his fingers but he fails and youâre laughing alongside him. Another crack, this time in your walls, spider webs turning into full fractures that allow pieces to crumble around you. Golden light penetrates and fills you with a warmth youâre still too scared to admit you not only missed, but craved in the deepest parts of your soul.Â
Itâs still early-ish, the soft yellows and oranges transforming into deep indigos and violets as the sun slowly dips lower in the sky, your phone reading as 8:45. You agreed to let Isaac stay up a bit later than usual, the energy from the day not yet fully leaving his system, and agree that each of you will pick one movie. Isaac picks Wall-E, itâs one of his favourites and youâre just grateful he hasnât chosen Meet the Robinsons again.Â
Thereâs laughter shared throughout the movie, jokes and comments about certain scenes. If there was one thing you could say about Michael coming back into your life, itâs that itâs never truly quiet and you appreciate it. He, and Isaac, reminded you every day that there was more to life than just surviving and trying your best and that you needed space to simply be and live too.Â
By the end of the first movie, night had fully set in and the stars give little sprinkles of silver light through your blinds. Itâs the only light, but itâs all you need against the backdrop of the TV. Youâve all shifted on the sofa. You with your legs up to your side as you lean in close to Isaac with one arm supporting your head on the sofa. Isaac is leaning in close against Michael, head resting softly against his shoulder as best he can with his leg propped on the coffee table and Michael is closer to him. Hand wrapped around the back now laying gently against Isaacâs shoulder. And somewhere along the way, all three of you had ended up wrapped up in your giant throw blanket and the pillows were thrown to the floor.Â
You can see the tiredness finally settle in Isaac, in how his eyes are starting to close over just a bit and he has to force them awake. In the limpness of his hand as you hold it in your free one. He still asks for another movie.Â
You let Michael choose this one, content to just exist in space with the two. Honestly, they could have chosen the most boring movie in existence and you would have been happy. He chooses Matilda. You give him a curious glance when he clicks on the movie, it was unexpected and he simply shrugs but thereâs lightness in his eyes. A memory flashing between them and you wonder if heâs also remembering the first night you stayed at his place when you started dating.Â
The mountain of blankets you had formed on his bed, brought from your own home, curling up in his arms as you waxed poetic about the how it was one of your favourites telling stories of lazy sundays spent at your grandparents with the movie on the background. How you, in your young mind, had convinced yourself you were like Matilda and tried to move things with your mind. The smile on his face and the small chuckle he lets out tell you he is.Â
You can feel your cheeks heat at the look and quickly look away, glancing down at Isaac to see him perk up a little bit as the movie starts. You place a quick kiss to his head and lean further into him, head leaning against his as you readjust on the sofa. As you move, so does Michael. His hand and arm now leaning against the back, his fingers trailing gently against the skin of your neck and your clothed shoulder. Heat blooms wherever he touches, spreads out and trickles down your spine.Â
Itâs quieter now, laughter now hushed. Conversation abandoned as you both let Isaac drift off to sleep but you can feel Michaelâs eyes on you almost the whole time. Heâs watching the way you mouth along to the script, the way your head bobs slightly to the music, a warm smile on his face the entire time.
Then the movie ends, screen turning black as the creditâs roll. Michael pauses it, a comfortable silence stretches over you. That old tattered blanket settles closer to you, wrapping around your ribs but not yet settling on your shoulders but it doesnât restrict. It is comforting. It's warm, familiar. An old friend coming home.Â
Thereâs a shared breath, deep, grounding. Both of you look at Isaac who snores gently at your side, then Michael looks at you with a soft smile on your face. He wants to take his phone out and take a photo, commit this image to memory forever so he can look back on it on the long days. He realises then, he doesnât want to leave. Could spend the rest of his days just locked in this moment.
âYou want me to lift him into bed?â
Itâs a whisper, soft. Gentle. And just like that the world comes back into focus, the sound of cicadas filtering in through the open window, a radio from a small party down the street playing soft music as it winds down. The twinkling stars and moonlight as they shine in the sky, reflecting off the glass of the coffee table and sending a kaleidoscope spreading across the floor. Itâs something delicate, breakable. You donât want to move, slow your breathing so as not to disturb the movement.Â
Then thereâs a startling thought, you donât want him to go. You could get used to this, to Michael being not only in your life but in your space. Potentially in your heart once again. It scares you, but you donât let it stop you. Your conversation with Dana ringing in the back of your mind, donât let fear stop you from living.
