Pittifully Yours & Frantic

There was this generalised belief that the night shift had it easier than the day crew, by simple virtue of most of the general public being nicely tucked into bed by the early hours of their shift. But you knew better, and couldn’t vehemently shout “BULLSHIT” loud enough in response each time you heard that. 

There was a pace to the night shift that could not be matched by anything dayshifter’s experienced. 

The routine but deep hum that slipped through the halls of the Pitt after 8pm seeped into the nurses’ bay, behind each curtain and across the general vicinity of the ED. That same hum that made all the nurses and doctors alike calmly move through the motion of triaging, treating and discharging the usual cases of the flu, broken bones, asthma treatments, febrile convulsions, concussions and the like. 

The hum that warned that with the appearance of the moon and all its creatures, also came the promise of more wicked crime, more senseless violence, more terrible decision making, a greater loneliness,  and a general sense of the darker side of humanity. 

The hum that promised the most acutely unpredictable cases to come through the Pitt doors like clockwork. 

The hum that meant that seasoned night shifters knew not to trust the calm and routine work of the late afternoon, that the most nefarious shit would come through those ambulance bay doors at any moment and we all must be at the ready. MVAs, drug induced psychosis, drunken brawls, domestic violence outbursts - you name it, the night shifters saw and treated it. 

And without the availability of consults or support from most other departments, bar the exception of Walsh and the surgery department…they truly were the ER cowboys for a reason. 

It’s what kept Ellis and Shen sharp as tacks - quick to be ready, yet cool, calm and often holding a Dunkin cup in hand (for the latter anyway) in the face of any crises. 

It’s also what kept their proverbial commander in chief alive. 

 You could tell Jack lived for the nights. The hum basically emanated off him - ready to jump into action at the whisper of those ambulance bay doors sliding open. 

Each time you’d worked the nights before, you’d learnt something about new about  what gave the night crew the edge. Shen showed you how to adapt to the shift in your sleep schedule more efficiently, Ellis taught you the names and ailments of the frequent flyers…and Abbott…

Well you learnt that Dr Abbott had a fucking staring problem. 

He said very little to you during your time on the night shift - not in a cruel or unusual way. Clearly not intending to hurt your feelings or make you feel excluded. But in a way that a wounded animal would keep strangers at an arm’s distance away. Cautious, wary, perhaps even slightly analytical - trying to understand your motivations and patterns better before warming. 

But you felt him watching you from across the nurses’ bay as you keep up with the irreverant banter of Shen and Ellis. Those eyes seemed to find you and stayed locked in spot, watching you throw your head back in laughter at the ridiculous commentary coming from the other two,  despite the rest of his body indicating that he was meant to be paying attention to the patient board. 

Or watching intently as you receive a homemade chocolate chip muffin from Bridget, who took to you like a mama bird desperately needing to feed a chickling. He watched from behind a monitor nearby, peering over the screen to raise an eyebrow at the usually stiff upper lipped charge nurse. She raised one in return and stared right back, until he caved and a quiet chuckle escaped him. You stood there, eating your muffin in one hand and finishing a chart in the other - completely unaware of the silent conversation around you, about you. 

But you certainly felt the intensity of his gaze in the trauma bays - when you were elbow deep in a young man’s torso, tracking a perforated bowel and calling out orders to the team around you. Or performing CPR on the mother of a newborn who was sent home and came careening back into the ambulance bay with a severe postpartum infection. He didn’t interfere, knew he didn’t need to - just stood in the corner of the trauma bay with his arms crossed, biceps bulging and eyebrows furrowed as he tracked your every movement. All he would do is give you a small, tight nod and a firm call over the beeping monitors -  “Here if you need me, Dr Y/L/N”. 

And you weren’t a moron - you were an R3…there were times where you did need the assist. And you weren’t stupid enough to ignore the offer for help.  So it was only when you called for him that his gloved hands joined yours to stop the bleed in the young man’s abdomen. A few minutes of moving in this rhythmic synchronicity, hands working in tandem to find and fix - and then it’s over. Dr Abbott confirmed that the young guy could be patched back up and sent for observation when the ICU had a bed open up. You start putting down the forceps and suture scissors with a sigh, only to find that Abbott and his bloodied gloves were still standing opposite you over the patient. You look up to find him staring down at you, his eyes already locked in on your face, taking in the flush of adrenaline heating your cheeks and causing your breaths to quicken. 

