Long Story Short, It Was A Bad Time

You don’t know how you can convince him that he’s it for you. That there’s no one else you’d rather be with because he’s always been your first option. You love him. And you think you have for a while but there just hasn’t been a good time to say it. There always seems to be something that interrupts you anytime that word ever bubbles up close to the surface— whether that be someone walking into the room or Gareth just cracking a joke— the moment always slips away before you can even begin to catch it. 

Right now, though? He looks about as far from worried as a person can get.

He’s stretched out across your blanket now, like a cat who’s decided that this was the best patch of sunlight to bask in for the day. One ankle is hooked loosely over the other as his head settles in more comfortably against your lap.

You’re leaning back against that old Oak tree that stands in the middle of the park, the trunk wide and sun warmed behind you. The bark even digs in at the fabric of your dress slightly. Your paperback is still opened wide in your hand, pages fluttering each time a gust of wind surrounds you and wanders through the branches overhead. Your fingers slide through his hair. It’s softer today than it has been in a while, freshly washed. It slips between your fingers when you rake your fingernails lightly across his scalp. Every now and again, you’ll let your fingers travel and scratch lightly as the base of his neck and each time you do, it feels like he sinks deeper and deeper into you. 

“— and the knight crossed the valley at dawn,” you continue reading quietly, your voice soft and even more even than he remembers it starting out as. “His armor catching in the first light of the sun—”

You pause just long enough to turn the page. 

Gareth doesn’t move, other than the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes beneath the faded Metallica t-shirt he’s wearing. The sunlight catches on the edge of his sunglasses and reflects off of them. There’s a little dusting of freckles settled across his nose and cheeks. You smile as you scratch your fingers along his scalp again and keep reading. 

“— though he knew the road was dangerous—”

A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh leaves his lips. You smile faintly. 

The truth is, Gareth hasn’t really been listening to a single word you’ve uttered in the last fifteen minutes. Not really, at least. He caught maybe the first few sentences as you began reading, before your voice started doing that thing. The thing where you must feel all soft and relaxed and safe. The thing you use with him. And then your fingers started to move in his hair again and he really was done for. 

So now he’s just… existing. 

His eyes are half-opened under those dark sunglasses, just watching you. You must not notice him. Hell, from your perspective he probably looks dead asleep, silent and unmoved. But, unbeknownst to you, he is very much awake. 

Your voice drifts down to him while he studies the shape of your face above him. The sunlight is filtering between the big Oak leaves, dappling your cheek and the pages of your book, illuminating you in a soft golden halo. Every time the wind moves the branches, the light shifts across your skin, dancing just for him. 

He watches the way your lips move while you read. He watches the way that little crease between your eyebrows becomes more prominent when you hit a sentence you don’t care for. He watches your eyes, never leaving the page, as your fingers drag gently through his hair again with your nails grazing his scalp. 

God, that feels good. 

Gareth lets his eyes flutter closed behind the sunglasses and almost groans at the feeling, but catches himself just in time. 

Don’t ruin it. 

If you think he’s asleep, you won’t stop. You’ll keep petting at him just like a sunbathing cat. So he stays still. 

Your thumb traces little absent circles near his temple while you read the next paragraph printed on the page. Gareth can feel something warm blooming even more and settling in his chest then. Love. That pesky little thing that keeps him so fearful of your intentions. 

Your voice keeps going, “— and though he was afraid—”

Gareth opens his eyes again and looks up at you through the dark plastic.

You’re still leaning back against the tree with one leg bent at the knee slightly under him. You’ve got the book resting on your thigh that wasn’t occupied by him. Your hair has fallen forward a little, catching in the sunlight. You keep lifting your hand away from his head to tuck the same strand back behind your ear before replacing it to his hair, every few minutes. 

You look beautiful and so peaceful. He’s pretty sure he could stay here in this moment for the rest of his life and die a happy man. 

Your fingers scratch lightly behind his ear again and his lips almost twitch up into a small smile. 

God. You’re going to kill him with that. 

You reach the end of the chapter and close the book, looking down at Gareth with an amused smile. He’s finally been caught and puts on a sheepish smile, leaning into your touch when you don’t pull away. 

“You’re staring.” His eyes widen and that pretty laugh falls from your lips as you scratch his head again. “You’re cute, Emerson.” 

“But-“

“Your sunglasses aren’t as tinted as you think.” He furrows his brows as he takes them off, staring at the lenses to see that they are in fact not nearly as tinted as he initially thought. 

He sits up next to you and you scoot closer, seeing the bright pink dusting his cheeks. You reach up and rest a hand on one of them, forcing him to look you in the eye. The sun is now shining on top of his head, making his hair look more golden. He looks so…pretty in this light. And it almost seems like the perfect time to-

“I love you.” The words are filled with so much adoration and Gareth can’t help but smile, grinning from ear to ear. He’s ecstatic hearing that, feeling all of the nervousness from before falling off of him. 

“I love you too,” he smiles back and you’re both leaning in for a kiss. It’s soft and sweet but so much different from the ones you’ve shared before. 

When you’ve pulled away, you pull the sunglasses from his face and put them on your own. You strike a pose, putting your hands on your hips as you tilt your face up towards the sun. 

“How do I look?” Much better than he did when he put them on in the mirror this morning. Those are his favorite-his lucky pair-but he might just let you have them. 

“Beautiful,” he replies, almost in awe. God, he must look pathetic, but he can’t help it. He’s so in love with you that it makes his heart ache. 

You reach out and tuck one of those unruly curls away from his face, although the breeze makes it impossible for it to stay there for more than a few seconds. “You’re blushing again.” You whisper to him. 

“I am not.”

“You are.” You grin, eyes flicking down from his to his cheeks and back up again. 

“That’s just… sunburn.” He insists, but he’s not putting up much of a fight about it. 

You laugh under your breath, bumping his shoulder with yours. Gareth hesitates for just a moment before he scoots just a bit closer to you, one arm sliding around your waist behind you to pull you closer to him and the other slides across the knit blanket until he can loop his fingers loosely around yours. 

The park around you is still bustling with families and couples. There’s even a man about Gareth’s age tossing a frisbee to his dog just a few yards away. The wind blows again, moving gust after gust through the trees. It feels like the leaves are whispering a song just for you two in the crowd. 

Gareth squeezes your hand once, then he glances over at you. You’re still wearing his sunglasses, your face still tipped upwards, but you aren’t posing any longer. You’re letting what little sunlight that filters through the tree leaves hit your face and warm your body from the outside. He thinks you belong right here in this moment. 

“Hey?” His voice sounds slightly quizzical. 

You turn your head towards him, smiling, “yeah?”

His smile softens, but he doesn’t meet your eyes, “say it again.” 

Your heart gives a little jump and then you roll your eyes. “You are such a dork.” You mumble, although there is no bite to it at all. 

“Yeah.” He smiles, thumb brushing across your knuckles on the hand he’s holding. “But I’m your dork.”

Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him for another kiss and he can’t help but smile into it. God, he really does love you. And now he can tell you any time he wants. 

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips and now he’s full-on grinning. 

“I love you too,” he responds, slotting his lips between yours as he pulls you into his lap. He reaches for the camera that you brought, snapping a photo before you pull away. It prints out from the top and Gareth sets it aside as you turn to face the camera and you both smile widely, the camera flashing again as you both stare into the lens. 

Gareth's hands never stilled.

Not when he was diligently keeping time for Corroded Coffin, moving between drums and cymbals in a carefully choreographed dance. Not when he was anxiously pacing the stage at the Hideout before a gig, rifling through his bag to check for his sticks and tracing the lines of the cables woven across the ground to confirm everything was plugged in right.

Not in class, pencil tapping persistently on the desk until his teacher asked him to stop. Not in the cafeteria, picking away at his food or scribbling on his character sheet ready for that week's Hellfire meeting.

Not when he met you, running through his hair in an attempt to calm his nerves and tame his unruly curls. Not when you spoke to him for the first time, gesturing wildly to try and mask how worried he was about whether you'd like him. Not when you told him with certainty that you'd see him again, giving as casual a wave as he could manage to your retreating figure.

Not the day he finally worked up the courage to ask you out, toying with the hem of his shirt until you said yes. Not the evening of your first date, tearing clothes off their hangers in an attempt to find something worthy of taking you for a night on the town. Not the night he got back, dragging down his face as his mind replayed the moment he fumbled his opportunity to kiss you.

Not the first time he did kiss you: roving up your arms, wrapping round your waist, tangling in your hair. Not the first time you stayed the night: hugging you to his chest, rubbing soothing circles into your thigh until you fell asleep, adjusting the sheets over you when they shifted in the night. Not the first time he said he loved you: playing with your fingers, brushing a loose strand of hair off your face, cupping your cheek.

Not meeting your parents, shaking your father's hand and clutching yours under the restaurant table. Not introducing you to his bandmates, drum sticks in one hand and your waist in the other. Not moving in together, spinning the keys round his finger as you approached your new front door.

Not until he got down on one knee, a small black velvet box in his hands. Not until he opened it to reveal a beautiful gemstone band. Not until he told you that he wanted his heart to keep beating in rhythm with yours every day for the rest of his life. Not until his breath seized in his throat, waiting for your answer. Not until he rose, capturing your lips in a kiss as he slipped the band onto your finger. Not until he was able to look down at the promise of his future with you glittering in the sunlight.

You sit up on one elbow, blinking. He’s already unfastening the velcro of the bag and lining up the kid stethoscope, yellow otoscope, and blood-pressure cuff in a perfect row, just like his Māmān does when she brings out this kit to play.

"Okay, okay," you yawn. "Why don't we play hospital? You could—"

"No." Kaveh doesn't even look up, laying the stethoscope and the little yellow otoscope and the blood pressure cuff out in a neat row. "That's not as cool, Mommy. I wanna play emergency room."

"I work in the same hospital as Māmān, Kav," you remind him, yawning again. You’re so outrageously tired.

Kaveh flops forward on his stomach. "But you only work with hearts Mommy, Māmān works in the emergency room."

"Yeah, khoshgelam," Baran sits up, hair tousled and cheeks warmed from a deep sleep. "When you're significantly cooler than your spouse this is just how it goes. Kav, what is your plan for this patient today?"

"Don't encourage the specialty bias," you grin. "He gets it from you."

"He just knows I’m awe-inspiring," Baran says, and swats your hand away when you reach over to pinch her.

"Māmān, you're helper doctor today," Kaveh pipes up. "I’m the big doctor. Mommy's the patient."

"Why do I have to be the patient?" you ask, allowing him to nudge you back onto the pillows. "I'm a doctor too!"

"’Cause you’re Doctor Heart Doctor, Mommy, and this is an Emergency Room."

"Totally agree," Baran nods, and doesn't dodge the pillow you chuck fast enough as it sails into her face, though she just picks the pillow up off her lap and wedges it behind her own back and gets comfortable as Kaveh immediately starts his eval.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Kaveh clears his throat, very seriously, and kneels beside you, stethoscope swinging. "Okay, Mommy. What's wrong?"

You press a hand to your forehead and moan for effect. "Ohhhh owww, I can’t see out of my left eye!"

He gasps, loud, grabs the stethoscope off his own neck and whacks the little red disc onto the crown of your head.

"Fu– ow!"

"Responsive to pain," Baran calls from the headboard, arms crossed. "Good catch, Kav."

Kaveh’s grin split his round face that he shoves to close to yours that your noses nearly brush, his warm breath fanning out. Two small, unsteady fingers inched toward your right eyelid, ruffling the lashes. "Let me see it, Mommy."

You squinted. "No, honey, it’s my left eye." Your eye twitches in primal fear of getting your eye gouged out by your clumsy child.

"No it’s this one," he insists, pointing, his finger getting increasingly closer to the pupil. "It's all gunky and gross, Mommy, I know it's this one."

"Okay so now I'm getting bodyshamed? Those are just crusty eyes because I was just torn from sleep," You whine, looking to Baran for backup, who just shrugs. "It’s Doctor Kaveh’s case, Ma'am. Chain of command. Let him do what he needs to do."

"Aren’t you the attending? You should be watching for medical malpractice."

"I'm off duty, in case you forgot?" Baran teases. "I'm helper doctor. This is his case." 

Kaveh plunges his small hand into a neon-green play kit, emerging with a teensy-tiny plastic syringe. He uncaps it with a dramatic pop and presses the blunt tip against the soft skin of your inner elbow.

“Woah woah woah,” you beam, watching him push the plunger. “What’s happening now? Is this medicine?”

"Nuh uh."

You lean forward, eyebrows raising in amusemnt. "What is it, then?"

Kaveh doesn't answer, tongue poked out the side of his mouth like his Māmān. You turn to your wife instead.

"What is he giving me, Doctor?" Baran ignores you, fighting a smile. "Hey. Doctor."

Baran leans toward your son, hand coming up to cover her mouth as she feigns a serious whisper. "Doctor Kaveh, is that lidocaine?"

"Um…. it’s three... four... five!"

Your eyes snap to Baran, gleeful. "Wait, hold on, what was that? Five of what?"

Baran picks up the little clipboard from the case and squints at it. "Doctor Heart Doctor, please calm down. Doctor Kaveh made an excellent call and gave you five."

“Five Milliliters? Liters? What is happening here?”

Baran taps Kaveh, whose little head pops up from where he’s rummaging for new tools in his play kit. “Um. Five.... kinds, Mommy.”

You laugh so hard the bed shakes enough that Kaveh has to brace a hand on your shoulder to keep his balance. 

"It's not funny," he says, syringe still aloft, and his lip trembles in embarassment. "Māmān tell Mommy to stoppit. It's not funny!"

"Ma'am," Baran lifts a brow, "No harassing the medical staff."

"Harassing? I'm being harassed!! I’ve been given ‘five’ of multiple unknown substances!" you exclaim, still giggling despite yourself.

"Five is the standard dose."

"This hospital royally sucks, why can’t you tell me what you've injected into my bloodstream?"

"Our hands are tied. We have HIPAA."

"But I'm the patient in concern here–"

"Doctor Kaveh,” Baran says warmly, swiveling back to your son, "Walk us through your clinical reasoning."

Kaveh perks up once more at being taken seriously again, he's so cute you could gobble him up in two bites, and he holds up the empty syringe. "She's gonna feel a lot better."

“Outstanding differential,” Baran praises, leaning over to plant a loud kiss on his forehead.

"I’m gonna sue this hospital," you giggle, settling back down against the pillow. "This is so ridiculous. One of the doctors just kissed the other. You don’t even know my name. I can already feel the adverse effects from the ‘five.’"

"Mommy," Kaveh admonishes, "No more talking, we’re working."

"Yeah, Mommy," Baran echoes, reaching over without looking to find your knee under the blanket, subtly squeezing it lovingly. "Head down."

⊹ ࣪ ˖

Kaveh reaches for the blood-pressure cuff next, dragging it out from under the stethoscope and knocking the little pack of bandaids of the bed. He gets the velcro around your arm on the third try and pumps the little bulb with both fists, watching the gauge with enormous eyes. "Almost done, Mommy, almost done."

"Thank goodness, I think I'm starting to see the light."

The cuff deflates with a soft hiss and you really put on a show, pretending to minorly hyperventilate and fidget nervously. "Alright, Give it to me straight, Doc."

He taps his chin with a finger and looks from you to Baran for approval, who nods in encouragement. "You’re going to live!"

"Oh, what a relief." You exhale, collapsing back against the pillow. " Any idea what happened to me?"