âYeah, Iâll get everything cleaned upâ
A nod, then youâre both slowly moving off the sofa so as not to disturb Isaac. As you gather the dishes and empty bags into the near empty popcorn bowl, Michael gently hoists Isaac into his arm being very careful so as not to bang his broken leg. You watch his back as he disappears down the hallway and into the playroom before making your way to the kitchen.
When he returns, you're leaning against the counter and responding to a text. Michael doesnât clear his throat, barely makes a sound as he pads into the kitchen and yet your body knows heâs there and you look up instinctively. Heâs only a few steps away
âI should goâ
Soft, whispered into the night. A heart beat slams in your ears, you canât tell if itâs yours.
âYou should stay.â
A look of shock, a skipped heart beat. Elation blooming in Michaelâs veins, yet trepidation leaks from his tongue.
âI donât have any clothes.â
You roll your eyes, softly. Affectionately.
âI still have a pair of your old sweats, I can put your clothes in the washer and dryer before we go to bed.â
A moment of stillness, a shared recognition of I donât want this to end. A step closer, you canât tell who takes it.
âAre you sure?â
âYes.â
Then youâre taking a step back, leading Michael up the stairs to your bedroom where you riffle through drawers before pulling out an old worn pair of sweats. Their college branded, Michaels alma mater, a little tattered and worn but still perfectly wearable. As Michael takes them, they are soft and obviously still well cared for.Â
âThank you.â
You nod, gentle, eyes soft as you look up at him through your lashes.
âBathroom is just there,â You point to the door at the top of the stairs, âThe guest bedroom is beside it.âÂ
Another soft âthanksâ passed from Michael's lips, and you nod before turning back down the stairs. When you reach the kitchen, thereâs silence. Cicadaâs no longer chirp, the dimmed down radio is now quiet and the gentle summer breeze no longer ruffles the trees. The air feels heavy, tense. Full of anticipation and longing and maybe something a little more dangerous. Itâs the time before a storm, before the world around you is thrown into chaos. Where most people seek shelter.
And yet, thereâs peace. You are not outside of the storm watching it destroy the world, but in it. Cradled gently in its arms at the center. You were safe. Warm. Protected. A feeling of whatever happens here, now, it would not destroy you.Â
Thereâs a deep breath as you steady yourself against the kitchen counter, eyes closing for just a moment. A thousand what ifâs playing in your mind, a thousand reasons this wonât work and then a thousand more of what if it does? You try not to swell on them too long and quickly regain your composure. Another deep breath, rattling against your ribs and you open your eyes.Â
You busy yourself with pouring another glass of wine and grabbing a cold beer for Michael and he joins you only a minute later. His clothes bundled up in his hands, the sweatpant riding low on his hips and heâs shirtless. You try to stop yourself from trailing your eyes up his body, admiring the pudge of his belly and the happy trail that leads up to his chest hair. When you meet Michaelâs eyes and see the small flush dusting his cheeks, you realise you failed.Â
Heat rises up your neck and to your cheeks, you hope it isnât as obvious as it feels. The burn of skin, like touching a hot stove top, spreading like a wildfire. You donât address it, just clear you throat and take the clothes from him.