“Good work, Dr Y/L/N,” he says, the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes seeming to glow while his gaze bore into yours. The ardant approval in his tone was evident. 

Something in your chest hiccuped. 

“Thank you,” you almost whisper back, smiling slightly back. 

Not in a timid or meek way - you were in the depths of your residency, and a quiet confidence was healthy. You knew you had done well…you also just appreciated the validation.

“Appreciated the extra set of hands.”

“Not that you needed it,” he starts taking off his gloves and walking over to the medical waste bin. “Robby was right though.”

You cocked your head to the side in question, walking over to dispose of your own gloves and gown. 

“‘Bout what?”

You can feel his eyes on your face as you try you damndest to avoid his gaze. You pull off your messy gloves with far more care, meticulous caution than you ever have before. The way he looked at you was suffocating. You don’t know how to describe it…it just felt like too much. Too intense. Too earth shattering. 

“How spectacular you are.”

You feel your mouth popped open and you are sure you look like an absolute moron, doing some kind of “fish out of water” impression. 

A few seconds pass and you are absolutely positive you’ve never actually been stunned into silence like this ever before. You normally had some quip quick to arrive on the tongue, normally without rational thought or filtering (which also got you in other sorts of trouble), but right here…

Absolutely nothing. 

Crickets. 

Silence between the ears altogether. 

A small tug on the corner of his lips like he’s repressing a full blown chuckle at the look on your face appears on Abbott’s. 

“Told me I wasn’t meant to try to tempt you “to the dark side”, as he calls it.” He squirts some antibac sanitiser into his hands, rubbing them together as he starts to shoulder the trauma bay door open. 

He pauses. 

“Told him I made no promises.”

Abbot winks and leaves the room. 

Winks. 

Then leaves. 

God this man confused the ever living shit out of you. 

He went from basically only communicating in barked orders and head nods to…flirting with you?

Oh, you’re fucked. 

===================

Today

“Hello, Jack”

You manage to make a polite, if not slightly cold, smile appear as you turn your head to make contact. 

He says nothing. 

Just continues to stare at you, seemingly examining each element of your face. Nose, lips, eyes…hazel gaze slowly dancing over each one and pausing as if searching for changes to parts of you he once knew as intimately as the rest of your body. What’s new. What’s different. What hasn’t changed a single bit. 

His silence causes your chest to constrict in funny ways. You feel an old anxious habit sneak up on you when you start to wring your fingers, suffocating but not willing to show a lick of cowardice in finding an excuse to run from his examination. 

“Is something wrong?”, you try to joke. 

It falls flat. 

“You look different.”

His words are soft, gentler than you’d expected. 

But his eyes still have an edge to them - perplexed, as if he doesn’t recognise some part of you. 

“Yeh, well,” you scoff. “That’s what happens when you get to spend your days off in the actual Californian sun.”

You are aiming for ‘nonchalant’ - but it’s falling more in the realm of ‘sharp and curt’. 

You have to look away, knowing his eyes saw too much. 

You both sit in silence for a while, until the bartender finally makes his way over to collect your orders. 

Jack rattles off both your usual and his, before you even manage to open your mouth. The same order you’d made what feels like a million times, a million years ago. 

“It could’ve changed, you know”, you snap at him sharply, glaring with incredulity in his direction. 

He huffs and looks like he wants to roll his eyes. 

“Doubt it. You’ve been ordering that drink since the day we met.” 

“And I’ve been gone a long time, Jack. Shit changes.”

You can’t seem to help the jagged edge that pricks on each word leaving your mouth. 

The bartender slides both drinks in front of you, while Jack proceeds to slip him some cash. 

“Shit certainly does.” He says, a hardness lacing his tone now too. He picks up his drink, takes a sip and levels you with a look. 

“Especially when you run away in the middle of the night.”

The blow lands square in the middle of your chest, a shock vibrating through you to your core. You feel the fury and ache tremble through to your hands, making your jaw tense and hands ball around your glass. 