Kaveh's face goes adorably and entirely blank. "Um… no."

"Fantastic."

"It's definietly idiopathic," Baran in smirking, "You should be thanking him, Doctor Heart Doctor, he probably just saved your life by catching this."

"I'm so grateful. What an amazing team I have. Oh, wait, no, I almost lost an eye, witnessed some sort of workplace indecency ,got injected with some mysterious liquid, got told I'm not allowed to sue—"

Baran ignores you cheerfully. "Kaveh, what's Mommy's prognosis? What should she do to feel better?"

"You have to stay in bed. For, uh, five minutes, then you have to eat breakfast."

Baran grins, "Five minutes, Doctor's orders," laughing as she reels him in under one arm, and he lets himself be reeled, still holding the deflated cuff. She looks at you over the floral-scented mess of his hair with a smile solely for her wife.

You smile at the sight of your little family, safe and happy and cuddly in your soft bed on a Sunday. "I want a second opinion."

"Nope."

“thanks again for paying for dinner,” you tell trinity, walking side by side as you exit the restaurant.

“i mean, you paid last time. it’s only fair,” trinity replies, smirking.

“and you have that doctor money,” you joke.

“hey, i’m barely a r1, i’m not making the big bucks yet.”

“but you will,” you say with a teasing smile. then there’s a pause, silence stretching between you two as you mull over what you’re going to say next. you sigh shakily, then, “i wanted to go to med school, you know,” you admit to trinity.

“what, really?! i had no idea. why didn’t you?”

you let out a dry, humorless laugh, mentally cursing yourself for not telling trinity this over dinner instead of as you walk to your cars. you told yourself that after date number three, you have to bring up the fact that you’re a mom. in the past people have been scared off after finding out you have a kid. it should be something that’s shared from the get-go, but it fills you with dread and anxiety, fearful of being rejected. while it’s only your second date with trinity, it’s probably better to tell her sooner rather than later, before your feelings for each other deepen.

“i, um… i got pregnant my first semester.”

“what?! you did?” trinity asks, whipping her head to look at you.

“yes,” you confirm, keeping your eyes on the dark parking lot in front of you. “and nine months later i had a baby.”

“wait,” trinity says, stopping in her tracks. she closes her eyes and pinches her brows together, processing this. “so you’re a mom? why didn’t you tell me sooner?” trinity brings two hands up to the side of her head in the way that she does when she’s stressed, and mutters under her breath, “fucking fuck.”

“i’m sorry,” you reply, trying your best to fight back tears. you can see the disappointment and fear etched onto trinity’s face, and it makes your heart ache. you sigh, and then say, “i have a kid, and i know i should’ve told you by now. it’s not fair to you, and i’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“woah, wasting my time?” trinity exclaims, taking a step closer to you. “why would you be wasting my time?”

“because i have a kid. you don’t want to be tied down by us. i get it. no hard feelings, okay?” you tell trinity, giving her a sad smile.

“fuck that,” trinity replies, grabbing your upper arms and looking into your eyes so you really hear her. “i still like you, that hasn’t changed. yeah, i’m surprised, and this gives me things to think about, but i still want to see you.”

“really?” you whisper, light returning to your eyes.

“fuck yes… i don’t think i should meet them though. at least not yet. i wouldn’t want to disrupt your life, and be someone who just pops in and out. besides, i am not good with kids. seriously, i would suck balls as a mom.”

you chuckle and reach for trinity’s hands, your fingers lacing. “trin, i don’t think that’s true. even though you won’t admit it, you’re really sweet and i can tell you care. you have a big heart, and i know you would be a good mom if you wanted to.”

trinity, keeping certain emotions locked up in a box and maintaining an icy exterior, can’t bring herself to answer verbally. it’s too hard, too vulnerable. your words hit her in a place that’s been abandoned for so long, cobwebs and dust collecting in that part of her heart. instead, trinity leans forward, kissing you. her hands travel to your waist, settling on your hips.

after ten seconds or so, trinity pulls back, her face inches from yours. you play with the hair on the nape of her neck, your fingertips lightly tracing over the skin there. as trinity looks at you, she smiles softly, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.

“are you free next saturday?” trinity asks.

“yes.”

“good. it’s a date.”

“our third date,” you say with a giddy grin.

“our third date,” trinity repeats, holding you closer.

As a social worker at the pitt, you were desperately in demand and chronically underpaid and undersupported. Even with all the years of experience now under your belt, the praise from your coworkers and hospital administration alike, and your hard won comfort in your position, you still had lingering school debt. You still lived in a crappy small apartment. Still found yourself the only social worker on shift more often than not, being stretched thin fit to snap, constantly being pulled in a million different directions.

But you loved what you did. You loved working with people, and problem solving. Looking at the system, acknowledging its overwhelming faults, but not succumbing to the weight. You were good at finding loopholes and work-arounds to get your patients out of tight spots. Every time you succeeded in getting a child out of a bad home, a woman out of trafficking, or a family’s hospital bill covered, all your problems seemed so insignificant, worth it.

Your friends and coworkers made it more bearable, too. Kiara was your rock, Lupe was always a kind, understanding presence. It was easier to connect with your fellow non-medical workers, because they too felt the pressure of the job without adequate compensation. The nurses, too. You could bond together in the face of day to day mistreatment. You were sneered at, looked down upon, underestimated, all while keeping the whole system running and getting paid jack.

You weren’t there so you could have your names published or buy a boat, or a vacation home, or be publicly praised. You put up with being ignored and shoved aside and overworked because you were dedicated to your jobs.

Doctors were another story. And surgeons? They were the worst.

It took you a bit longer to accept the doctors into your good graces, but you learned how to weed out the respectful ones as opposed to the ones who would look down their noses at you.

Dr. Robby, however snappy and short-tempered, always made sure to thank you for your work, and treat you the same as his fellows. Sometimes that meant yelling, but hey, at least it was equal treatment across the board.

Dr. Abbot, of course, one of your favorites. He won your trust right off the bat with his slow smiles and ability to stay calm in tense situations. He praised the social workers beyond a doubt, and you could always count on him for a ride home, or a shoulder to cry on, even.

Samira? No competition. You often told her she’d have excelled as a social worker, with her once in a lifetime empathy, her heightened sense for the socioemotional aspects of her job. You’d reprimanded Robby more than once for being harsh with her.

So, you weren’t too picky. After all, you were a people person. If you were to be seeing the same people almost every day, you’d make an effort to try and get on with them. That, and, despite all the ugliness you had seen in your job and out of it, you were still a firm believer that everyone has good qualities, even if it takes a little longer to see them in some than in others.

It took you quite awhile to see the good in Emery Walsh.

You had been working on the day shift almost exclusively for your entire multi year long career at PTMC, maybe picking up someone’s shift here and there, when you got the news that one of your coworkers was leaving and needed a replacement. It was only for a few months, you were assured, but still relatively long term. Social workers, to no one’s surprise, were in short supply, and Trish had had a family emergency and an abrupt departure.

You weren’t thrilled to be leaving your usual team, who at that point viewed you like family, and you right back, but you liked Jack, and you liked Lena, and you were nothing if not open to new experiences. So, you said your goodbyes, purchased some blackout blinds, and started the aggravating process of shifting your circadian rhythm.

It wasn’t easy, and you spent the first several weeks pounding espresso and running on thin patience. So it was no mystery why the generally sharp, sassy surgeon did not make a great first impression on you.

You found her acerbic, and cocky, much too sure of herself. This assessment was of course not helped by your sleep deprivation, nor her stubborn nature. Upon walking into the room, she didn’t even glance in your direction, speaking only to Dr. Abbot. You bristled, and pushed, and she pushed back. It was the beginning of a turbulent relationship.

You’d snipe at each other like school children whenever in contact. You’d go out of your way to request any surgery consultant but her, and she’d act awful lofty when you were around, using advanced language she knew you wouldn’t understand.

But as time went on, tensions were heightened by one inescapable fact; she was one of the hottest people you’d ever laid eyes on.

It took months, and several strong drinks, for you to admit that. Turned out, she felt quite the same. And so began a secret love affair.

By the time you were meant to return to the day shift, one of your biggest annoyances had become one of your greatest sources of joy.

You were proven right in your convictions that everybody had good. It was a long and slow process to break down those walls, to reach the person behind them.

Some days, you would cry and fight, and your mission to reach her felt less steady, and more like trying to find the end of a rainbow. Was it there? Were you wasting your time?

No, decidedly, you weren’t. You came to know Emery Walsh like no one had before, in the sheets, at home, even at work. You could look at her, and where before you only saw an arrogant surgeon, annoying but typical, now you could see the dedication, and curiosity, the desire to learn, and the desire to help.

It was beautiful to see in action, and you were reluctant to leave. You remembered confessing your hesitation to Emery, a week before the new hire started. You sat on her counter in your underwear, sipping the tea she had made you.

“The night shift is horrible,” Emery insisted. “We get all the weirdos. Our sleep’s fucked up. It has no sunlight, no steadiness, no anything. It has sleep deprivation and bad coffee.”

You set down your mug and grabbed her face, pulling her in between your dangling legs.

“Yeah, it does,” you said, twirling the baby hairs at the base of her neck. “But it also has you. When am I supposed to see you if I go back to the day shift?”

She looked at you then, really looked at you, deep into your eyes, and smiled. She placed her skilled hands against your waist.

“Well, if you moved in with me,” she said, “we can see a whole lot of each other.”

It took three iterations of the same proposal for you to believe she wasn’t joking. Once you did, you jumped off the counter, clinging to her like a koala as you squealed. After six long months together, a blip, really, but a lifetime to you, you moved in together.

It was no question whose apartment it would be. Emery was a surgeon, with a surgeon’s salary, and she lived like one. Her apartment had huge windows, good plumbing, and no mold. It had plenty of space for your things. You didn’t have too many, a fact Emery was only too quick to fix.

By the time you celebrated your first anniversary, you had a small collection of designer bags in your closet, fresh nails every fortnight, and luxury perfumes lining your vanity. Your student debt dried up, your car stopped making that noise, and your fridge was stocked with the bougie yogurt you never allowed yourself.

All those years you spent worrying about money, and it turned out all you needed to do was fall in love with a surgeon.

You loved your girl, and she loved you, and you weren’t ashamed. When you first got together, it was too new to tell anyone. Then, it was fun keeping it a secret. Then you went back on opposite shifts, and there were hardly any clues to pick up on. Hardly anyone knew that you went home after a long day to a cushy apartment shared with an attending at their very hospital, played with a cat she got you, and slept in a bed that smelled like her. They never asked, and you never told.

Emery liked staying private, and you didn’t mind. With as little contact as the two of you had, during the day, it was easy.

You had to tell Kiara, of course, and Dana would have figured it out anyways. Abbot and Robby knew because they were higher ups, and it was hard to file with HR without them knowing. You went to work, you went home. Emery did the same. You didn’t talk about your out of work ventures, referred in passing to “my partner” but gave no further details. Your phone background was of Mitzy, your cat, innocuous enough. Nothing, at first glance, really tied you and Emery to each other.

At least, not for years. But now, you were looking down at your gorgeous, very large, very noticeable stone resting in place on the fourth finger of your left hand, and you realized the jig was up.

It was a pretty impulsive idea. You woke up the morning before, after a wonderful night spent celebrating your third anniversary, and the question just slipped out of your girlfriend’s mouth.

“Will you marry me?”

This time she proposed something hasty and wild, you didn’t hesitate, didn’t backtrack and take convincing. You smiled wide, and said, “yes.”

You’d never wanted a big wedding and neither did she. So, you went to the thrift store for a nice white gown with your mother that very afternoon, bought a grocery store cake with a congrats piped across the top that was surely meant for a graduate, and went to the courthouse. Your flowers came from the few vases you kept around the house. The photographer was Emery’s sister. It was chaotic, and sudden, and a little panicked, but it was perfect.

You’d said your I Dos in front of your parents, siblings, Dana, and Kiara, and had cheap cake out on the cement steps. You went to the bar you had your first date at, danced, drank, and celebrated. You couldn’t have asked for a better day.

A few days later, you took a trip to a jeweller. You picked out her ring, and she picked out yours. You’d laughed and cried, felt all the emotions, dreamed of what the future looked like for the two of you. Then reality hit.

“I don’t want to hide this,” you said, tangled up with Emery in bed, turning your hand from side to side. 

“Me neither,” she said.

“So… what’s our gameplan?” you asked. “I mean, they’re gonna freak out. They don’t even know we’re dating.”

She fingered her own band, thinking. Then she grinned.

“Let them freak out,” she said. “Mine’ll be hidden, I can’t exactly have it on when I’m sticking my hands into people’s body cavities.”

“Right,” you said grumpily. “So I’m gonna get all the questions, and the badgering, and the attention, and no one’s gonna bug you at all. I have to take all of the heat?”

“I’m pretty sure it was in our vows,” she chuckled.

“Our vows said in sickness and in health,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’re not sick. Unless you’ve been diagnosed with chicken-itis.”

“Ha, ha,” she drawled as you started making chicken noises in her face.

Really, it wasn’t a big deal, you tried to tell yourself as you got ready the next morning. They’d find out, they’d freak, and then they’d get over it. The question was whether or not to tell your friends exactly who your counterpart was in all this mess.

You’d only made the mistake of introducing a partner to them once. It wasn’t even serious, just a guy you’d met at the gym and brought along to drinks. After that night, they’d been insufferable. They made up nicknames, teased you about his clothes, his hair, his job. Even now, eons after your breakup, you’d still hear a jab about “how’s Walmart Bieber?" or “Is he still living with his mommy?”

So okay, yeah, he wasn’t the best choice of boyfriend, but he had helped you learn a very valuable lesson. Never introduce anyone you care about to the Pitt crew. They’d be able to drive off anyone. And sure, Emery wasn’t exactly a stranger to them, but that wouldn’t excuse her from receiving a barrage of insulting monikers and teasing about your relationship.

It wasn’t an experience you were eager to relieve.

As you walked into the ED, you got all your usual greetings. Lupe buzzed you in with a smile, Dana nodded. The only slightly unusual thing was the wink Kiara sent you as you set up in your office.

It wasn’t until you were filling out some paperwork for your first patient of the day, a single mother whose insurance wouldn’t cover a procedure for her son, that someone said something.

“I like your ring,” said Samira, handing you the pen you’d asked for. “Is it new, or…”

You saw the gears turning in her brain, trying to pull itself from work mode to friend mode. Then she gasped loudly and pointed, drawing several people’s attention. You grimaced.

“Is that an engagement ring?”

“Um…” was all you could force out. Your mind was suddenly blank.

“It is!” said Javadi, eyes wide as usual. “You’re engaged? I didn’t even know you were dating anyone!”

“Engaged?” said Whitaker, pulling up to the hub with Mel in tow. “Who’s engaged?”

Samira pointed to your ring again, and both dark blondes lit up.

“Congratulations!” said Mel, hurriedly freeing herself from her gown and gloves, and giving you a friendly hug.

“Damn, that’s a rock,” said Perlah, coming over and grabbing your hand.

“A rock?” snorted Princess. “That’s a fucking glacier.”

The two played tug of war with your hand, each trying to pull it closer for inspection, while Javadi was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Do you know when you’re gonna have the ceremony?” she asked. “I’ve always thought I’d like a spring wedding, but the rain is temperamental. I think you’d look amazing in fall colors, though, surrounded by the leaves, and everything! Of course, the color scheme has to be well thought out, too —”

“You know what you should do?” said Samira, snapping her fingers. “Get married in a library! Ugh, that’s my dream!”