âIâll be uh⊠back in a second. Thereâs a beer there for you if you wanna umâŠwait on the couch. The button for the lamps on the base.â
You donât wait for him to reply, instead make your way around him with a hitched breath and a hammering heart. It had been years since you had felt like this, it wasnât like you hadnât seen a naked man since you had divorced Michael but there was something that was just so uniquely him that it got under your skin. Made you feel crazy and young and totally inexperienced, as if it was your first time seeing him like that.Â
You curse to yourself as you load his clothes into the washer, in a small alcove outside the playroom, desperately begging your heart to calm down and remember youâre a grown adult and you can handle this.Â
As you do, Michael struggles in the kitchen. As soon as he noticed you looking, more like oggling, his body froze. His heart started hammering against his ribs and his stomach twisted itself in knots over and over again, like some little school boy who had just discovered what feelings were. He wanted to say something a little teasing and maybe just a tad egotistical, but the words got caught on his tongue and his brain completely melted. And just as he finally regained his bearings, you were talking and then you were gone. Disappearing into a little nook just outside the playroom where he assumed the washer and dryer were.Â
Michael has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, to calm his pounding heart. He clenches and unclenches his hands, his jaw, anything to try and release the roiling tension inside of him that mirrored the tension in the air. Then he takes a step, unsteady. Unsure. Walking a tightrope he knew he was destined to fall off, the only question was when?Â
Then another, steadier yet still soft. Bare feet barely making a sound against the wood grain floor. The coldness of the beer and the condensation dripping onto his hand is welcome, a shock to his system that reminds him to take it easy. This is fine. Youâre two adults, who just happen to share a kid, spending time together. Once he has the beer and wine in hand, he moves to the sofa and uses his foot to press the button on the lamp.Â
The light is gentle, warm, the same yellow as peonies in early summer filtered through the shade. It spotlights the sofa in its glow, fizzling out at the edges and scaring away the creeping shadows in the corners. He takes a seat, one leg folded over the other as he placed both drinks on the coffee table.Â
You join him a few minutes later, changed out of your day clothes and into a pair of baggy sweatpants with your own alma mater embroidered into the side and an oversize t-shirt. Itâs a band shirt, one that has certainly seen better days with the faded graphics and pain stains dotting the bottom. But itâs still unmistakable, it is was his. He still remembers the day it got the navy blue stain just under the neckline.Â
You had just moved in together, about a year before the wedding, and were decorating the bedroom on one of his few days off. He had rubbed at his face not realising there was paint on his fingers and when you had laughed, he had rubbed his face over your shirt in retaliation as you giggled and half-heartedly attempted to push him away. You had both ended the night with paint in places it should not have been.Â
He clears his throat, shakes his head lightly as he realises he was staring before re-adjusting on the sofa. You sit at the other end, where you had been before, and drape the blanket over your legs as you pull your knees up to your chest. It makes you look small, fragile. Shoulders curling in as you place your chin atop your knees and wrap your arms around your legs.Â
Thereâs silence, not the dramatic kind where words are left unspoken but the intimate kind of two people learning how to navigate life together again. Your eyes are soft, crinkling at the edges slightly, but still bright under the lamplight. He can see your mind racing behind them in the way your lips twitch and your fingers drum against the blanket as you search for something to say despite the fact the silence doesnât necessarily need to be filled.Â
He scans you, just for a moment. You were still you, the same beautiful woman he had loved all those years ago. But you were different, time and life and motherhood had changed you so fundamentally that were parts of your soul that he didnât recognise, parts he desperately wanted to meet and map out and learn. He had already started re-painting the tapestry of you in his mind, detailing every grey hair and wrinkle and laugh line, every new freckle on your skin and small scars he had discovered over the last few weeks. The image of you warping from wife to something more reverent and holy, mother and woman and friend transforming the image into something spectacular.Â
He also mapped out the hidden hurt in your eyes, the little flickering of pain that had danced across your irises for the last few weeks. How you had tried to keep them hidden, protecting not just your heart but Isaacs. He, of course, knew Michael had hurt you in the past, but you protected him from how it still hurt now. The unspoken words of why wasnât I enough passing your face for just a fraction of a second every time he comes by. But he saw it. And he knew he needed to apologise for it.Â
Michael shifts, both feet now on the floor as he brings his elbows to his knees and clasps his hands together. Thereâs stillness, a deep breath. A calibration in his mind of what he needs to say. His heart hammers in his chest, as does your as you brace for what was to come.Â
Thereâs a crack of thunder outside, a bright flash of light that illuminates you both. A bright white that streaks across the room, itâs dazzling. Almost a moment frozen in time, a man hunched over as if he was in prayer, hands clasped together so tightly the tips started to turn white, and a woman, his god, holding vigil over his form as finally spoke of his sins.Â
âI-âÂ
Thereâs a crack in his voice, you canât tell if itâs a moment of hesitation or an emotional overwhelm that causes it. But thereâs a shake to his shoulders, a trembling of his hands, and you can see the way his chest stutters with uneven breaths as he tries to collect himself.