Is he fucking serious right now? 

“Are you fucki-“

Your rage is cut short by a hand wrapping around your shoulders, and the distinct perfume you’d recognise anywhere. 

Heather pulls you away by the hand, throwing a quick “Sorry, Jack, need her right now” over her shoulder, and pulling you towards the dancefloor. 

You stand on the edge of it, still glaring at Jack over her shoulder while she seems to be content lacing her cool fingers through yours and trying to get your attention. 

“I love you,” she starts, “and I’ve missed you terribly. But I do not need you and Jack throwing glasses at each other's heads tonight. In fact, no one does.”

Your eyes finally snap to hers. 

“He is being absolutely insuff-“

“Don’t. Start.” She levels you this time with a look you are sure your terror-inducing godson was met with on a daily basis. 

“Need I remind you that this is Dana’s night? She’s been worried about how you two would behave all week, and I’d really hate to tell her she was right…again” Heather chides. 

“No”, you mumble, certifiably shamed by your own petulance. Your lips twist in annoyance, but a small part of you had missed this. 

“Now,” Heather says, face dead straight and staring at you intently. “Do a twirl and show me that hot sun-kissed ass I’ve missed.”

You choke out a laugh, shoving her away at the ridiculousness of it all. 

You both make your way back to the dancefloor and join the others for a while, almost forgotten drink and straw still in your hand. 

“Glad to see you’ve learnt some new moves, cowboy!” You holler at Frank, winking as you watch him try to master a basic heel dig and toe touch with some much needed guidance by Whitticker. 

He flips you off and Mel stifles a giggle behind her hand. 

Heather’s arm wraps around your shoulders as you sway side to side to the beat, trying your hardest to shake off the residual tension in your body. 

The band kicks up the introduction to a new song, a slower one. One you’d heard crooned over the radio recently and had added to the playlist that blared in your headphones on the plane ride over. 

You sing along on the dance floor, loudly and to the absolute amusement of your friends to the opening verse. Your antics had caught the eye of the moustached singer in the band, who extended a hand up to the stage in invitation to join him. 

Fuck it, you thought, throwing back the remnants of your drink before shoving it in Santos’ outstretched hand. 

To be clear, you knew you weren’t fooling anyone for Mariah or Beyonce - or even close by any stretch of the imagination. But you knew you could hold a note or two, and so did a select few others in the audience who attended karaoke night in the past. Said select few, Dana, Samira, Shen and Heather included, were now hollering, while the others looked on in equal parts wild confusion and amazement as you were passed the other microphone. 

But I wonder when you’re drinking if you find yourself thinking 

About that boy from East Tennessee 

You sing alongside the singer with the guitar, the beat of the drums guiding your feet across the stage. You wink at Whitticker with that last line, flicking your hair over your shoulder dramatically for good measure. 

You felt ridiculous - but good. 

And god, it felt good to feel this free. 

But you also felt the weight of his stare from across the room, still pounding through the air, as the force of the next line slipped from your lips and stop you in your tracks. 

And you sought him out, locking eyes fuelled by despair and a little of that fury that you thought you shook off earlier. 

And I know we both knew better, but we still said forever

And that was seven summers of Coke and Southern Comfort 

Were we dumb or just younger, who knows? 

He stared back, twin flames of shattering torment, shame and flecks of agony rippling at the daggers you crooned his way. 

Back then you used to love the river and sippin’ on a Sixer with me

Does it ever make you sad to know, that was seven summers ago? 

And while it hadn’t been seven summers ago exactly, you became particularly, painstakingly aware of the truth in the lyrics. 

A few summers ago and you thought you had found peace. 

Found a home. 

Found love. 

Perhaps it was just being dumb and younger after all. 

You saw it on Jack’s face too as he pressed his back against the bar, right in the spot you left him. 

While his words had been sharp, equally sharp as yours, his eyes gave him away. 

Even from this distance, you could see the painful parallels racing through his mind. 

Your reprieve from the trance you found yourself in with Jack came in the form of Princess, stealing the microphone away and making eyes at the lead singer as she took over the next verse. 

You snap back into focus on the crowd directly ahead of you, cheering on as the song continued. 