“Yes, yes, the Boston Public Library is gorgeous!” piped in the new nurse, Emma. “Not insanely expensive if you keep it small, and not too far away from Pittsburgh, so like destination, but not inaccessible, you know?”

“Yeah, but why keep it small?” said Javadi. “Miss Popular over here, she’s gonna want to invite everyone and their neighbor.”

“Um —” you said again.

“Well you could still get married at the library then,” said Emma. “If you save. Or if your fiance is rich.”

“Yeah, is he?” said Princess. “What does he do?”

Quiet suddenly fell as the jabbering ceased and all eyes fell on you. You stammered a bit.

“My fiance?” you said. “My fiance… is a doctor.”

Why, why did you say that? Of all moments to tell the truth! If you thought they were all over you like before, it was nothing compared to now. Now that they knew there was a possibility they knew the person, seen them, even worked with them. It was like bees on honey, buzzing nonstop.

“Oh my god!”

“Does he work here?”

“Is it Park?”

“Ew, don’t say that!”

“What, he’s jacked!”

“It is not Park the shark!” you said, yanking your hand back.

“But it is someone at PTMC?” said Perlah.

You hesitated, just for a second, but it was a second too long. 

“It is!” said Javadi with a gasp.

“This changes everything,” said Perlah, looking devilish.

Luckily, you were saved from another wave of questions by Robby.

“What the hell is going on here?” he said sharply. “I have a feeling it’s not related to your work. And unless it’s about labs, or x-rays, or differential diagnoses, gossip doesn’t save anyone’s life!”

“Fascist,” Princess muttered under her breath as she turned back to her tablet.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, chief!” she said, overly cheery, before turning and whispering something else to Perlah in Tagalog.

“This isn’t over!” said Javadi, as she skittered away.

As they all cleared out, Robby stepped up to you, a knowing glint in his eye.

“Thank you,” you said, picking up your pen and getting back to work.

“Sure,” he said. “And by the way, congratulations.”

You smiled back at him. He knew, of course, had been invited to the wedding, both he and Jack. When you called their apartment, however, it was to learn that Robby was working and Jack was attempting to sleep off a nasty cold.

“Thanks,” you said. “Sorry you couldn’t be there. But, you know, it took less than a day to put together. It was cheap, simple, easy, memorable.” You smirked at him. “Maybe one of these days you take that silver fox of yours and make it official, huh?”

He immediately turned tomato red, as he always did at any mention of feelings. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, it’s really not appropriate to discuss these things at work,” he said, skirting away from your knowing eyes. “Don’t make me call HR!”

You just chuckled.

Later that night, you came home to a delicious smell and an open bottle of wine. Emery was swaying in the kitchen, humming along to your cooking playlist and stirring pasta on the stove. You dropped your things, kicked off your shoes, and joined her.

“How was work?” she asked as you wrapped your arms around her middle.

“Fine,” you said. “Vodka sauce?”

“The best in Pittsburgh,” she said, lifting the spoon and blowing on it. “Taste.”

You carefully grabbed the hot pasta with your teeth and hummed.

“Good.”

You wandered over to the wine. There were two glasses out but empty. You took the liberty of filling both and handing one to your wife. Your wife.

“Thanks, baby,” she said, taking a sip.

“Isn’t this kind of the equivalent of drinking at eight AM for you?” you said, nodding to the clock. “I mean, you just woke up.”

“Maybe, but I’m off today,” she said, grabbing bowls. “And I figured you could use it.”

“You would be right,” you sighed, bringing your legs up to your chest.

“They were bad, huh?”

“They were as you’d expect,” you waved away. “Actually, it made me kind of sad, more than anything.”

“How’s that?” said Emery, spooning pasta into the dishes and finishing with some basil leaves.

“Well, you should have seen how excited they got when they thought I was engaged,” you said. “They started picking out venues, and color schemes, and stuff. They really wanted to be involved.”

“What did they say when you told them you were already married?” she said, placing the hot plate in front of you.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell them,” you said. “I was thinking that maybe we could have a party? Like a big one, with outfits and dinner and a big cake, and everything.”

“Isn’t that the whole reason we got married at the court house?” said Emery. “Not dealing with all that?”

“Yeah, I guess,” you said, stabbing some rigatoni onto your fork. “It’s just — I really care about those people, you know? And I know they care about me, and I think they deserve the chance to celebrate with us. I know I’d want one if one of my friends had a secret wedding.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, rubbing your arm with her free hand. “Really. And it’s also sweet that this has nothing to do with the idea of a registry. Really selfless, babe.”

You shot her a look while she laughed.

“Why pass up the opportunity?”

It seemed your mom had been holding back her disappointment at your small, makeshift wedding to spare your feelings, because the second you mentioned the party idea to her, she was over the moon. You had to convince her not to go ahead and start booking without you and Emery.

It was certainly a lot. Even keeping it simple, in your brother’s backyard, with homemade decorations, it was complicated. You needed to decide on music, live or DJ? Food, catered or homemade? Cake flavors, dresses, itineraries, everything. 

Finally, you had to put your foot down with your parents and inlaws. No caterers, no ceremony, no live band. A simple night with drinks and food, and maybe you’d allow some slideshows of embarrassing childhood photos. 

You were more comfortable sharing the blow then, with a plan, the next time you walked into work. Immediately, though, you knew the news of your “engagement” had spread like wildfire. Most obviously by the hubbub around the betting board in the security office.

Spotting Robby in the mix with his wallet out, you made for him, less than thrilled. He tried to hide his cash behind his back when he saw you coming.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said sternly. “I hope it’s not cheating.”

He glanced from the board, to Ahmad, to you. You turned to Ahmad.

“Don’t take any money from him, he already knows the answer,” you said, and Robby groaned. “Actually, don’t go anywhere near Abbot, Dana, or Kiara, either. They all know.”

While the other betters reprimanded Robby as though they wouldn’t have done the same thing, you examined the board.

There were a good few names up there, some eyebrow raisers. Devin from radiology, as if. Dr. Cruz from the nightshift; he was nice, but you thought his girlfriend might have a thing or two to say about it. Matteo, who was practically a child to you, in his early twenties. Ellis, the only woman, with just one vote from Santos. Then there was Abbot, which as you watched, gained five more bets from Ahmad’s hand.

Shocked though you were, you supposed his and Robby’s relationship wasn’t completely common knowledge.

“You said he knows,” said Princess. “Obviously he would know if he was the fiance.”

You shook your head with a smile, turning back to work.

“You people are incorrigible.”

Okay, maybe you’d wait a little longer, let them sit in it before you spread the word. Emery’s name wasn’t even mentioned. If you played your cards right, maybe you could convince Mel to cheat with you, and get a cut of the winnings. Your phone buzzed.

Tell them yet?

You smirked.

No. Let’s let them tear each other apart for a while first. We can laugh about it at the party.

---

requests open!

“What are you still doing here?” Abbot frowned when he saw Dana still sitting at the nurses’ station, typing away on the computer and looking nowhere close to clocking out.

“I told Lena to take the night off after Roxie died. I’m waiting to see if someone can cover,” Dana explained without looking up. She typed a few more words and clicked her mouse a couple times before finally tearing her eyes away from the screen.

“You know anyone who can take Baby Jane Doe for the night?” Dana asked with a sigh.

Jack opened his mouth to refuse before he remembered a conversation he’d had with you just a couple weeks ago. “Actually—” he shrugged, crossing his arms— “I might.”

Dana raised her brows, clearly not expecting that answer, but before she could question who he knew, the phone rang.

“Tell them to call the main desk,” she said as she stood up and answered the incoming call.

Abbot nodded, entering one of the unoccupied trauma rooms to pick up the wall phone. Dialing upstairs, he asked for you, only to find out you were currently in surgery.

“Tell her to come down when she’s done? Thanks.”

Jack hung up and quickly made his way over to the locker room. Pulling out his cellphone, he clicked on your wife’s contact.

“Hey,” he greeted when the call finally picked up. “You want a baby test-run?”

Fifteen minutes later, Emery Walsh walked through the sliding doors of the emergency department, half her curls clipped back out of her face. Dana almost didn’t recognize the surgeon, whose dark blue scrubs had been traded in for a loose pair of jean shorts and a worn UPenn t-shirt.

“Dr. Walsh?” Dana narrowed her brows at the other woman, who was now leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station. “What are you doing here on your day off?”

“Jack called me about an abandoned baby.”

Dana’s frowned deepened. She may not have been on the night shift, but she’d been at this hospital long enough to know about—and have overheard—the spats between the trauma surgeon and ED attending.

“I don’t think Baby Jane Doe needs surgery,” Dana snorted, trying to mask her confusion, and Emery had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

“I heard she’s looking for a place to stay tonight.”

The charge nurse’s expression morphed from confusion and into surprise. She didn’t take Walsh to be the maternal type, but Dana was desperate for someone to take the abandoned baby home, even just for the night.

“Great. You’re doing us a huge favor.” Dana rounded the station and started walking towards the baby’s room, wordlessly motioning Emery to follow.

Upon entering, both women sanitized their hands, and Emery dropped her bag by the door before approaching the crib.

“She’s around six weeks old, abandoned in the women’s restroom with a cold. Other than that, girl’s as healthy as a peach,” Dana explained as Emery picked up the baby, who started to cry upon being disturbed. “We’re still waiting to hear from CYF about a foster placement.”

The surgeon nodded along, carefully cradling the infant in her arms. “Why are you crying, little one, hm?”

Her voice softened just slightly, talking as if the six-week old could understand her. Emery bounced her knees in a successful attempt to soothe the cries, and Dana caught herself smiling at the sight.

“It’s gonna be OK,” Emery hushed, gently brushing the baby’s cheek with the knuckle of her pointer finger. As the cries quieted into coos, the corners of Emery’s mouth twitched up. “My wife is absolutely going to adore you.”

This caught Dana’s attention, as she finally noticed the simple gold band adorning the surgeon’s ring finger. But before she could ask, the sound of the bay door opening caught their attention.

When you’d heard your brother had paged you during surgery and then again when you were done, saying you were needed downstairs, your mind couldn’t help but think of the worst. The last time you’d been called to the pitt, there had been a mass shooting. Your qualms were eased, however, when you saw it was a non-emergency. Jack probably wanted to catch you before your shift was done.

Stepping out of the elevator, you were on your way to the central station, where you assumed your brother would be, when you caught a glimpse of familiar curls. As the woman turned slightly, and you saw the old UPenn t-shirt that you’ve stolen a hundred time, you knew it was your wife.

Before your brain could even think to question why she was here on her day off, your heart burst at the sight of what she was holding.

You and Emery had been married for nearly three years now, and the conversation of starting a family was starting to come up. Both of you were open to having a child—you, a little more eager than her—but neither of you knew where to start. IVF, adoption, surrogacy – there were so many options. Plus, with both of you working at a hospital, your schedules weren’t exactly the most parent-friendly. And yet, you couldn’t shake the seed that had been planted in your mind.

Now, seeing your wife with a baby in her arms, wearing the tender look that she usually reserved only for you, you had no doubt in your mind that this was what you wanted.

You realized this must have been what your brother paged you about, remembering you had mentioned to him that you and Emery had been discussing starting a family.

Quietly pushing the door open, you did your best not to interrupt the moment.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Dana saw you first and flashed you a small smile, but you could see the glint of worry in her eye, one that never really went away after years of nursing and motherhood. “What are you doing down here?”

“Jack paged me,” you answered before turning to your wife with a raised brow, “and I’m guessing we’re taking this little one home tonight?”

Emery opened her mouth to explain, but an offended sound escaped from Dana’s lips and interrupted her.

“Hold on.” The charge nurse put up her hands as if to physically pause this moment. “You two–” she motioned between you and your wife– “are married?”

You winced, now realizing how offended the older woman would be. “Sorry, D,” you said, the guilt in your voice giving her all the answers she needed.

“You and Abbot are in-laws?” Dana looked at your wife with an incredulous expression, and Emery simply nodded.

“Oh, honey.” Dana turned back to you with playful, sympathetic frown. “I pray for you.”

“A lifetime of their bickering,” you chuckled, “I’m going to need it.”

“If I knew he was your brother, I wouldn’t have asked you out,” Emery snarked, causing you to scoff.

“You did know, and I asked you out,” you corrected, and your wife just rolled your eyes.

“You’re a saint,” Dana laughed, squeezing your shoulder as she moved past you. “I’ll give you guys a sec, but stop by the main desk on your way out to fill out the kinship foster forms, yeah?”

“Thanks, Dana.” “Will do.” You and Emery answered at the same time as the older woman exited the trauma room, the door hissing closed behind her.

You took a couple steps closer to your wife, your shoulder barely brushing hers, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. As you observed the baby’s face, her wide eyes curiously staring up at you, you grinned.

“Hi, baby,” you cooed.

“Hi,” Emery replied, her tender gaze softening even more as she watched you interact with the child.

Rolling your eyes fondly, you turned your head so your face was just inches from your wife’s.

“Hi, baby,” you repeated before pecking her lips.

Emery hummed, kissing you again when you tried to pull away. “I missed you,” she murmured against your lips.

“I missed you too.” You kissed the corner of her mouth once more before leaning your head against her shoulder, returning your attention to the baby in her arms.

“She’s absolutely precious,” you sighed, and you felt your chest tighten. “How could somebody abandon her?”

Knowing you like she did, Emery could hear the twinge of anger and hint of yearning in your words. She titled her head to the side so it was resting against yours and adjusted Baby Jane Doe in her arms.

“Do you wanna hold her?”

You lifted your head to look up at your wife and nodded. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Can I?”

“Of course, baby.” Emery gently transferred the now sleeping baby into your arms.

As you rocked her back and forth, careful not to wake her, you felt your eyes start to sting. It was overwhelming holding a child so young, so impressionable, who had her whole life ahead of her.

“CYF is still looking for a more permanent foster home, but for now, she has no place to go,” Emery explained softly, her hand finding your waist.

“Except with us.”

You knew doctors and nurses qualified for kinship fostering, but it had never even crossed your mind until recently, until now.

“Except with us,” Emery echoed, pausing for a moment to really look at you. “Are you sure you want to take her tonight? It could be just for the night.”

She added the last part cautiously. Emery knew how you’d been wanting to start a family, and she wanted it too, but she didn’t want you to get your hopes up or get too attached.

You could hear the protectiveness in your wife’s voice, and you smiled softly. That was one of the things you loved most about Emery, how she was always looking out for you, protecting you from getting hurt, even from yourself.

“She has nowhere else to go, and I mean—” you inhaled sharply, trying not to choke on your own breath— “I want to.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You turned to your wife with a crease between your brows. “Is this something you want?”

Though, you knew you were asking unnecessarily because Emery wouldn’t have answered Jack’s called, showed up here on her day off, and soothed this baby’s crying if this isn’t something she wanted. And Emery knew you knew this, but she answered nonetheless.

“Yes,” she said sincerely. A smirk grew on her face, and she added, “Besides, how hard can a baby be?”

You chuckled and shook your head.

“Come on, baby.” Emery pulled you by the waist closer to her side, guiding you towards the door. “Let’s fill out those forms and get this little one home.”

You were very well of the reality of the situation and knew that this could possibly be only a one night situation, that a more long-term foster situation could be found in the morning. But as you and your wife signed the kinship forms and carried Baby Jane Doe out to your car, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into a new chapter, like this was just the beginning.