Vulnerability was not something Michael was good at. It scared him. Talks of feelings and fears and hopes and dreams, laying his heart and soul bare to another person was absolutely terrifying. Because once it was all out there, out of his control, they could do anything with it. Hurt him. Punish him. Ruin him. But then they could also support him. Guide him. Love him despite all of the aches and pains and flaws. He had always been so terrified of showing someone the damaged parts of his souls because they might run away and it was so overwhelming that he had never considered the fact that they could also stay.Â
He hoped you would stay.
You soften as he gathers himself, legs crossing underneath you and hands falling limp in the gap between them. Your shoulders are still hunched, not with harshness or as a protective instinct but as a gentle spot for him to lay his head if things got too much. You wanted him to know he was safe. You werenât going to run and hide, you were going to catch him when he falls. No longer holding vigil for a man confessing sin, but offering sanctuary and grace to drowning man.
âIâm sorry forâŠeverything. I was not the man you deserved back then. You were too good for me. Too kind. Too patient. Too loving. You carried everything alone when I should have been by your side carrying the weight alongside you.â
Another deep breath, you canât tell from who, another tremble in his voice. Your lashline starts to water.
âI was scared⊠of loving you and being loved by you. I hid inside the hospital and work when things got hard and I refused to let you in because I was scared of what it might do to you, to me, to us.â
His hand lifts, moving slowly and casually between the two of you at the words.
âIâŠthought I was protecting you, protecting us by separating work and home life but all it did was push you away and IâŠI should have let you in. Should have told you about things at work, how they made me feel. I should have just tried harder. You were always enough and I loved you,â
He doesnât let the words I still do out of his mouth, though they rest heavy on his tongue.Â
âIâm sorry for not being there. Iâm sorry for pushing you away and hiding. For keeping secrets and breaking promises. For making you carry not just our relationship but everything by yourself.âÂ
A tear streaks down your cheek, leaving a layer of salt in your skin and burning like acid through your walls. Itâs a crack right down the middle, rubble falling to your feet as they crumble around you. The dark shroud you had held close to your chest vanishes, chased out by a bright golden starburst of colour that instead envelops you like an old friend. It settles right against your ribs, pushes through your hearts and into your blood stream. The old comfortable blanket now wraps fully around your shoulders, warm and comforting and feeling a little bit too much like home to ignore.Â
Your eyes soften and you shift closer to Michael, your knees pressing into his thigh and sides as you reach out and take his hands in yours. He lets you pry them apart and as you lace your hands together he looks at you. Face soft, lips turned up in a soft forgiving smile. Warm, welcoming. Home.Â
âI forgive you.â
A whisper into the night, another crack of thunder and a deep breath from you both.
âIt hurt, sometimes it still does but that old pain is my issue to deal with now, not yours.â
Soft circles rubbed into skin, trembling fingers and shoulders becoming still. Tears streaking both your faces as emotions settle.
âI forgave you that first taco night because I could see the person youâre turning into. In the dad youâre becoming. Weâre different people than we were ten years ago Michael. The man I married and the woman you married are gone, not dead. JustâŠdifferent. We just need to learn who we are again.â
Another minute of silence, a shared breath. A wound closing over, healing. Then thereâs rain. A pounding against the glass, a brief summer storm that lasts only a few minutes. Itâs cleansing. Like a river washing away the sins of the past. Of course, evidence of them lingers, marred deep into the bones of the earth. Indents and crevices left behind, but forgotten but ready to be filled again with something new. Something potentially beautiful.Â
Thereâs a few moments of silence between you, the rain a metronome to match your beating hearts. A few shared breaths. Then hands reach out to wipe at the others tears. A moment of stillness where you hold each other's face, fingers splayed across jaws and fingers pressing lightly into necks where you can feel pulses jump underneath skin. You breathe together, 4 in, hold, 4 out. Slowly, almost hesitantly you both pull your hands back.Â
Then you readjust, your legs uncross but fold under you and too the side as you lean an elbow into the back of the sofa and Michael leans back, shoulder just millimeters away from your elbow, and places a foot on his knee. Tension has leached from you both, thereâs softness there now instead.
The rain stops as you reach for your wine and take a drink and Michael reaches for his beer. More silence, soft. Sweet. A clear sky after the storm has passed. Then Michael looks at you, a question brewing on his tongue and you realise itâs the first time since the hospital where youâve been alone. Where youâve talked about something other than Isaac or without him around.
He reaches a hand out, picks an invisible bit of lint of the navy paint stain on your shirt and chuckles lightly. You raise an eyebrow at him and smile.