But the overhead lights felt too heavy, and the floor too sticky, as you made your way down the stairs beside the stage. Blood rushes your ears, and your hands start to shake as you make your way down,  Heather already moving to meet you where the stage meets the dancefloor. 

You shake your head at her and point to the smoking area out the front of the bar, signalling your targeted location. You see her brows furrow in concern, twinged with slight disapproval of your age old habit, but she nods nevertheless - understanding that you need a second alone. 

Because all your brain continues to chant is get out, get out, get out as you move quickly towards the front door. 

You feel the ghost of calloused fingertips on your bare hips, the light scruff of beard caressing your throat, and the smell of pine ravishing your senses as memories flood your nervous system. 

Get out, get out, get out 

A crooked smile, and soft, warm eyes staring down at you, a featherlight finger grazing from your temple, down your cheek, all the way to your thigh. 

Get out, get out, get out

The vision of those same eyes that had been following you all night, but this time filled with utter confusion, hurt and looking like a literal wound had been ripped open as you coldly slam your apartment door closed in his face. 

Get out, get out, get out

You wretch the bar’s front door open and step out as your breath shudders into a puff of cold air in front of you. 

Get out, get out, get out

This has been a fucking mistake. 

And yet you continued to stare at the dark oak doors, adorned with brushed brass knobs, almost as if waiting for it to magically come to life and tell you to hurry up and come in from the cool Pittsburgh winds.

‘This is such a dumb idea,’ you mumble under your breath. But it’s not like you were here of your own volition - hell, you hadn’t even stepped foot in a Honky Tonk bar before. And never even realised this particular one existed in the countless years you resided in Pittsburgh.

But for Dana, you’d move mountains. Three weeks ago, your email tone had ‘bing’ed on your phone and you couldn’t stop the smile that had pulled softly at your mouth once you read the name of the sender.

‘Hey kid,

Would love it if you can make it, understand if you can’t though. Miss you.

Big hugs,

Dana’

The email attachment was clearly (and very cleverly) designed by one of her daughters, decorated in old school, Western movie-style fonts, outlines of cowboy boots, and spelling out the pertinent birthday party details. It stated that it was a big one for Dana, but didn’t specify an exact number. Not that it particularly mattered - no one would dare ask Dana anyway.

But that was how you found yourself on the sidewalk in front of the bar, decked out in an old band t-shirt, one of those little skirts with fringes dangling down the sides sitting just above your knees, and a pair of black heeled boots. Still, rooted in place, heart skipping in a way that you knew was anxiety and not something more concerning, and still frowning at the door to the damn place.

A little voice in your head just echoed the sentiments from before, about how stupid this was, how it could become a really awkward night, and how being gone for 3 years might make this more un-welcoming than you’d ever imagined.

But a more certain thought came to the forefront of your consciousness, with clarity and sincerity - ‘for Dana’.

And so you took a deep breath, a few steps towards the entrance and turned the door handle to the bar.

********************************************************************************************************

The inside of ‘The Two Step’ was dimly lit, but still emitted a warm glow. Various glowing beer brands, photos of famous country music legends and more neon letters spelling out cheesy phrases on across the walls. Fairy lights stream above the dance floor, and in front of the hardwood floors that are scuffed from years of stomping boots, is a live band covering what you recognise as a modern country song from the long drive that got you here.

And as you take in the faint smell of leather, sweet barbecue grease from the kitchen and stale beer, you hear your name shouted from further in and snap your head forward to see a huge, lopsided grin on the beautiful blonde walking your way, arms already outstretched.

You step into the hug that exuded warmth - maternal, loving and cherished in every sense of the word.

“It’s been too long, kid. We’ve seriously missed you.” Dana whispers to you.

“And I can’t believe you let them throw you a cowboy-themed 21st birthday again”, you reply, mirth dripping all over your words as Dana pulls away to scan your face. Her eyes bore into every part of you, ignoring your teasing and scanning, as if you needed medical clearance to stay at her birthday party.

“If I buy you enough tequila shots tonight, do we get to see you on the mechanical bull?” you continue, while she finishes appraising you, seeming to find some kind of answer in your face that she’s semi-content with in her evaluation and throws you a wry smile.