“Ready?” Emery looked at you from the driver’s seat.

Smiling at her, you quickly glanced in the rearview mirror, which reflected Baby Jane Doe strapped into a car seat Peds had let you borrow.

As you locked eyes with your wife again, you placed your hand on hers, which sat on the gear shift, and gave it a squeeze.

Fatigued and completely over the day, you plopped down into an empty bus seat before closing your eyes, hoping to find a moment of reprieve. You made a mental note to call the auto shop about the status of your car, as the many smells and characters of Pittsburgh public transit, particularly after a long day of dealing with angsty teenagers, had worn on you the past week.

Despite your wife’s many protests that she could pick you up, you insisted you were fine taking the bus, that she was supposed to be resting during the day, not cursing out rush hour drivers. Yet, as you felt the bus swerve into oncoming traffic and saw an incoming semi, the crash jolting you out of your seat, your head hitting the floor, you wished you’d listened to your wife.

For a moment, you sat dazed and in shock as a warm liquid dripped down your temple. But as the cacophony of screams, cries and car alarms blared in your ears, you quickly became alert. You took a quick glance outside the now shattered window, the sight of multiple wrecked cars telling you what you needed to know. Focusing your attention back on the inside of the bus, you did a mental scan of the passengers, triaging in your head who needed immediate attention.

“Help!” A distraught sob from the front of the bus caught your attention.

Not trusting your balance, you scrambled over to where a young woman hovered over a severely injured man lying on the ground.

“H-he was sitting right there when the truck came and he flew forward into the pole,” the woman explained through her tears, and you were grateful she held it together enough to be coherent. Though, you’re confident, based on the slight indent in the man’s chest, you could’ve put the pieces together. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I can help,” you said as you conjured up all the years of pre-med studies and the late nights helping your wife study during med school. Apparently, being married to a world-class trauma surgeon came in handy sometimes.

Grabbing his wrist, you took his pulse and immediately determined he was tachycardic. You then grabbed your cellphone out of your pocket, turned the flashlight on and opened the man’s eyes with your finger to shine the light on them. When you saw his pupils dilate, you couldn’t help but feel a small bit of relief, a feeling that didn’t last long when the man coughed, a splatter of blood spewing onto your clothes.

“Shit,” you cursed as you leaned down so your ear was closer to his mouth, the shortness of breath confirming your diagnosis. “Where the hell is the ambulance?”

“On their way,” someone called back, “but could be a sec. Traffic looks pretty jammed.”

Another cough of blood landed on your arm.

Double shit.

“What’s wrong? Is he gonna die?” The woman frantically grabbed at your sweater.

You could feel your own heart rate picking up, but you did your best to stay calm, not wanting to frighten her any further.

“Well–” you paused, realizing you didn’t know her name.

“Sarah,” she supplied.

“Sarah, he has blood in the space between his lung and his chest,” you explained. “We can either wait for the paramedics to get here, or–” you took a deep breath to steady yourself– “I can do my best to drain the fluid.”

Sarah paused, her eyes conflicted as they flit down to the bloodied man and then back up to you. “He’s my husband.” Her gaze fierce as it met yours. “Please save him.”

You inhaled sharply. You were hoping she wouldn’t say that, but even you knew, as his breathing became shallower, you had no other choice.

“Okay,” you said as you racked your brain for supplies you could use for a makeshift chest tube. Scanning the bus, you spotted a gym bag. As you crawled over to it, you could only hope it had what you were looking for. You rummaged through it and nearly cried when you pulled out a water bottle, one of those ones with a flexible straw, and a roll of athletic tape.

“Does anybody have a sewing kit on them? Or even some floss?” You called out, grabbing your purse from where it had been flung upon impact before shuffling back over to the your now-patient.

As you pulled out your pocket knife and some disinfectant wipes, Sarah was messily digging through her purse.

“Here.” She held out a small box in one hand as she wiped her nose with the other. Taking it from her, you opened it and found a travel sewing kit—a few needles, two lines of thread, and even a pair of mini scissors along with some tweezers. Right then, you thanked God for women and your need to be prepared.

As you looked at the supplies in front of you, you pictured your next steps. This could actually work. Was it crazy? Absolutely. But could it save this man’s life? Absolutely.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?” You looked at Sarah, giving her one more out before she put her husband’s life in the hands of a stranger.

“Positive.”

You quickly worked to disinfect everything before cutting through the man’s shirt. “What’s his name?”

“Rick,” the woman whispered, cradling her husbands head in her lap.

“Okay, Rick–” you addressed him, your fingers tracing down the side of his chest as you counted his ribs– “this is going to hurt a little.”

Using your pocket knife, you made an incision in between his fourth and fifth rib, a groan of pain erupting from him.

“I know, I know,” you muttered as you insert your fingers into the man’s side before guiding the straw in along his chest wall, rotating it until you felt resistance. You held your breath for half a second, unsure if it worked, but then you saw blood start to fill the straw and you exhaled.

“Did it work?” Sarah asked, her wild eyes watching your every moment as you taped the bottom of the straw against the hole of the bottle.

“I hope so,” you replied, your hands busy suturing the straw into place. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet her gaze, too worried you’d just messed up her whole world. Even when Rick coughed again, this time absent of blood, you couldn’t get rid of the pit growing in your stomach.

Too focused on having a man’s life in your hands, you had missed the sounds of approaching sirens.

“Are you all okay in here?” A paramedic crawled through the broken window.

“Over here!” You held up your hand, causing two paramedics carrying a transfer board to hurry over to you.

“What do we got?” One of them asked as they knelt down next to Rick.

“Male in his mid thirties–”

“He’s thirty-one,” Sarah interrupted with a sniffle.

“Thirty-one year old male,” you started again, sitting back on your heels, “blunt force trauma to the chest causing hemothorax.”

The diagnosis caused one of the medics to finally notice the straw sticking out of the man’s side. “Is that supposed to be a chest tube?”

You nodded.

“You performed an emergency chest tube?”

You nodded again.

“Well, you likely saved his life,” the other paramedic interjected after finishing her brief evaluation. “Miller,” she addressed her partner, “let’s get a neck brace and prepare for transfer.”

As the paramedics did their job, you let yourself collapse against the wall of the bus, the adrenaline starting to wear off. You watched Sarah stand up, readying herself to follow the paramedics to the ambulance before she turned back towards you.

“Wait–” she reached out her hand for you to take, which you did– “what’s your name.”

You told her, and she squeezed your hand. “Thank you.”

You could only nod with a small smile, a sudden wave of tiredness crashing over you. As the woman dropped your hand to catch up to the paramedics who were carrying her husband, you let your limb lazily drop to your side, every part of your body starting to feel heavy.

“Ma’am?” You heard a distant voice, professional and controlled.

“Ma’am,” the voice repeated, this time a lot closer, and you briefly opened your eyes to see another paramedic’s face hovering in front of you.

Weakly, you mumbled your wife’s name before succumbing to the exhaustion.

---------

Meanwhile, when word got the PTMC of a twelve car pile up, including a bus, it was all hands on deck.

As a stretcher rolled in with a badly injured man on it, a straw hanging out of his body, Robby’s eyes widened and he called over McKay and Whitaker.

“What do we got?” He asked, directing them to North 6, where Dana had shouted was open.

“Rick Nelson. Thirty-one year old male with blunt force trauma to the chest,” the paramedic explained as he helped transfer Rick onto the table. “Flew across the bus and into the pole.”

“Get surgery in here,” Robby yelled to anybody who was listening, immediately diagnosing internal damage.

Already downstairs due to the sheer amount of incoming traumas, Emery Walsh entered the bay just seconds later.

“What the fuck is that?” Her eyes immediately went to the water bottle full of blood and the straw dangling from the man’s rib before looking up to the paramedic. “You performed a chest tube in the field?”

The paramedic opened his mouth to defend himself but before he could say anything, Sarah interjected from the corner of the room, “A woman on the bus did that.” She said your name like a prayer.

Your name caught Emery’s attention, and she backed away from the table, her focus now solely on Sarah. “What was her name?”

Sarah repeated your name, this time in a whisper as she cowered under the surgeon’s glare.

“Was she hurt? Where is she?” Emery kept her voice firm, but her insides were twisting with fear. It hadn’t taken her long to put the pieces together that the woman in question was you, because who else on a bus would know where to even begin making anything with the semblance of a chest tube. Only you.

“I-I don’t know.”

For a moment, Emery only stared at the woman, frustration and anger building in her chest.

“Get Garcia in here,” she said, leaving no room for question as she peeled off her gloves, already exiting the trauma bay. “I need to find someone.”

Not bothering to listen to Robby’s protests, Emery made a beeline for the phone at the nurses’ station. She punched in your number, immediately doing it again when she reached your voicemail. When you didn’t pick up the second time, Emery slammed the phone down, earning a few sideways glances from the nurses.

“Dr. Walsh?”

“What?” She snapped, turning around to face Mohan, who wore an expression that teetered the line of compassion and pity.

“There’s a woman in three asking for you,” Samira said before lowering her voice away from prying ears, “your wife.”

Emery’s feet were moving before Samira could say anything further, her heart pounding in her ears. Pulling back the curtain, she nearly broke. You were sitting at on edge of the bed with a piece of blood-stained gauze taped to your head, your eyes closed as Santos worked to pick glass out of your arm.

Sensing your wife’s unmistakable presence along with the distinct smell of your laundry detergent that clung to her scrubs, you opened your eyes and sighed, “Em.”

Your weak smile did little to quell Emery’s worry as she unclipped your chart from the side of the bed before moving to stand by your side.

“You okay?” She murmured, scanning the chart in one hand while the other found a spot on your back.

“Peachy.” You subconsciously leant back into your wife’s touch. “Just chatting here with Dr. Santos about chest tubes.”

“Your wife’s a badass, Walsh–” Trinity’s eyes widened when she saw the surgeon’s glare– “respectfully.”

“You could learn a few things from her, Santos,” Emery retorted, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Be nice, Em.”

Emery glanced back down at you, her eyes softening for the briefest moment before turning to Mohan with urgency. “You put in an order for CT?”

Samira shook her head. “Loss of consciousness due to exhaustion and dehydration. No signs of a serious concussion or reduced brain function. Just a nasty cut.”

“Head wounds are always bleeders. You know that, babe,” you interjected with a faint smirk.

“Okay, seriously, who are you?” Trinity laughed, shaking her head in amusement and awe.

Emery ignored you both, your chart weighing heavy in her hand. She hated this. She hated that you were here, injured; that she wasn’t—couldn’t be—the one to treat you; that she couldn’t comfort you right now, just wrap you up in her arms and shield you from all the bad things in the world. She hated all of it.

Noting the subtle shift in the attending, her expression unrecognizable yet also uncharacteristic, Samira filled in the gaps.

“We’ve already stitched up the laceration on her forehead and got an x-ray back on a broken wrist,” she explained, not bothering with the details already written in the chart. “Santos is just picking out the stubborn pieces of glass and dressing the superficial wounds before we get ready for a cast.”

Emery hummed, and you could tell she was still on edge.

“I’ve been in good hands, Em,” you placated, lightly placing your non-injured hand on her forearm.

“I’ll take it from here,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for discussion.

Having just finished her dressings, Trinity dropped the gauze and gave you a quick smile. You thanked both of them as they wordlessly left you in the bay alone with your wife. For a moment, neither of you said anything, exhaustion coursing through your body and anxiety through hers. But when Emery sat down in the stool in front of you, tenderly hooking her finger under your chin and guiding your head so she could really look at you, you broke. Sobs wracked your body as you collapsed forward against your wife, who instinctually embraced you in her arms.

“I know. It’s okay,” Emery soothed, rubbing small circles on your back. Despite her earlier worries, she knew your tears were not due to pain but rather the emotional crash of having a person’s life in your hands and saving it.

Knowing all too well the swirl of emotions you were feeling, Emery just held you as you continued to cry. You buried your face in the crook of her neck, the faint scent of her vanilla perfume offering you familiar comfort.

“You saved that man’s life,” she said as your cries subsided. Gently, she pushed you back to upright so she could cradle your face between her hands. You never felt safer. “You helped him, now let me help you.”

You could only nod, and Emery stood up, softly but quickly kissing your lips, before she moved around the bay, gathering the necessary supplies for a cast. As she wrapped your wrist with practiced ease, already knowing you would want the purple plaster, you allowed yourself to turn your mind off and just be taken care of, something your wife was quite good at.

“A straw for a chest tube,” Emery scoffed under her breath as she cut the last piece of plaster, an amused glint in her eye. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You love me,” you replied easily with a chuckle.

“A straw for a chest tube,” she repeated, and this time you sensed the tone of pride in her voice. “Of course I love you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth from spreading up your neck. Before you could say anything else, the curtain was pulled open to reveal Jack Abbot. You’d met him a few times in passing and heard several stories, more so rants, about him from Emery.

“Isn’t a cast a little below your pay grade, Walsh?” He raised a brow in the direction of your wife.

“Abbot.” Emery rolled the stool, her body now half shielding you, an action not unnoticed by you or the other doctor.

“Down tiger,” Abbot chuckled before his eyes landed on you. “You the one who performed an emergency chest tube?”

“That would be me.”

Abbot merely hummed as his eyes narrowed into a look Emery would later tell you was one of approval.

“Just spit it out, Abbot,” Emery grumbled, causing him to form an amused smirk. He had never seen this protective side of the surgeon, and he decided he liked it, or rather liked poking it.

“When you’re done here, Robby has some questions for you,” he explained to you before shooting a pointed glance at your wife who was ready to protest, “just for charting purposes.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” you sighed as you pushed yourself off the bed, Emery’s hands still hovering.

“You also have some–” Abbot paused and moved to the side just barely, revealing a group of doctors and nurses huddled around the central station, their eyes watching you with curiosity– “adoring fans.”

On any other day, Emery would have scolded Abbot for letting his ED become a herd of gossip, but she reveled in the bashfulness that flushed your cheeks as you let out an exasperated groan.

“Come on, love.” Her hand rested on the small of your back as she helped you to stand, purposefully ignoring the way Abbot’s brow raised at the term of endearment. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

“My own wife,” you scoffed, “leaving me to the wolves.”

“More like a bunch of golden retrievers,” Emery muttered into your ear, causing Abbot to let out a snort as he held open the curtain for you two.

“Even worse,” you joked, letting your wife guided you to where another doctor, who you assumed was ‘Robby’, stood typing at a computer.

“Dr. Walsh, can I do something for you?” His eyes remained focused on the screen.

“I heard you needed my wife’s help for your charting,” she replied smoothly, causing him to look up, his eyes darting between her and you.

“Your wife,” he said slowly, “performed a chest tube with a straw and a sewing kit in the middle of a bus accident?”

“Okay,” you interjected, sensing your actions had become a topic of discussion amongst the emergency department. You really didn’t want to answer their questions multiple times. “Yes, I am Emery’s wife. Yes, I made an impromptu chest tube out of a water bottle. No, I am not a doctor, and no, I do not want to be.”

You turned to Abbot, who you saw out of the corner of your eye was about to say something. “Don’t even try to poach me, Abbot. I have enough hobbies.”

That earned you a few chuckles from the eavesdropping group, and even Jack couldn’t help but smirk.

“Too bad,” said a nurse with white-blonde hair, an entertained grin on her face as she rounded the station, pointing at you, “I like her.”