âYou know I hunted for this shirt for two weeks after you left the apartment.â
You huff out a small laugh, rolling your eyes playfully.
âYeah?â
He nods, slow almost melodramatically and something warms inside you.
âYeahâŠâ
He doesnât elaborate on why he was looking for it, doesnât have too. The words are there, dancing in the air. It was because he missed you. Neither of you comment on it. But it opens up the conversation, the first real adult one youâve had since your dramatic reunion and itâs nothing like you expected.
Itâs soft words and almost whispers, questions and answers, stories spilled like whiskey and honey. Youâre relearning each other, almost like itâs the first time again.Â
You talk about your favourite colours and books and movies, warmth bubbling inside of both of you as memories are swapped from a time before. No venom in the words, but joy and happiness of what was and what could be. You tell him you now strongly dislike, not hate (you were very specific about that) the colour purple because someone in Nevada had ruined it for you, he tells you how he had fallen out of love with one of his old comfort shows after a patient had told him an unsettling fact about the production.
Michael comments on the pristine special editions of Lord of the Rings and you tell him they're simply too precious to ever touch, but he could read them to Isaac if he wanted. He laughed at that and agreed. He comments on the decor, how your tastes have changed and you laugh saying itâs simply more child friendly but you want to get more art and pictures for the walls, especially of Michael and Isaac and even the three of you.
Then you talk about work. Michael telling stories of some wild cases heâs had in the ER, making sure to not mention names or identifying information, one he told was a man who had called his girlfriend after an accident but the nurse had also called his emergency contact who was his wife and the explosive fight that had happened in the trauma bay. How Ahmed and the security team had to force them out and threaten to call the cops, how the divorce papers arrived that same day as well as a break up text from the girlfriend. The girlfriend had come in five months later with the wife by her side and they were thick as thieves. Your eyes bulged at the story and the giggles were pouring out of you along with a âgood for themâ at the end.Â
You tell Michael stories of how you got to where you are now, how a crazy coworker got fired after stalking one of the young interns. The drama and gossip from inter-departmental arguments and affairs, stupid executive decisions and idiot clients. When you told him about how you, very politely, chewed out a client for sexist comments about you and your co-worker he laughed a full belly laugh, hand clutching his stomach as his whole body shook with the force.
âYou always were a little spitfire.â
A light shove to his shoulder and an affectionate eye roll from you and then you were both giggling. Then there was silence, the cicadas were brought back to life outside chirping a symphony that seemed almost recognisable. There was a moment, accented by the hoot of an owl, where you both realised you didnât want the night to end but then the washer played its soft song and you looked at the clock. It was just past midnight and you knew Isaac would be up in only a few hours.Â
A deep breath, then a whisper. A delicate thing, soft enough to be heard but not break the atmosphere that had settled.
âWe should head to bed.â
As Michael looked at the clock, you realised just how close you had gotten. Your knees now rested on top of Michaelâs thigh and you were tucked in close to his chest and his arm was thrown behind you. Lazy, unassuming, but you could still feel his fingers twitch against your shoulder.Â
âYeah, we should.â
But you both make no immediate move to stand up, instead linger together for a few more seconds. Your heart thumps, his breath rattles. You both look at each other's lips, then away again. You want to kiss him, he wants to kiss you but neither of you move.Â
A horn blares outside, someone chasing away an animal on the road before a collision you think, and the moment shatters. You clear your throat, standing quickly and moving away from the sofa. Thereâs another look, somewhere between longing and regret and dangerous emotions you arenât ready to face yet.
âGoodnight Mikey.â
Michael stands, makes his way to where you stand at the bottom of the stairs just before the alcove for the washer and dryer. His lips quirk and his heart quickens at the old nickname.
âGoodnight spitfireâ
You look down, away from him. The intensity of his gaze makes you shy. Then heâs up the stairs as you move his clothes to the dryer. Once theyâre in, you stand there for a moment, your mind no longer swirling with a thousand what ifs and questions and fears. Instead thereâs a lingering hope, and only one question, what if this works?
The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader
This is my Masterlist for my crossover series between the Pitt and the Batfamily (and by extension a few other DC superheroes and villains) - it's a little bit of a slow burn romance
The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is or who she was? How long will that last?
