please forgive me

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The cold diaphragm of the stethoscope presses against his chest, drawing a slow breath he immediately regrets. Pain blooms along the left side of his ribs, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten before he forces himself to finish the inhale anyway. He'd asked the same thing of countless patients over the years. One more deep breath for me. It sounded a lot easier from the other side of the bed.

"See?" he mutters, voice rough around the edges. "Breathing." The attempt at humor is weak, more reflex than conviction. His eyes remain fixed on the trauma lights overhead until Victoria steps into his field of vision again. Hearing normal breath sounds from her is oddly reassuring, though he'd rather chew glass than admit it out loud. He lets out a careful breath as the stethoscope lifts away, feeling another throb from his shoulder with the movement of the mattress beneath him.

"I still had the right of way," he says again, quieter this time, less defensive than before. It isn't an argument anymore. Just a fact he can't seem to let go of. After a beat, the corner of his mouth twitches into the faintest, tired smile. "You know..." His eyes flick briefly toward the ceiling before settling ahead again. "This is probably the worst patient satisfaction survey I've ever been part of."

His eyes narrow at the phrase your only job, a look that would normally have a resident rethinking every life choice they'd ever made. It lands with considerably less authority when he's flat on a trauma stretcher with a cervical collar keeping his head fixed in place. A slow breath escapes through his nose instead, ending in a wince as his ribs protest the effort. His left shoulder throbs in a deep, relentless ache that radiates down his arm every time the stretcher shifts, and the cut along his temple has started to sting now that the adrenaline is wearing off. Blood has dried against the side of his face, pulling uncomfortably whenever he blinks.

"I really hate being on this side of the bed," he mutters. The complaint is aimed at no one in particular, but whenever Baran steps into his field of vision, his eyes instinctively find her. Watching her move through the trauma bay with the same calm confidence he'd watched a hundred times before feels strangely different when she's the one giving orders about him. There isn't a hint of hesitation in her voice, no uncertainty in her hands. She simply takes over. Part of him wants to argue. The other part—the quieter, far more inconvenient part—finds the certainty reassuring.

A nurse's hands press carefully along his ribs, earning a sharp hiss through clenched teeth before he can stop it. Another begins cleaning the blood from the gash near his temple, the antiseptic burning enough to make his jaw tighten. Robby squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, waiting for the wave of pain to pass before opening them again as Baran comes back into view. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.

"You're enjoying this far too much," he says, the familiar dry humor surfacing through the discomfort. "I spend years telling patients to sit still and cooperate, and the universe decides this is how I learn my lesson." His gaze remains fixed on her for another second before drifting back to the ceiling. "...Don't let Gloria hear about this until I'm discharged. I'd like to keep at least a little of my dignity."

The transfer sends a bolt of pain through his left shoulder and across his ribs, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His jaw locks against the sound that threatens to escape as the backboard slides free beneath him, every movement reminding him just how hard the sedan had hit. The cervical collar keeps his head fixed toward the ceiling while bright trauma lights blur overhead, leaving him to track people only when they step into his line of sight.

The flash of the trauma shears catches his attention a second before the nurse reaches for his jacket.

"Oh, come on," he groans, genuine frustration breaking through everything else. "Not the jacket." His eyes squeeze shut briefly before opening again. "That thing's older than half the residents." He knows exactly what's coming, knows there isn't another option, but it doesn't stop him from trying anyway. "The zipper still works. I can take it off."

Frank's voice cuts through before anyone hesitates for long. Robby listens in silence, jaw tightening as the words sink in. Damn him. Because he's right. If their positions were reversed, Robby wouldn't have tolerated a second of arguing either. He'd have cut the jacket without asking, ordered every scan he thought was necessary, and lectured the patient the entire time.

"Yeah," he mutters finally, the fight draining into reluctant resignation. "I know." He waits until Frank steps back into view before adding, dry as ever, "Doesn't mean I have to make it easy for you." A moment later the first slice of the shears bites through the leather, and he lets out a long, deeply offended sigh. "That jacket and I have been through a lot together."

The ratchet clicks once more before another bolt finally gives way beneath steady pressure. Robby leans back on the rolling stool with a quiet exhale, wiping the back of his wrist across his forehead and leaving a fresh streak of grease along his temple without realizing it. The garage is warm despite the evening air creeping in through the open door, the scent of motor oil hanging beneath the low hum of an old radio somewhere in the background. He'd planned on spending an hour out here after shift—just enough time to lose himself in something with predictable parts before the hospital inevitably found a way back into his head.

He never hears Bill pull into the driveway.

The first indication that he isn't alone comes when fingers hook into the front of his shirt. His head lifts on instinct just as he's pulled forward, surprise flashing across his face a heartbeat before Bill's lips meet his. The wrench slips from his fingers and clatters harmlessly onto the concrete, forgotten almost immediately. Robby's free hand comes up without thinking, settling against Bill's waist as he returns the kiss, slow and familiar, the tension he'd been carrying since clocking out easing in a way no amount of time with the motorcycle had managed.

When they finally separate, he doesn't move very far. His forehead lingers against Bill's for a moment, a quiet breath leaving him through the hint of a smile that tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Hi," he murmurs back, voice rough from a day spent talking over monitors and ambulance sirens. His eyes flick down over the fist still twisted in his shirt before returning to Bill's face. "You know..." Another small smile. "Most people wave first."

The title hasn't quite settled yet. Robby stands at the nurses' station with a tablet in one hand, eyes drifting between the tracking board overhead and the chart open on the screen. A resident stops beside him with a question, another catches his attention from across the department, and someone calls his name from Trauma Two before he can answer either of them. He handles each interruption almost automatically, but there's a split second afterward where he finds himself looking over his shoulder anyway.

The university library is quieter than the medical school lounge for once, broken only by the occasional turning of a page and the soft tapping of laptop keys. Robby has claimed the corner of a long study table, anatomy notes spread around him in what started as an organized system and has slowly become controlled chaos. A highlighter rests forgotten in one hand while he stares at a diagram that, after twelve straight hours of classes and studying, has somehow stopped making sense altogether.