It’s perfectly normal to hate hospitals. Who doesn’t? There’s no color and it’s filled with that sterile, clinging scent that settles in the back of your throat; a strong mix of industrial bleach and cheap disinfectant.

There’s a cruel irony in it, really. Your wife is one of the top surgeons in Pittsburgh, yet you can’t step into her workplace without feeling like you’re going to throw up.

So, it was safe to say you weren’t exactly thrilled to be walking into the ER at 6:07 AM. You had a throbbing gash on your forehead, a wrist that felt like it was pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and a sobbing three-year-old clinging to your neck.

To top it off, your phone was dead, and the waiting room was already packed with people coughing into their hands. Definitely not your lucky day.

“Mommy.”

A small, damp hand tugged insistently at your collar. “Mommy.”

“Yes, pookie?” you murmured, the pet name coming out strained as the fluorescent lights stabbed at your headache.

Little Gila wrinkled her nose, making the exact same face of pure disgust Emery made whenever you used that word. Nine months in your womb, and she still had the audacity to be a carbon copy of your wife.

“Kissy?” Gila asked, her lower lip wobbling as she stared at the dried blood on your temple.

“No, sweetie. Not until the doctors fix Mommy up.”

Gila paused, her dark eyes flashing with the sudden spark of an idea. “Want me to call Mama? If she gives you a kissy, you’ll get better.” She said it with the absolute, unshakable confidence of a child.

“Why do you say that, honey?”

“The prince saved Snow White with a kiss of true love,” Gila explained, nodding solemnly. “Maybe Mama can save you like that.”

You opened your mouth to give her the "real world" talk; to explain that while her Mama’s kisses were magic, they couldn’t exactly close a laceration. But a voice cut through the chaos of the waiting room, stopping you cold.

It was the voice of the woman you loved most in the world (though you’d never tell Gila she was tied for first).

Emery was already in her street clothes, her coat slung over one arm, looking effortlessly beautiful even at the end of a grueling double shift. She was heading for the exit until she spotted you.

“What are you doing here?” Emery’s voice was soft at first, then it sharpened into a concerned one. “What the—?”

She was at your side in a second, dropping her bag and squatting down to your level. Her fingers were cool and steady as she lifted your chin. “Who did this to you?”

You tried to shake your head, but the movement made the room spin. “No one. I just... I tripped in the kitchen.”

Gila gasped, pointing a tiny finger at you. “Mommy, don’t lie! You’re gonna be Pinocchio! Your nose is gonna grow big!”

Emery’s eyes narrowed, shifting from your face to your daughter. “How did it happen, princess?”

“It was a big, ugly man,” Gila whispered dramatically, leaning in as if sharing a state secret. “He was very ugly and he smelled bad, like Uncle Abbott.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Emery shot you a look that before turning back to Gila.

“And what did the man do?”

“He said bad things.” Gila’s voice dropped even lower. “He said things about Mommy’s... Mommy’s booty.”

Emery’s jaw tightened. She didn't look away from you, her gaze burning with a sudden, protective heat. “He did, did he?”

Gila nodded vigorously. “Then Mommy said ‘Excuse me. I’m married, and that’s rude.’”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the hard plastic chair. You knew that look on Emery’s face; it was the quiet, dangerous stillness she got when someone touched what belonged to her. Although it was scary it was absolutely hot.

“Then he grabbed Mommy’s arm really hard,” Gila continued, her voice small and sad. “I told him he couldn't do that. Taking her hand is mine and Mama’s job. And then he called me a... a birch.”

“He called her a bitch.” you clarified tiredly.

“That!” Gila agreed. “Then Mommy went Pum! in his pew-pew!” She mimicked a kick with her little leg, giggling through her lingering tears. “And then Pam! in his face!”

“Mommy did that?” Emery asked, a ghost of a smirk finally tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“It was so cool! But I cried because he called me a birch,” Gila paused, looking confused. “Mama, what is a birch?”

“A bad word. We don’t say it,” you answered quickly.

Emery stood up, her hand lingering on your shoulder. Her demeanor had shifted from 'worried wife' to 'surgeon in charge' in a heartbeat. “Let’s get you two settled. Come on.”

She scooped Gila up and led the way toward the nurse’s station, bypassing the intake line entirely.

“Oh, honey, what happened to you?” Dana, the charge nurse of the day shift, asked as she caught sight of your face.

“A perv. She kicked him in the nuts,” Emery said shortly, her voice clipping each word. “I’m taking her to North 13. Send a doctor up.”

Dana nodded, already reaching for a chart. “I’ll send McKay as soon as she’s clear.”

Lena, the night shift charge nurse, stepped forward to take Gila. “Why don't you come with me to the breakroom, kiddo? I think Auntie Kiki is in there with some crackers.”

Gila’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite "aunt," and she happily hopped into Lena's arms. Even tho Nurse Kim was not family, she was your best friend so Gila saw her as her aunt.

You waved a shaky goodbye as Emery steered you down the hallway.

The exam room was quiet, the air-conditioned chill biting at your skin. Emery helped you onto the bed, but her movements were stiff. “What were you thinking? Why would you do that?”

“Defending myself and our child?” You raised an eyebrow, wincing at the pull on your forehead. “What was I supposed to do, Emmy?”

“You should have walked away. You shouldn't have played the hero.”

“I couldn’t walk away! He wouldn't let go!” You held up your wrist, a sharp whimper escaping you as the joint protested.

Emery’s eyes softened instantly. She moved closer, her hands trembling just a fraction as she inspected the bruising. “It looks bad.”

“Feels worse.”

“And your head?”

“In my shoulders.” You chuckled.

Emery pulled the supply cart over, her professional mask sliding back into place to hide her worry. “Let me see.”

She brushed your hair back, her brow furrowing. “This is deeper than I thought.”

You flinched as her thumb brushed the edge of the wound. “Easy, Doc. Be gentle.”

“I’m always gentle with you,” she murmured, soaking a gauze pad in antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Sorry.”

You hissed as the cold liquid hit the raw skin, biting your lip until she finished cleaning it. She worked with the steady, practiced grace that made her the best in the city, her hands never wavering as she placed a few neat stitches.

“Almost done,” she whispered.

The door swung open, and Dr. Cassie McKay stepped in, followed by a tall, young man im scrubs. He didn't just look at you;he stared, his eyes wandering in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Already kidnapping my patients, Walsh?” Cassie teased.

“I don’t trust her with just anyone,” Emery snapped, not even looking up from your stitches. She threw a sharp glare at the med student. “Especially not a student. She isn’t a practice project.”

You glanced at the kid's badge: James Ogilvie, MS-IV. “Excuse her, Ogilvie,” you said, trying to lighten the mood. “She’s just... protective.”

The student nodded, a smug little smirk playing on his lips. “I get it. Friends have to look out for each other. Especially when one of them is such a pretty lady.”

Cassie coughed into her hand to hide a laugh. Emery stopped what she was doing, her entire body going rigid.

“Are you here to learn, or are you here to flirt?” Emery asked, her voice dropping an octave.

Ogilvie tilted his head, clearly thinking he was being charming. “I’m here to learn, of course. But I can multitask.”

Emery crossed her arms. “Learning starts with respect. Not hitting on patients in ER.”

Cassie stepped forward to check your wrist, giving you a sympathetic good luck look. “He’s a bit of an attention seeker.” she noted.

“I’m sure you’re used to the attention.” Ogilvie said, his eyes lingering on your face again.

“Do they teach this in college nowadays?” Emery’s voice was like ice now. “How to harass a married woman?”

Ogilvie’s smirk faltered slightly. You pointedly lifted your left hand, letting the light catch the diamonds on your ring finger.

“Oh,” he muttered.

“Yes. Oh.” Emery mimicked, her sarcasm dripping.

The student cleared his throat, trying to regain his posture. “Understood. Though I have to admit, your husband is a very lucky man. You’re clearly very beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt your head. Emery let out a low, dangerous hum in the back of her throat.

Emery stepped toward him, her height seemingly doubling. “Then start by observing the exit if you say one more word to my wife.”

The kid froze. “Your—?”

“I'm looking at hotels to stay in till they figure it all out,” you said.

“Your insurance going to cover that?” he asked.

You peered at him through the sleep you didn't get. “You're funny this morning, Ken, you know that?”

“Well I got an early start.”

“Hey-”

At the call of Robby's voice, you straightened like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Frank laughed into his coffee mug.

It was embarrassing, really. How quick your body reacted to Robby and his call quicker than your mind could catch up. All he had to do was appear, say your name or catch your eye and you straightened, falling to his side and doing whatever he said. Somewhere along the way of working with him, he'd trained you.

“You're late,” he said, a small tug in the space between his brows. “Not like you, is everything okay?” Robby slipped in and Frank slipped out, pulling a face behind Robby, puckering lips directed at you.

“Sorry, sorry. My car's in the garage and the uber cancelled and I didn't really sleep much last night, it- it won't happen again.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Interesting night?”

You chuckled to yourself. “You could say that.”

Robby squinted at you before his eyes caught onto the pile of your stuff that wasn't there the last time he came in for a coffee. “Moving in?” he asked.

You laughed, a little more genuine then you had at Frank. “My apartment's flooded, they're just here till I can get a hotel.”

There was something heavy in the rise of his brows, in the way his expression morphed and his eyes widened only a little.

You tried to ignore it, because it almost looked like genuine concern. Not just for his resident that everyone claimed he had a soft spot for, but for the person behind the medical training. “They'll be moved by the end of the day.”

“You get any sleep last night?” he asked.

“Do I look that bad?” you asked with a pitiful huff.

“No,” Robby said at once. “Did you?”

“Couple hours. Those that were lucky enough not to wake up on the Titanic had a few sofas available.” You'd slept on Mrs Issac's sofa for three hours before you woke to her cat curled on your chest and your phone alarm blaring. It had felt as if your head had only just touched down, your dreams had only just started to form in mindless and faceless shapes before you were being brought back out of it.

Robby looked around at the staff room that was empty besides the two of you, peeking out the jutted open door. “We're pretty slow out there. South nineteen's empty.”

You nodded. “I'll look who's in chairs, get someone in-”

“Get some rest,” he said.

At some point Robby had come close to you, leaning his arm on the counter to support his weight. The tattoo hidden behind his watch peeking out at you. He stared down, studying you.

“I'm-I'm fine,” you said, un-sure what to do under his care.

Robby shook his head, lips tugged up slightly. “Fine isn't good enough for my best resident.”

Best resident. Somewhere along the way of working with him that title had been given to you; knelt on the ground, a sword going from shoulder to shoulder and there you had your title. Whenever he could, Robby slipped it into conversation with you, saying it more than your actual name.

“Thirty minutes,” he said.

Arguing with Robby was like arguing with a brick wall.

You sighed, imagining the scratchy blankets and hard bed but your body slumping at the idea of rest. “Thirty minutes. And get me if there's a trauma.”

“Which one of us is attending?” he asked, amused at the fight you tried to pull.

“You don't have best in front of your title though, do you?”

“I don't know, you tell me?”

“Hmm, only on Tuesday's.”

“Oh, Tuesday's are special days, huh?”

Tuesdays were special days because every Tuesday the two of you worked together. You don't know how you realised it, and maybe Robby didn't even know but every single Tuesday since you'd began the two of you had always been on shift together. Days off, weekends missed, long weekends and holidays but every Tuesday without a doubt, you and Robby were there.

Robby led you out, a phantom touch of his hand ballad up in the back of your scrub shirt before it was gone again.

“You'll wake me up?” you asked again.

He nodded his head once more. “I will wake you up.”

“And if somebody needs the bed?”

“I will personally throw you over my shoulder and put you somewhere else.”

You were suddenly glad your back was to him, so he couldn't see the blush on your cheeks at the very idea of being thrown over his shoulder. In your delirious state you picture the situation you'd have to be in to be thrown over his shoulder, the behaviour it would take to have him moving you around, hauling you about-

Thirty minutes of rest you could do.

“Hope you know what you're doing.”

Robby flinched at the accent and heavy smell of nicotine mixed with mint. He didn't even satisfy Dana by glancing back at her. “What?”

She chuckled. “Nothing. I guess.”

He shook his head and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, checking the hotels around the area. There seemed to be three types: expensive, high-end and pristine. Dirty, still not that cheap or booked up. How long would you need the room for? Was your landlord or anyone going to help you out for it? He didn't know your situation exactly but he knew what it was like to be a third year resident and stuck with bills.

Dana leant on the counter next to him, smirking.

“I'm just trying to help,” he excused.

“Yeah, sure.”

He peered at her over the black rim of his glasses. “Something else to say, Evans?”

Her head titled. “Don't you have a spare room at yours?”

Yes, he did. It was plain walled and not at all decorated besides a map of Pittsburgh train lines framed and not hung up. Some old Christmas gift from Jack that he couldn't get rid of in fear of offending him. The bed was comfy because it very rarely got slept on, aside from Jack or Jake on occasion. Truth was Robby couldn't remember the last time he had a guest over.

“Cheaper than a hotel,” she added. “Unless your up-tight.”

Suddenly he was thinking about it. You, in his place. You'd been around maybe once before, he re-called, un-able to re-count the circumstances that had you around.

“You'd be doing the girl I favour, I bet,” she continued.

Robby looked at the screen then back to her. “Has she... said something?”

“Not to me, but hey, she's been asleep the last hour. What do I know?”

Robby looked back down to the time at the computer, the numbers flickering by. He knew it had been longer than his half-an-hour. Really, he had no interest in waking you from your sleep unless he really, really had to. And if he had time to sit and scroll through hotels, you had time to sleep.

He let out a breath. “Apparently everything.”

She laughed. “Hey, you said it, not me. But if you can't put her up think I heard Santos offering up a sofa.”

Robby looked around the space, trying to find Santos or Whitaker to confirm. He didn't see either of them.

It was decided in his head then that he'd have to ask you to take up his guest room. He'd act it was all under the pretence of making sure you were well-rested, had a decent bed and your own space to sleep in, assuring you could get the rest and come in bright eyed and bushy tailed. Deep down he'd know, just to himself, it was because there was a seething bite of envy at the idea of Santos having you waking in her apartment, going home with you at the end of the day.

He dragged his hands down his face as Princess called out his name, demanding his attention.

What was a couple days, anyway.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

You looked up from your tablet, handing it over to Jesse as you stepped away from exam room six.

Robby stepped in Jesse's place, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders lifted high.

“Two hours,” you said. “I was asleep for two hours.”

“Sweet dreams?” he asked.

Yes. There had been dreams and rest. The blanket hadn't felt so scratchy and as tired as you were the noises of the Pitt were muffled in your mind. By the time you woke up your body felt lighter, you could practically feel the bags under your eyes retreat. Then you stepped out and there were new sets of patients, a different lighting in the place and the hour hand had moved all away around the clock.

“I dreamt there was a long que of patients waiting for the room,” you said. “A line like at Disney, except without the pay off.”

“They fast tracked to another,” he excused. “Can I talk to you now?”

He seemed restless, fists balling up in his fleece pockets and glasses tucked away in the front. His hair was tussled slightly, as if he'd already done a full day of work while you'd slept.

You waited for him to go on, watching his mouth open and close before he shook his head at himself, a light chuckle leaving him.

“I did some research,” he said, dragging out his words, in the way he did when he was nervous. You'd seen it when he was trying to let down every one of his flings, scared it was gonna end up loud in the middle of his ER. “Hotels in the area are expensive, I have a spare room, got a bed, it's big, my place is spacious and I'm hardly ever there. No garden but there's a balcony-”

Robby listed aspects of his apartment like he was putting it up for sale.