Chapter 1: Day In , Day Out
Chapter 2: Just One of Those Days
Chapter 3: The Day It All Started (for him)
Chapter 4: The Day It All Started (for her)
Chapter 5: Days of the Past
Chapter 6: The Day That Just Won't End
Chapter 7: Just A Few Days
Chapter 8: When the Days Just Feels that Bit Heavier
Mini Chapter 8.5: Shark Has A Heart
Chapter 9: Going to Remember This Day â„ïž
Chapter 10: Days of Newfound Bliss
Chapter 11: Crash My Day
Chapter 12: What A Day
Mini Chapter 12.5: The Daily Scoop from Supes
Chapter 13: A Day Without You Feels Like Forever
Chapter 14: Days Apart
Chapter 15: Take a Day Off, They Said, It'll Be Fun, They Said.
Chapter 40: Days Wrapped Up In Your Embrace... đ
Below are a few chapters following their lives after Chapter 40, exploring little snippets of their family life! đ (I just couldn't resist!)
Mini Chapter: Gentle Mornings
Mini Chapter: Bring Your Daughter(s) To Work Day
Baby Sitter Chronicles:
Mini Chapter: Cold Water Only ft. Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Some Mini Chapters Still Incoming.
But Overall the Story is Complete!! đ
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR ENJOYING MY STORY!
Find my Main Masterlist Here
*Iâve left the readerâs age as vague, but as she is Bruceâs younger sister Iâve sort of written it in mind of being about early to mid 40s around about. While it is an x reader, using the last name Austen as a cover. (I promise there is a good reason for this) You can imagine her appearance however you wish, as an adopted or blood sister of Bruce. Iâve tried to keep any description as open for interpretation.Â
*Iâm not basing the batfam off of one strict thing (but am using a fair few images from WFA just cause I like the consistency and their visual portrayal) đ€·ââïž
(I've also posted this onto my ao3 under RedSakura101)
Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated â„ïž and thank you to those enjoying my little fic! I am lowkey freaking out at how many people are reading and liking this đ„č
Feel free to let me know if youâd like to be tagged đ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Womp womp..imagineâthere is war just beyond the safety of your boarded bedroom door. You hear the sounds of soldiers storming the halls. Not even the refined, regal carpets of wool, with all their silly embroideries of the kingdom's crest that you used to trace with your finger, could smother the sound steel armor plates grating against each other as they rampaged throughout the halls.
The screams of the needlessly slaughtered will become the reoccurring foundation for your worst nightmares.
This is your only haven. And Even thenâit is fleeting.
You look to your knight, the tears stinging your eyes. "D-day..damian..dearest..y-you're bleeding.." you step forward, your hands shakily finding his face, fresh wounds oozing thick, hot blood down his cheeks.
He holds your trembling wrists, smaller compared to his own, and shakes his head. "I know, my liege." He heaves slowly.
His armor is painted crimson with fresh kill.
The palace that has protected you has become lopsided.
"Have you taken your essentials, my liege?" He asks you hastily, between shuddering breaths that make your heart scream. The tears now scorch with agonyâlava pouring down your cheeks.
Why is he saying that?
"Don't say that!!" Your fists beat against his armor in time with your wails. "Why are you saying that?!"
He says nothing. But in spite of your uncouth and unbecoming savagery, you cannot miss the way his cape wraps around you like a silent apology. When it clicks to you, the haze of madness that has entranced you wears offâyour hysteria cools into wracked sobs that he cannot stand to listen to.
If it weren't for his discipline, carefully molded and perfected by those around him, and the direness of the situation at handâhe would've started crying too.
"I'm sorry, my love." his lips find the top of your head, and he speaks softly against the crown of your skull. "I cannot afford to lose you, my prince. Please. Tell me you're prepared."
One arm snakes to find your waist and to pull you in. Partially, because he knows you'll want to hold him now. To seek the safety of his familiarity.
Selfishly, because he knows this might be the last time he'll see you.
You nod solemnly and slowly against his neck, which you have burrowed yourself into within a span of seconds.
He cannot help the tears of relief now.
He exhales, his body shuddering as he holds you, both arms wrapping around you now, crushing you against the steel of his armor. He doesn't care that he's splattered in the blood of a soldier dead a few feet away, just beside your bed. He doesn't care that hes going to cry, that he already feels his nose begin to wrinkle and his face contorting in agony.