It took some time for you to realise what he was saying. A spare room, yours, he was offering. You caught the fact he'd looked up hotel rooms and suddenly you were imagining him, phone pulled out with the glow reflecting on his readers. Was he frowning at the prices? Was he rubbing at his beard in frustration, thinking which you'd prefer.

Was he hoping to find you a room so he didn't feel obliged to give up his own?

“That's- that's very kind of you, Robby,” you said softly, letting yourself down gently. “I- I can't do that.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Take your room.”

“It's not my room, it's a spare.”

You blushed, thinking that he thought you were thinking about staying in his room. “No! No, I-I get that, I just- I can't put you out like that.”

Robby rocked forward on his heels. “You wouldn't. Really.”

“I'm sure I could find somewhere cheap-”

“- you can't-”

“- or I can check around with friends-”

“- Santos only has a sofa,” he said, raising his brows.

“I-I have other friends.”

Robby pressed his lips into a thin line. “Like me?”

He was insistent. Had someone put him up to it? Had he seen how tired you were and felt bad?

Every morning you woke and before walking into work you took a shovel to the feelings you held for Robby and buried them deep, deep down, plunging a sign that read remain professional into the ditch of your own creation. You called him boss and cap, reminding yourself that's what he was. Of course a friend was another title too, but calling him friend and invading his space wasn't going to do much for your feelings. Or your nerves. And you liked to think you'd done a pretty good job in keeping both in check.

Robby rocked on his feet again, almost jittering. “I don't charge rent, you'd be saving some money.”

How many more excuses could you come up with? How long could you stand here going back and forth?

“How many bathrooms?” you asked.

“Just one.”

“You live in a quiet area?”

“Very.”

“You don't have a cat do you?”

He shook his head with a small smirk. “No. I had fish but lost them.”

You nodded, arms hugging yourself. Admitting yourself into his hands wasn't just a jump, more a leap. Denying yourself had been easier in work, when glimpses of Robby between procedures and patients was all you could gauge yourself on. In his space, you'd become full.

“Say yes and I'll put your stuff in my truck.”

Future regret bubbled up in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you said, earning a slump of relief from him. “But I'm paying rent while I stay.”

He shook his head. “I don't need it.”

“It'll make me feel better,” you said. “I have to do something.”

Robby looked past you, thinking for a moment. “You cook?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. While you're staying with me-” he jutted his thumbs at himself, like he was proud. “You can cook dinner, if you want.”

It wasn't a terrible service. More often then not you'd seen Robby slump his way out the place, mentioning something about a restaurant he was stopping by to pick up food that might last him a couple days. It would be like taking care of him and wasn't that what he was doing here? Taking care of you?

In a friendly way, of course.

“I will cook dinner,” you agreed.

“Great.” Robby seemed to relax in front of your eyes: his hands came out of his pockets, his shoulders shrunk and the crinkles at his eyes showed in a smile. “Your stuff's in my truck already.”

“Presumptuous,” you said, calling after him as he backed off slowly.

He shrugged. “Hopeful.”

But what did he have to hope for?

“Hey,” said Santos breathless and approaching you, moving your gaze from the pull of Robby's back to her. “I've got our labs back on that guy in seven.”

“Oh- er, great, great.” The tablet takes up your attention, but your mind lingers on the crows feet at Robby's eyes, the smile you saw briefly when you agreed to go home with him.

But Trinity Santos never missed a beat. “What was that about?” she asked in an uplifting teasing voice you were all too familiar with as she looked back at where Robby had disappeared to.

“What- what was what?”

“You and Robby, huh?”

“No. No me and Robby, don't make it weird.”

She smirked. “You're doing that all on your own.”

You carried yourself over to the nurses station, clocking Robby lingering in a corner, talking something over with Samira, so instead you distracted yourself with the tablet and charting. “He just offered me a place to stay.”

Santos's brows rose up high. “His place?”

You blushed under her analyses.

“Oh my god-”

“Don't- don't make it a thing-”

“It's already a thing,” she scoffed, leaning over and swatting at you. “You're staying at Robby's!”

“In his spare room, separate living completely.”

Santos leant back on the counter, looking around dreamily. “Suuurree, until you need the bathroom and just so happen to walk in on him, towel around his waist-”

“- Santos-”

“- it's all hot and steamy from his shower,” she continued. “And you just so happen to slip, right into his arms and- oh my- the towel falls.”

“You have too much time on your hands,” you said. “Go get Garcia for a surgical consult on twelve.”

Sulking, she did so, dragging her feet across the place while you were left to debate if the dent in your bank account was worth it to spare the dent in your heart.

A life with Robby was framed in different ways.

When you first stepped through his place, your case tugged in his hand and your bag slung over his shoulder along with his own, there was a thick layer of tension blanketing over everything, mystifying the tour he gave you. It didn't give in the morning when you both woke groggy from alarms, reaching for coffee. Through the day the tension sat between the two of you through patients and traumas.

It started to feel like a terrible idea.

Until you both went back to his that night and laughed about the couple that had super-glued themselves together, the teenage boy who got his head stuck in between balcony bars. You made mac & cheese, which Robby deemed the best he ever had but considering you only found kraft cheese boxes in his cupboards, you didn't think much of it.

Then the routine built, mugs of coffee in the morning, a hearty breakfast started by whoever was up earlier in the morning, taking turns in the bathroom with only the occasional awkward bump in to each other in between brushings of teeth.

It was one morning when he stepped out, a smudge of minty white toothpaste in the corner of his mouth.

“You've got a bit of-” you'd told him, gesturing to the corner of his mouth by your own.

He rubbed and missed it completely and your hand reached out first. It was like you were watching it outside of your own body, as your thumb swiped away at the corner of his mouth, scratching at his beard.

Every morning since then Robby had walked out with that same bit of smudged toothpaste and every time you spotted it, you got rid of it for him.

Feeling the heat of his breath dance along your fingertips.

The peppermint smell of him clinging like second skin.

The wet fall of his hair, droplets dripping down to your feet.

It made every morning harder, but made every one more the while.

In work, you had your own new routine between the two of you.

In the mornings everyone in the Pitt- including those that stuck around from night long enough- lingered to watch as you and Robby walked in side by side, heading straight for the fridge in the lounge.

There, Robby would pull out two containers of leftovers from the night before while talking about.... well, sometimes nobody could really tell what it was.

“- all I'm saying is that if it was real life they'd be shut down instantly,” Shen caught Robby telling you, shamelessly lingering in the door way with Abbot and Javadi.

“It's not real life, it's Disney.”

“It's a restaurant ran by a rat!”

“It's whimsy.”

Robby grumbled under his breath. “It's un-realistic.”

You laughed and as busy as you were laughing you didn't see the look Robby gave you, a smile of his own. A soft one, because when he was looking at you, nothing had to be loud. “Just wait till you watch Cinderella, the rats sew a dress!”

Abbot was first to clear his throat. “Good morning, happy couple.”

And Robby's expression dropped, passing a glare to his friend.

As distracted as he was with the glare, he didn't see the way your face fell. The disappointment that marred your features.

“Got anything fun for me?” asked Robby, clapping his hands and getting to business, taking the night shift attendings by the shoulders and dragging them out.

Javadi entered in, a sheepish smirk on her lips. “So, how's it going?” she asked with all the air of a girl needing gossip.

“It's fine,” you said.

It had been three weeks of living inside of his apartment, of his space becoming yours, of shows he'd never think about watching slowly enrapturing him.

“Just fine?” she asked. “Isn't this supposed to be the part where the two of you get together?”

It was a few beers kind of mistake to tell Javadi on your feelings for Robby. But she was a med-student harbouring hard feelings for Matteo and you'd been desperate to bond and suddenly it turned into Javadi shooting you looks across the floor whenever Robby got too close, and he was doing that a lot recently.

“No, no, that's crossing so many lines,” you excused.

“Yeah but, he invited you to stay.”

“As a friendly gesture.”

“And how friendly do we know Robby to be?”

With you, very. With others it was more a tough game to play to get Robby to show some sympathy.

Your mouth was left ajar, stuttering on words you couldn't even come up with when Princess drummed her knuckles on the door.

“Louie's in south nineteen, asking for you.”

Never had you been so thankful to be called away on a patient run, especially when it was one of your terribly concealed favourites.

But you didn't leave quick enough to not catch how Princess crowded in Victoria, asking her what the latest was.

You managed to skirt your way over to nineteen without any more fans asking you about your new living situations. You were more than happy to hide away with Louie.

“Hey, doc!” he grinned as you let the door shut behind you.

“Louie, it's been weeks, what took you so long?” you joked, taking the stool and wheeling over to him with a smile. Really, you'd been worried when he hadn't come in- counting two months down since his last visit. It didn't give you hope that he was doing better, it filled you with dread he'd given up entirely.

He chuckled. “Sorry, doc, been busy.”

“A good busy?”

“Always.”

It was one of those slow nights when Louie came in when you and Robby were working- a Tuesday night where you were just about to go home when you checked in on Louie one more time, finding him half way through a devastating story on his life.

You'd cried in the bathroom and Robby had silently handed you a tissue when you stepped out, cold water splashed in your face.

“Hold out your hand for me, Louie,” you said, watching him do so with a tremble you could have bet your money on. “Shaky, huh?”

“Well it is eight a.m,” he grinned.

“We'll start you with fifty of Librium, as always. Anything else bothering you, Louie?”

“I had some aching in my side, right there-” diligently he showed you the pain, wincing as he pressed down on the pain.

You tugged on gloves and did an exam, finding the are bruised.

“You been in any trouble recently?” you asked, knowing that if Louie ever was in a fight, it would never be started by him. He was happy to drink silently.

“Not that I remember, maybe with a stool,” he joked.

You smiled with him, testing out spots of his chest and asking him to breathe in, listening down the stethoscope. “Everything seems fine but we'll get an ultrasound in to check you over.”

He waved you off. “Don't rush, doc, I like to watch the people go by sometimes.”

You entertained him. “Course, I'll be back shortly.”

You got Perlah on the case, someone just as happy to see Louie as you were, the duo that took the best care of him. Then you were occupied with slowly ticking off the board, discharging simple cases, working harder on the demanding ones.

At some point in the morning Robby slid in next to you, taking his place casually.

“I think I win for most interesting case today,” he said.

Happily, you looked up from your charts. “I didn't realise it was a competition?”

“Competition keeps you young,” he said, head nodding side to side.

“I'm not the one that needs to be kept young,” you teased.

There was smirk of shock that gave way to darkening eyes and a straighter back when he pulled himself up.

“You wanna play that?”

“I'm playing that,” you said. “I'm surprised you don't have an old mans seat when you shower.”

“I didn't realise you thought about me showering.”

It took you so off guard your elbow slipped, taking down someone's abandoned coffee.

“Shit!” You cursed, clamouring to the shards and spilt liquid.

Robby was still chuckling to himself when he knelt next to you, collecting the bits of mug in his hands, taking what you had in yours to his also.

“I- I don't think about you showering,” you said, quietly. “Of course I don't, I just- I just meant- a joke. It was a joke.”

Robby inhaled, tilting his head to get a look at you. “Really?”

“Yeah, yeah, god, I-I didn't-”

Your name was cried out and the shards of China fell back to the ground as Perlah helplessly stood outside of Louie's room. Almost slipping on the coffee, you took off in a run, Robby hot on your heels as you burst through the doors.

“He just- he just started-” Perlah panicked among the blood.

He lay still, un-responsive and you didn't miss a beat in jumping up, pumping down on his chest with gloves, without a gown, just the need to save a life that had been drilled into you.

His blood got on your hands, under your nails as with every pump down on his chest, you pumped more blood out.

“Get an intubation tray, crash cart and suction, now!” Robby called as a flood of nurses assembled around you. He was intubated and a bag put in place, a nurse came in for suction and the heavy rolling wheels of the crash cart sounded.

It fell upon you muffled as your arms shook while pressing down on his chest.

“We can swap out,” Robby offered quietly from behind you.

“No, no, I- I got this,” you said through the gasps and slow bead of sweat beginning down your temple. “C'mon Louie, c'mon-”

Perlah stretched over, slamming down pads on his chest, under the gown that practically had his name on it from how often he visited. “Pads in place!”

“Hold compressions!” said Robby.

You backed up enough to get a reading, getting a dull feeling of Robby's hands on your arms as you trembled. “Still V-Fib,” you said, climbing off the bed. “Charge to two hundred!”

“Charged!”

“Clear!”

So it went on, maybe only for minutes, maybe for an hour. A continuous rhythm of your chest compressions, the push of epi, the constant let down of no pulse, the flow of blood. And Robby's eyes only fumble from you to check on Louie before returning to you.

Everyone in the room hung on the thread of the flatline.

“Do we push more epi?” asked Perlah.

There was a silence behind you but you could picture the slow shake of Robby's head. You'd seen it in dozens of patients, in several helpless cases.

“Robby?” you called out helplessly, without knowing what you were calling for.

He was slow in his approach to you but you could feel him closer, know he was reaching out. “We've done everything we can.” It wasn't harsh. It wasn't kind. It was fact and sometimes fact was neither thing.

His hand was gentle on your shoulder, not squeezing or pulling. Just there. It was enough for you to feel everything deep down in your bones, the pressure of trying to bring him back to life making you weak and Robby's touch helping you give up.

You didn't recall the calling of his time of death, or the stumbling out the room, the wiping down of his blood on your scrubs. You didn't know anything until you made it out to the ambulance bay, drinking in gulps of fresh air that seemed to poison you more then help.

It clamped down on your chest and choaked at your throat-

“Hey, hey- it's okay, you're okay-”

Arms were tugging at you, pulling you into a chest you'd grown knwon with.

You pushed back. “No, no, I'm bloody, I- I can't-”

“Shh-” Robby cooed.

He embraced you tightly, suffocating you into his chest like he was trying to tell the rest of the world to go away, to shield you from the hospital and ambulances would inevitably come by. Robby stood there, arms strong and protecting you. He rocked slightly, lips pressed to the top of your head like it was a natural thing to do. Like you'd never felt them there or anywhere else before.

“I'm sorry,” you sniffed into his chest.

“No, don't be- shh,” he whispered into you. “You did everything you could.”

“He's gone, he's gone,” you mumbled.

Robby held you until he felt he could let you go, which proved a while. By the time you'd dragged yourself back in, red faced and teary eyed word had spread about Louie. Robby remained behind you, a hand curling against the lower parts of your back as he guided you through to the scrub bin, daring anyone to stop and ask you what happened.

He was a dog ready to bite.

“Take some time,” he said in the same air he'd used to ask you to stay with him. With no room for arguments.

You changed scrubs, met Perlah in the middle of the nurses hub for support. When Louie's body was took to the viewing room, Robby stayed stuck at your side, fingers brushing yours as he let everyone who wanted to say goodbye, say it.

By your side he stayed for the rest of the day, with biting breaths and lingering looks. His touches became every other moment, every spare second he knelt next to you, checking in.

“I'm fine,” you told him repeatedly as the day went on, as new patient names clouded your mind and traumas stole your attention.

“We'll get out of here, tonight,” he promised, hand edging closer to yours. Closer to something he wouldn't be able to take back. “No cooking tonight, we'll pick something up.”

“I can- I can cook-”

Robby shook his head. “And you can pick the movie.”

You smiled, though it was tainted from the pain. “Even if it has talking animals?”

His eyes rolled playfully as he sighed, pushing himself up. “If you must.” His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he squeezed, moving by.

When you looked back up you weren't surprised to see the fleeing eyes of Dana over her glasses.

She knew you'd caught her but only turned and walked off. You didn't know how you knew she was still smiling, but you knew.

By the time you and Robby got home- back to his- the sky had darkened and the Thai was procured on the drive back.

He'd let you shower first, knowing you still felt the need to scrub the phantoms of the day from you. You'd been so desperate you'd left your own wash bag in your room, your own robe there. So you bathed in Robby's signature smell, washed your hair in his shampoo that wasn't a two in one.

You wrapped yourself in a towel that was fluffy and smelt like him, wiping down condensation from the window before letting yourself sit with the grief.

It was never a good idea, alone in your own apartment to let the day haunt you. In Robby's place, surrounded by a smell that was all his, you safely let yourself remember the wobble in your arms, the pain in your heart and ache in your body.

You stood, re-tucking the towel around you when the door burst open at once.

“Shit- shit-”

You grasped at the towel as it slipped down your body, clutching it to your chest before it could expose everything.

Robby stood, frozen in the doorway, his lips parted slowly. “Shit- sorry, I thought you were done.”

“I'm- I'm finishing up,” you gulped.

Robby nodded, hand clenched on the door.

You watched his eyes catch a glance past your shoulder, seeing something there that had a blush creeping up his neck and ears. Something that made him bashful and looking away.

A chill ran down your body, from the toll of the day, the lack of clothing around you or the look Robby gave you.

“I'll, er- just...” you trailed off.

Robby closed his eyes, breathing deep. “Yeah. Yeah.”

The door inched closed slower. Before it shut completely you were sure Robby paused, sure you heard him inhale and sigh before you caught the retreat of his footsteps.

You body sunk in on itself, catching the electricity buried under your skin by just being looked at by him. At the idea that he could smell him on you.

It wasn't until you turned, catching a glimpse of yourself in the wiped down mirror that you realised.

Wiped down.

When Robby glanced behind you- to the mirror- he'd blushed at the sight of that part of you left bare. The slope of your back, the dimples that sat just above your ass and the curve of you.

He'd got a glimpse of it. Not just a glimpse by the way he paused- an eyeful.

“Fuck.”

It was bound to happen, maybe, with how long the two of you had been in co-habitation. But the day had been messy enough. Navigating the corners of yours and Robby's changed relationship.... you didn't have the nerve, though it felt alight by his look.

Maybe he hadn't seen anything, you told yourself as you dressed.

He probably didn't even notice, you said as you threw your damp hair up.

Just don't bring it up and he probably won't, you repeated as you stepped out.

When you came back out Robby was hiding in the kitchen, tucking himself right into the counter as he set up several dishes of all the food you'd ordered. His head was tucked low but there was a new sheen of sweat at the expanse of his neck still poking out from his scrubs.

“Sorry for taking so long,” you apologised, slipping into a stool across from him.

He shook his head and shrugged without looking at you.

“Smells good!” you said, reaching for the food that lay between you.

Muscles in Robby's jaw moved. Tightening.

You watched his tongue run over the bottom of his lip before he stepped back from the counter, a finger running over his lips as he excused himself quickly.

It was just a glimpse you thought you caught, something tightening in his scrub pants exenterated by his hands trying to be discreet in covering it (and failing).

Only when you went back to the bathroom an hour later, to brush your teeth did you notice the very, very cold setting of the shower. But if he didn't bring it up, neither would you.

Robby was only supposed to be passing. It had been ten minutes since he last caught a glimpse of you and he decided that was nine minutes too long.

He couldn't pinpoint when exactly the obsession started, if he wanted to call it that. It could have been when your things started to pile up at his, your favourite mug that you drank from sitting comfortably next to his every morning, or the cook books you went back to like it was your bible. It might've been before you'd even effectively moved in with him. Maybe when he saw the way you commanded a room around a trauma, never once doubting yourself.

Whenever it began it only increased with every good morning he got, every night and gentle touch he felt.

And finding you in that bathroom, a blink and miss it moment when your towel started to fall. The expanse of everything behind you that you were so un-aware of.

Robby felt dirty for the erection he supported most the night, even after the coldest shower of his life and taking care of it in his bed when you were sure you were asleep.

It had taken every bit of taught and measure self-restraint to keep his hands off you. You'd had a tough day, Robby throwing himself at your mercy wasn't going to help.

But it had been a week since then, a week of near misses and close calls in the bathroom the two of you were treating like a battleground. The splotches of toothpaste he let linger on him got further and further along his mouth, the playing clueless became more silly. The brushed past each other in the kitchen when there was plenty of room became more telling.

It was all supposed to be going somewhere.

“ - while she is playing house with her boss,” he caught Santos saying, hers, yours and Javadi's backs to him as he slowed his approach.

“It's messy,” said Victoria.

“Oh, would you- the two of you stop,” you said. “It's not like that.”

“No?” asked Javadi.

“It's not like what?” he heard the teasing uplift of Trinity's voice.

“Like what you're trying to say,” you argued. “Robby and I are friends, just friends.”

Santos nodded, head lowering. “Sure. Friends. Friends with house mate benefits.”

“What are house mate benefits?” asked Javadi, looking over to you enough that Robby could catch a grin.

“Oh, use your imagination,” said Santos. “One bathroom, two people, trips to get water from the kitchen, in nothing but skimpy little-”

Robby could practically see the face you were pulling.

“Oh, can we not talk about this?” you said. “Nothing like that has happened, nothing like that will happen. We're friends, just friends.”

Robby didn't realise how badly he must have wanted it to be more until he heard you dismiss it out of hand. Until he heard the mocking chuckle of his doctors at what you were saying. That nothing was ever going to happen, essentially admitting you didn't think about the escapade in the bathroom as much as he did.

Why would you? You probably thought it was odd and gross how he lingered. How he acted the rest of the night- withdrawn and ashamed- probably didn't help.

What? Did he think that after spending more time with him, living with him, you'd grow to care in a way he had for you. In a way he'd tried to ignore for months?

Did he really think he stood a fucking chance?

He was hyper aware of himself, standing there like an idiot with the fading mark of his heart on his sleeve. Soon somebody would call his name, his game would be up and the three of you would turn to him, catching him there.

Robby cleared his throat and shouldered between you and Victoria, practically tossing the tablet down. “Guy in five needs a surgical consult on a blood clot.”

Santos held up her hands to be clear of it and Javadi was walking away at once.

Robby watched you take it and he left.

It was time to start re-building his heart.

“Hey,” you said, quick to follow him. “I was thinking of trying a carbonara tonight, do you like it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Cool. You know if we have parmigiana?”

“I have more pressing things to think about then what's in my fridge,” he said.

You were quiet for a moment and he hoped he'd scared you away. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure? Has something happened?”

“No,” he huffed, halting at the door to trauma two where a car crash victim was under the scope of three capable doctors. What was one more? “Now instead of pestering me can you go do you're fucking job?”

The flash of hurt in your eyes was almost enough to have him apologising. To have him cave and tell you he didn't want to just be friends, that he couldn't go a day without feeling you and being calmed instantly.

Almost.

Your lips pursed and you held the tablet up to your chest like it was a shield. “I will get right on that, boss.”

The tension that began at his house when you first joined him in the space of his walls falls returned, un-invited, with a vengeance.

After Robby's snap at you you figured it was a bad day, that things had piled up and him and he didn't want to talk about it. He still waited for you at the end of his shift, still drove you home but in a silence that was stale. He went to the bathroom first and you started on dinner, making two plates of the pasta you'd promised.

He never left his room that night and his dinner was still sitting on the counter in the morning.

It continued for three days. No blushing meetings outside of the bathroom, no movie's he'd fall asleep to and miss the end- though insisting he was only resting his eyes- it all stopped, quickly.

So quick you had no time to think of what had gone wrong.

“Hey,” said Victoria, lingering next to you as you went back to your search for cheap hotels that didn't have complaints of bug bites.

“Hey.”

“Your leftovers smell so good.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn't even pack lunch today,” she added, a small smile bitten back.

You huffed a laugh. “You can take Robby's, I don't think he's hungry.”

“Really?” she said. “He's usually very punctual about your lunches.”

He was, until a few days ago when you'd tried to find him to see if he was hungry, so you could sit down to your leftover together as you had done. But he'd brushed by you, telling you he wasn't hungry. He did so every day you asked.

“Has something happened?” asked Victoria.

Yes, something had clearly happened but you didn't know what.

“No, just.... Robby being Robby I guess.” You shrugged it off but the indifference hurt because it wasn't just Robby being Robby. You'd found a different Robby, the one that wasn't snapping and grumpy every day, the one who coaxed you to your room when you were too tired to move from the sofa, the one who let you hum along to the songs in the movies you'd pick, the Robby that made you coffee just the way you like. You'd never even had to tell him.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” she said. “You know if I didn't live with my parents I'd let you stay, of course.”

You smiled. “I know. Thanks.”

The hotel you settled on wasn't in the top ten in the city and it was nearly forty minutes out of your way. Earlier mornings were a small price to pay.

You let Robby drive you home without conversation, let him tirelessly switch from one radio to the other. Your fingers curled and un-curled against your knees in anxiety.

“My-urm- apartment is up and running again,” you said.

Robby's knuckles bleached white on the steering wheel. “Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I can get my stuff packed up and be out your hair.”

Robby didn't say anything. You glanced at him, seeing the tightness of his body and the eyes he kept plastered on the road. “It's late,” he said, mouth moving to say something else before he closed it again and thought. “I can give you a lift over.”

“You- you don't have to,” you said. The idea of one more tense car ride was enough to have you thinking about jumping out the moving vehicle. “I can book an uber.”

“It's late.”

Robby kept himself busy while you packed up the clothes you'd un-packed in the wardrobe in his room. He packed up your toiletries and your kitchen things that had slowly wound themselves in his cupboards.

You were already at the door, your case and bag standing next to you, your phone warming in your hand as you checked your hotel booking and uber confirmation.

Robby walked out from the bathroom, your toiletery bag in hand.

“I've got an uber booked,” you told him, quickly. “It's been a long day, I didn't want you to have to drive anymore.”

He nodded, slowly, handing you the bag. “Okay.” His hands retreated back to his pockets.

You loitered. You still had ten minutes before your uber on the way. “I'm sorry if I out-stayed my welcome.”

He shrugged, shaking his head. “However long it took to get your place fixed.”

“Still, I didn't mean for it to take this long.”

Robby didn't reply and his gaze faded away from you.

It was a heavy goodbye. The longer you'd stayed with him the little time you gave to thinking how leaving would work. You wouldn't be escaping him, no, he'd be stuck in your mind and lingering in the corner of your gaze. You'd still remember how he looked when he was falling asleep, how his shower smelt and the way he stretched in the morning.

They'd all be happy memories of another time.

You took it with you like extra baggage into the uber and into the two star hotel.

Robby knew he was ingraining himself into the night shift longer than he needed to but since you left a week ago his apartment was cold, empty and he loathed it.

He hated that there was no other noise, no other mug sitting next to his, nobody to talk to. Hated it so much he was choosing the taunting walls of the Pitt over heading back.

“You thinking of joining the night crawlers?” Jack asked, finding Robby stretching at the hub of the Pitt.

“Nope.”

“Oh. It's just, you're still here, so I assumed,” Jack teased.

“I get it,” said Robby in a sing-song voice.

“It can't be that bad, can it?” asked Abbot. “You see her tomorrow.”

Robby wished he could say he didn't know what Jack was talking about but it was painfully obvious to everyone that he couldn't deny it himself. There was no more coming in together, in fact, you'd been coming in late but he was doing his best to avoid you he couldn't talk to you to find out why. He no longer had a tub of well-cooked food or your teasing invitation to eat with you.

It felt like he had nothing all over again.

He looked down to the nurses counter, picking at a mark on there. “It's just...” he trailed, trying to think of a word to sum it all up.

“Yeah?” asked Jack, leaning next to him.

“Quiet.” He decided on.

Jack nodded, slowly. He glanced away before frowning at whatever he'd found. “What happened anyway? The pipes at her place were fixed so you just kicked her out?”

“No, she wanted to leave.”

“So you guys can't just, hang out?” he asked, holding his hands behind his back.

Robby made a pfft noise. “Hang out?”

“Well, Dana says-”

“- Dana-” he scoffed.

“Dana says the two of you can hardly look at each other,” said Jack. “Seems to be a change from what I'd heard before.”

Robby looked at him. “And what did you hear before?”

“You laugh,” he said, like it was a rare phenomenon. “Heard you joke. Saw you smile. Saw you happy.”

He thought about you, grinning with Santos and Javadi as you told them you were just friends, that nothing had happened and nothing was going to happen. He remembered how you looked at him first thing in the mornings and last thing at night, how you were- and still- were on his mind as he laid his head down and pushed himself up in the morning.

“She... she made it clear that nothing was going to happen between us,” Robby admitted.

“And you wanted more?”

Robby was still, the flecks of the stain coming off under his nail.

“Want more?” Jack corrected.

He nodded.

“And did you tell her that?”

It was rather annoying, sometimes, how well Jack knew him.

“I didn't have to.”

“I think you did. You still do,” said Jack. “Just talk to her man, tell her how you feel-”

Robby shook his head at once. “- no-”

“Robby. Brother,” said Jack with a firm pat on his back. “I've seen how you look at her. I've seen how she looks at you. Take it from me, it would be a waste to let that go.”

He didn't want to let it go, but Robby didn't know how to hold on either.

“Hey, big bosses!” Lena called. “Got major trauma's coming, hotel caught fire. We're the closest hospital, Westbridge can only take two traumas and ten minors.”

“Send them our way, I'll round up the crawlers!” said Jack already sliding into his professionalism.

“I'll hang around then,” said Robby, almost spitefully proving a point to Jack. That he didn't need to go home.

“I'm giving you an hour.”

An hour was all he needed.

A flood of people, most in their sleep wear, robes hastily thrown and tied up flooded in. Many were covered in ash, faces grey or pale. They were checked over for smoke inhalation, nobody got through without a stethoscope to their chest and back. There was a family of four who's father was being treated for bad burns. An elderly man with cancer that was put up to south eighteen, chefs from the small hotel kitchen that were being seen for burns, damage to their lungs and everything else.

“I told you! I told you!” one of them shouted, accent foreign to Robby. “That place is a death trap! It was just waiting to go up in flames!”

Robby stepped out and decided to let them argue, tugging of gloves and fetching another pair from the always stocked box on the wall. “Is that everyone?”

“Just one more, pulling up now!” said Lena, yelling over the chaos the ED had turned into to.

Just one more. That heavy set of exhaustion was starting to settle in his feet, making them ache. It was nearing one in the morning, in five hours time he'd need to be up and heading in.

He thought it was the need for sleep that had him hearing your voice.

“Mark Tellon, on his seventies, severe smoke inhalation and asthma attack. No signed nasal hair, his pulse ox is at eighty-four wet crackles bilaterally!”

There was no such thing as dreaming.

Robby stumbled at the sight of you in bottoms that were too long for you, in a cartoon character he couldn't name, in a shirt that drowned you. He guessed it was once white but was stained in ash and smoke, as was your face and hair.

You wheeled in the man with the paramedics and Robby stepped just ahead.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“Hotel caught fire, quick evacuation, this is everyone,” you listed, clinically.