Suddenly, all he can do is pray to whoever was willing to listen above, to make time stand still so he could indulge in your proximity for eternity.
But cruel, were the gods above.
He can hear the sounds of soldiers beginning to march to your door. They scream for the prince'sâyourâhead. They chant how they will break down the door. How they will tear your garments and violate you for the kingdom to look onto. They will tear you apart, piece by piece, then put parade your head on a pike throughout the war-torn arteries of the capital.
He clenches his jaw. He knows it's time to say his goodbyes.
He begins to guide you backwards, towards the open balcony. He keeps you attached to him as you sob. His own tears run jagged down his face. He kisses your head, again and again, hushing you softly.
His grip is shaky on the hilt of his sword, and he prays you do not snap to attention at the notice of his own terror.
He gently coaxes you away, his eyes meeting yours. The colors of deep emeralds, so similar to the necklace of your mother. "My prince.." he trails off.
You pull his lips into what you both fear would be the final kiss you'd ever exchange.
His eyes widenâhe wants to push you away, to tell you this isn't the time. But he can't.
He wants to know, that even in what he prays not be his final momentsâyou adored each other to the bitter end.
He closes his eyes, his right hand pushing the back of your head into his own lips. He prays the passion is fiery enough to scorn fate itself. He wants to devour you, to keep you somewhere safe. He wants to crawl inside of you and hide away forever. He cannot leave you.
Hes so scared to leave you.
You moan softly against his lips, and keep your arms wrapped around his neck. The kiss tastes revoltingly like copper, blood smearing your face and lips, as if you tucked away a metal coin beneath your tongue and right into your nostrils, but you can't pull away. You are terrifiedârightfully so.
THUM THUM!
He pulls away finally when he hears them begin to ram down the door.
He kisses your head again, and looks below. There, he sees them thereâTim and Alfred and Cass and Lucius and a few other knights who managed to escape. They await for youâthey must take you to safety, to regroup with the king and queen and your brothers.
His heart soothes, suddenly.
He knows you'll be in safe hands.
You shake your head profusely. "Come with me," you plead. "We'll go together, damian. We have to marry, damian. I want to be your husband. Mother and father will allow it, I know they willâ damian. Please. Stay. Dont leave me. You can't die. I command you as your princeâplease." you beg, you beg to him and it aches that you have to beg him in the first place.
"I'll survive, I promise. I'll see you, I swear to it. You have to go, my prince. You'll be safe there. I'll meet you there. Go now, my prince. We'll meet again, I promise it to you."
He must lie kindly to you for you to save yourself.
He guides you to the ladder, helping you gain your footing. He kisses the top of your head and tries to even his breathing. Lucius and alfred hold the ladder at the bottom. Cass is standing guard beside Tim who's ready to catch you, should you fall, at any moment.
It feels strange, knowing this might be the last moment he'll ever see them again.
But you dont climb downânot yet. "Damian," you cry weakly. You're covered in another's blood. "Please, please, my love,"
Alfred and lucius call you below, but you cannot listen to them.
"Please."
He wants to scream.
"Please, my prince."
he must beg you before his heart waversâhe must stall so you may escape safely.
"We'll marry under the blue moon tomorrow night. Now flee, my love. It is my duty and my honor to protect you."
He kisses you for the last time, fleeting. Gentle.
"Goodbye, my love."
He turns away, Cape flaring in the breeze as he stands at the ready, his stance as firm as he can muster it.
He hears your steps grow more distant as you climb to safety. He exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He thinks, in those moments, as the wood splinters and the door begins to collapse on itself. He thinks of all the times you ran away together during balls, he thinks of the day you confessed to each other, he thinks of every training session where you stood and watched with that dream-like smile. He thinks of every kiss late in the night.
He then thinks of the regrets. He regrets every stiff answer. He regrets every cold shoulder. Every bad mood swing where he hurt you. Every time hes been too focused on his training to pay attention to you. Every time he didn't kiss you when he should've. The chances to make love to you he never took.
He regrets the fact he never proposed to you sooner.
And as the door splinters finally, collapsing with a domineering thud, he has a single thought in his mind as he begins to swing, fighting like a caged and cornered animal as death stood, awaiting its call to the curtain.
Hes so glad he got to spend his final moments with his husband that never was.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
areudirty
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
kianamaiart
titsay