“You were there?”

You glanced up at him as the bed of the old man was wheeled by the two of you. He watched your face fall, smudging ash as you wiped at your forehead. “Er-”

Robby didn't care for the answer. Well, he did but not when your eyes were hazy, skin clammy and smoke and ash covered you. His hands climbed at your cheeks, holding you there and looking into your eyes. “Have you been checked over?”

“Urm, no I'm fine-”

“C'mon-”

“What? Robby!” you protested even as his fingers wrapped around your forearms, dragging you across the floor and past patients waiting for consults and doctors and nurses clearly rushed off their feet.

There was no spare room available but the family room so Robby took you there, where it was empty, and closed the door behind him.

You were stuck, again, alone with Robby. Exactly the place you'd tried not to be. But he'd closed the door behind him, zoned in on you with that tight crease of worry between his brows.

You stood there, holding onto yourself.

Robby made you follow his finger with your eyes, his other hand steadying your cheek as he watched you. “Any dizziness?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He took his penlight out from his pocket of tricks next, shining the light and checking your pupil response, you knew how it all worked and let him go through the motions. “You inhaled smoke?” he asked.

“Probably. I was trying to make sure everyone got out, first.”

There was a tut from his lips but a small upturn in his cheeks.

“Course you were,” he mumbled, ditching the pen light when he was done with it.

“Honestly, I'm fine, I'll just need a shower.”

Robby was already making his way behind you, warming up the drum of his stethoscope in the palm of his hand. Still, when you felt the brush of his rough fingertips skirting over the skin of your back and the metal pressing along, you shivered. “Breathe in.”

You took a deep breath in, Robby's eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

“Breathe out.”

You did everything he said.

He moved so he was in front of you, sliding the stethoscope down the front of your shirt, closer over the drum of your heart.

Robby's eyes remained lower, not meeting your gaze. “Breathe in.”

Your chest expanded into his hand.

“Your heart's racing,” he observed.

You swallowed down the feeling of him so close. “Yeah. Probably. Been a crazy night.”

Gently his hands smoothed down your arms, sitting you down on the leather chairs as he set himself on the small coffee table in front of you.

“Want to tell me why you were at the hotel to begin with?” he asked, elbows rested on his knees and hands clasped together. “Cause I can come up with my own ideas and I don't like them.”

Lying to him had proved a silly task time and time again.

“My apartment isn't actually ready to be lived in yet,” you admitted, low in your throat and looking down to his hands. The only update you had from your apartment was that it would take another week, followed by a hopefully.

“No?” he said in fake disbelief.

You shook your head. “I just guessed I'd out stayed my welcome, you wanted to be alone.”

“No,” he said. “No, you didn't. You could've stayed.”

You eyed Robby. “You didn't really seem like you wanted me there anymore.”

You watched as he sighed, shoulders slumping.

Robby's fingers thread and un-thread. “It wasn't like that.”

“I mean did I- did I do something?” you asked, a spew of words ready at the barrel of your gun. “I thought we were okay.”

“So did I,” he said, bringing up his gaze and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “So did I.”

“Then what?”

Robby pushed himself up, hands flying to the back of his head and patting down his hair. His boots scuffed against the floor as he paced the area small and not built for pacing. “I thought things were going really well,” he admitted, hands making a weak gesture between the two of you. “I thought there were moments.”

“There were!” you opposed, quickly.

Was this a chance you'd been looking for? Was he wanting you to say there was something more? That the touches and everything else meant something.

He looked at you, arms pulling over his chest. “But we're just friends, right?”

There was a way he was saying it, a bite to his words like a dog barking, trying to make a point. Just friends.

With your head spinning you remembered another time of saying those words. You remembered Santos's teasing (really it was hard to pick one particular moment out from it all) and Javadi there too. You remembered their teasing grins, asking you about benefits-

And how Robby forced the tablet in between the three of you.

Your head hung, hands wiping away the stress. “Oh god.”

Robby waited.

“Oh god,” your voice came out muffled by your own hands. “Robby-”

“Yeah, I started to like you,” he said, trying to make it all seem like it was no big deal, body moving to shake it of. “I shouldn't, I know. I'm your boss, you're the resident, you were staying with me as a guest.”

“Robby, I-” you pushed yourself up, making your way around the table.

“- and you made it very clear to Doctor Santos and Doctor Javadi-”

“- they were teasing me, it was- it was nothing. I didn't mean it! I mean, they'd been teasing me for weeks, they were just annoying me.”

His body moved in his breath as looked at you. “You don't have to lie.”

“I'm not!”

“You lied about your place. Instead you chose a hotel, one that was a death trap, apparently.”

“I thought you hated me!”

“No, I want you!”

“And I want you!” you yelled.

“You didn't tell me.”

“Well, you didn't tell me.”

Robby scoffed. “Yeah, I'm the one who's supposed to have communication issues, sweetheart.”

Within seconds you had thrown yourself into Robby's arms, practically leaping atop him and kissing him. His lips were frozen, body waking up slowly as his arms curled around your back, holding you in. You could feel the scrunch of his noise and the scrape of his beard as he didn't kiss you back.

You pulled away, keeping your eyes down.

Just because he wanted you, because you wanted him didn't mean throwing yourself at him (literally!) was going to work.

“I-I'm sorry, I thought-”

His hands drowned your face as he pulled you back in, head dipping low to lick his tongue into you. He pressed his mouth into your, letting his tongue in your mouth. His hands tilted your head back, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he reacted to you at once.

Your hands tugged a hold of his hoodie, bending him further along you while his hands slowed down your body, cupping your backside and digging his fingers in.

Some noise made its way out the back of his throat, groaning into your mouth.

“Are we-” you said against his lips. “Mmp; are we doing this right now?”

“Doing what?” He mumbled, tilting his head to nudge your mouth open deeper.

You smiled against him. “Making out in the family room?”

“God, I hope so.”

His mouth was open, warm and welcoming as he kissed you harder, finding parts of you nobody had ever found before.

“I meant it,” said Robby against you, his tongue running over the tip of your lip. “I want you.”

You nudged your nose with his, arms coming to wrap around the back of his neck. “I mean it. I don’t- we’re not just friends, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, smirking. “I don’t think think friends kiss each other the way I’m about to kiss you.”

while he appreciated the separation between work and life, he understood why attendings like dr. robby got caught in the situations he did. it’s hard to have work and a life when work is your life.

brendon tried hinge, bumble, even tinder. women were too young, or too old, or had too many kids, or demanded more of him than he could provide. it was unfortunate, as he was a creature that craved intimacy, like most, but the beauty of being an orthopedic surgeon was that he didn’t have time to mull over his loneliness. there was always a kid who fell off a tree, or an elderly woman who fell when getting out of her bathtub.

the most brendon could sulk was when actively doing surgery. you could tell a surgeons mood based on what played in the operating room. brendon often played 90’s rock, maybe a little modern rap, drake or gunna. if he were a nicer surgeon he’d let residents add to his playlist, however, he was not that nice, or so he thought.

he and his residents were doing an easy shoulder arthroscopy. brendon liked surgeries like this, especially with his favorite nurse back from leave.

as she is setting up the materials for said surgery, brendon asked:

“how was your trip? we missed you here,” his lips forming a thin line, the closest thing he’d done to a smile in the OR in months.

he only ever gave them to her, his favorite nurse. she arrived to the PTMC fresh from university, wide eyed and bushy tailed, which allowed brendon to mold her into the perfect thing for him, nurse, that is.

“i’m sure you made do without me,” she smiled back before continuing, “it was nice, very sunburnt now,” she hummed.

“barely, need you here” brendon grumbled before flashing a smile under his mask. she nodded in understanding before stepping away from the materials and putting her own mask on.

the surgery had gone well, even better than brendon had expected; that said a lot as he expected perfection.

all the residents could tell when brendon was having a good day, he was lighter on his feet, spared a small smile, even gave a laugh, so as a resident was conducting the last stitches he asked:

“is there any chance someone else can control the music?”

brendon looked up from the cavity in the man’s shoulder to stare at the resident. before he could muster a reply, his favorite nurse jumped in, “change it up with a little taylor swift, what’d ya say sharkie” she grinned, staring at the resident knowing she saved him.

“if you can get nurse y/n to make us a playlist, i’ll play it” he hummed looking at her.

“hmmm you guys don’t want that, gonna hear ‘you want a break from the ads’ seventy times” she giggled as she prepared to leave and get the patients aftercare instructions. a couple residents gave a short, soft, laugh, understanding the pain of not being able to swing the additional $7.99 a month for ad free listening, but thankfully the conversation died there.

the idea didn’t die for brendon though, he wanted to know what she listened to. did she like rap? pop? indie? folk? what concerts would she drag him to if he were hers?

he considered texting her and asking for her spotify, saying he’d taken the residents comment to heart, but she knew him well enough to know he was lying. part of him hated the feeling of wanting her, someone he couldn’t have, but another part, a larger part, relished in the fact that she existed in his world in such a grand way, that he could smell the column of her neck as she stood behind him on her tipy toes to look at an incision site. so he had no plan to stop his crush any time soon.

when he crawled into his expansive bed, alone that night, he broke one of his rules. he used his phone 30 minutes before bed, but he broke an even bigger rule, indulging in a work crush.

he opened his phone and searched her first and last name into spotify, finding nothing. if he was normal he’d end his search here; however, he was far from normal. he opened her instagram and searched her following for her name to find what she called a “spam account” where he was featured on numerous occasions.

he often put up a fight when she took photos of him, but part of him loved it. he loved knowing people scrolled through and saw photos of him, thinking he was hers. he wondered if people saw him and thought he was her boyfriend, or her nice boss, maybe a coworker. he thought he should request to follow the account, but that was a dilemma for another time.

he copied her username and pasted it into spotify to be met with her name and a cute selfie of her.

he hummed taking a screenshot and cropping it to her profile picture. he scrolled through the profile, seeing a playlist of love songs, that she had yet to experience to their fullest, based on the playlist title. he smiled, a real smile, one he’d never show in the OR, imagining himself giving her those experiences, filling all of her “big expectations.”

she’d bring him out of his shell, he’d be happy to dance with her at a concert, carry her on his shoulders at a fair when her boots hurt her feet, cradle her when her shoes gave her blisters. he hummed and added some of her songs to his surgery playlists, come on elieen, with or without you, work song; all songs he could say he found himself, but knew you’d recognize.

he exited that playlist and found another one that made him realize how perverted he was. it was from her college days (he said as if those days weren’t eighteen months ago), a photo of her back in a university of pittsburgh jacket, rationally he knew it was a vintage jacket but part of him was seething at the idea of her having a stupid boyfriend who played football while her were in college.

he knew it’s stupid to be jealous over a man who didn’t even exist. it was even dumber to be possessive over a woman that wasn’t even his, and was 15 years his junior. but the lizard part of his brain didn’t care, and angrily clicked out of the playlist and opened the next.

the photo was an actress he couldn’t name moping like he was over that stupid football player that probably had CTE, if he was even real. the name was “we’re in hell” with the description “having a crush on a guy who doesn’t want you” with three heart eye emojis following the text. he felt defeated. of course she was into someone else, she was a young gorgeous nurse surrounded by fit young residents. after that revelation he decided to put his phone away for the night.

the following day, he was in a bad mood, snarling at residents, barking orders at nurses, avoiding consults like the plague. he was pissed, he wasn’t entitled to her, he knew that, but it pissed him off knowing that she wanted someone in the building, someone as incompetent as his residents.

when she strolled in at 9:30am she set her bag in the nurses station along with her matcha with a bright pink foam on top.

“hi doctor park,” she grinned taking a sip of her beverage, creating a small pink foam mustache.

he looked at her, his eyes softening immediately. a whole room of people and he was the first she looked for.

“what the hell is that?” he asked, he knew what it was, he scrolled her instagram often enough to know exactly what she ordered and where she frequented.

“matcha with strawberry cold foam,” she hummed licking the foam off her lip and thrusting the plastic cup into his hand, “you can have a sip if you want?”

“i’m good on all that. hip replacement at 10:10 in 215. complicated injury, need you in there.”

“heard” she smiled taking another sip before setting it down and rolling up her floral thermal undershirt, another thing park loved.

he loved seeing her femininity, he loved seeing the pink water bottle she had, the strawberry lip gloss she wore, the pink alo sets, the floral and pastel undershirts. he never wanted her to be rough, to turn into him, he loved knowing she was sunshine incarnate and he could protect her from rotten patients and rude residents who haven’t learned their place in brendon park’s clinic.

she went to set up the surgery room as residents lined the wall waiting for their attending to come in. she laughed at their formation as she grabbed all the tools, “you guys can loosen up a bit, he’s not gonna kill ya” she hummed. the senior resident spoke up, “he wouldn’t kill you, but he’d kill us!”

she laughed softly rolling her eyes, “you guys are so dramatic.”

“you don’t understand, this is your domain more than it is doctor park’s. in this building it is you, him, and everyone else. you are the sun of this department and we all revolve around you.”

“and i haven’t been given a cute name like sunshine” she pouted as the patient was wheeled in by the anesthesiologist and his senior resident. park trailed behind them and stepped in behind her, gripping her shoulder whispering, “hi sunshine” as he adjusted his mask.

“hello shark” she smiled looking in a mirror across the room to ensure she didn’t have any hair peeking out of her surgical cap.

as the resident started anesthesia, park opened his phone queuing a playlist, not realizing it was hers from when he stalked her yesterday.

as the surgery began, the music was booming. it wasn’t gunna, or the foo fighters, it was olivia dean. the residents were confused and looking at each other with their eyebrows raised, then looking to her. she shrugged softly looking at the only female resident who was humming along.

“did peg you as an olivia dean fan” she teased looking across the patients groin at park.

“i contain multitudes” he mumbled back, the flush of his face covered by the mask.

“didn’t peg you as a whitman guy,” a resident added.

“not a time for jokes,” park grumbled glaring at the resident.

when the next song was noah kahan, then the next one was olivia rodrigo, everyone in the OR was confused, including brendon. she couldn’t hide the grin on her face as she looked at him, charmed that he had taken the time to look for her spotify of all things.

“is this actually nurse y/n’s playlist” the senior resident asked brendon.

he was embarassed, he felt caught, like some creep trying to find his 20 something nurses spotify.

“yeah!” she grinned back, “he asked me for it when you were begging for a change in music” she looked to brendon, he gave her a curt nod, a silent thank you for saving him. she nodded back, wishing her mask was clear so she could tell him he owed her.

when the surgery was finished she began getting all aftercare directions ready humming along to U2. as the residents cleared she noticed brendon standing there.

“can we talk?” he asked, his voice the softest she’d heard it.

“yeah, what’s up?” she smiled as he killed the music.

“i’m so sorry. finding your personal account was an invasion of privac—“

“i already found yours” she laughed, “no sweat, doctor park” she said drawing out the vowels in his name, the title so sultry coming from her lips.

“you what?”

“yeah? i like knowing what old man stuff you listen to while you do your old man things” she giggled taking off her surgical cap. before he could reply, the door shot.

“dr.park, they need a consult in the ED” a resident said, not seeing the moment he interrupted.

“leaving me for robinavitch, not the first time that’s happened” she pouted.

“idiots,” he grumbled shoving his surgical cap in his pocket.

“if the feeling is mutual, text me, sharkie” she smiled as they left the OR. he nodded before getting called away.

after work he opened his phone to see a text from her already.