“Fuck no, ain’t enough tequila in the world for that shit.” she scoffs, cocking an eyebrow at the sight of the massive mechanical bull penned off in the corner of the bar.

“But I reckon if we team up and give Whiticker just enough,” she continues, pinching her fingers together to show the fine balance of her proposal, “he’ll have the ride of his life.”

You throw your head back as a wicked cackle escapes you and the glint in Dana’s eyes turn from scheming to warm concern in a matter of milliseconds. Her hands are on the top of your arms, almost as if she wants to keep you glued in place.

“Seriously though, you doin’ okay over in California, hon?”

“I’m okay, promise” you breathe, a light smile tugging at your lips at the sight of her worry. “Seriously, it’s not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. The sun’s always out, the food is amazing, and the hospital I’m at is great. But the charge nurse could probably use some of your pizzazz.”

You wink at her, but your attempt to appear blasé falls flat as the worry still reigns supreme over Dana.

“Okay,” she says with an almost sigh, “just don’t go turning into one of those assholes doing dog yoga on the beach with a kale smoothie. Then I’ll know I’ve lost ya forever.”

“Never”, you whisper in a hushed, solemn voice - nodding your head and making direct eye contact like it’s the most serious vow you’ve ever sworn.

She nods her head back at you, seeming to shake off the air of concern.

“Come on, kid, there’s a few people that have been itching to see you”, Dana says. She leads you by the hand further into the bar, and you look up to see a few familiar faces sprinkled throughout different sections of the venue.

You smile at the thought of all these people here to celebrate Dana; an ode to the woman she was and the way in which people gravitate around her.

You almost crash into her as she suddenly stops and spins towards you again, face pulled into a grimace and realisation suddenly dawning in those eyes.

“What now?” you joke, eyebrows pulled upwards in surprise - Dana was never caught off guard. Her face grimaced a little, looking like she was dreading whatever she was about to say. You stood there in silence with her for a second, face confused but waiting for her to spit whatever it was out.

“Jack’s here, y’know”, she mentions in a soft exhale. She almost cringing at having to tell you this piece of information - a heads up, word of warning, cautionary offering in whatever shape it took.

Not that it mattered, since you already knew.

Less so of a ‘knowing’ and more of a ‘sensing’.

The skin-prickling awareness, heavy and filled with something more than a cursory glance that you had felt as soon as the bell on the bar door had chimed the announcement of your entry. You knew the bell’s chime was too quiet to be heard against the strumming of the band and the voice crooning in the microphone, the laughter and sound of beer glasses clinking to rest on sticky tables around the bar.

But he heard it anyway. You felt those eyes tracking your every movement, head to toe, step by step as you moved through the space - and that felt familiar too.

Like pulling on an old sweater that lay discarded over summer and is picked up as the cooler months creep in. Well worn, sliding over your skin and giving you goosebumps of familiarity. The weight of his gaze from somewhere in this bar was a sensation you knew well.

Revelled and cherished in, once.

Sought out with hunger, even rage sometimes.

And a sensation you didn’t know what to do with anymore.

Your gaze pulls over Dana’s shoulder, sensing that his close proximity in this direction caused the crashing-to-a-halt-to-give-a-warning approach to this whole conversation.

And just as the motion of someone moving away from one of the wooden, circular tables on the opposite side of the bar catches your eye, there you see him.

Staring directly at you from across the room.

Sitting with a few others, cradling a beer glass in his hand and completing ignoring the conversations occurring around him.

Hazel eyes locked on you - pinning you in that spot, not daring to breathe while he holds onto your gaze with a powerful grip. You stare back, rising to the challenge and forcing yourself to suck in a breath.

Seconds that feel like a millennia pass. You’re struggling to gulp down air, and would be worried about the bar having a carbon monoxide poisoning issue with the accompanying head spins you were currently wading through…but you know it was just him. The effect he had on you - gripping, and unending, and unshakeable even with your mightiest efforts.

Those eyes, flecked with green and brown that you knew well, struck a magically fine balance of looking hard and broken at the same time.

The thumping of boots towards and on the dance floor as the band picked up the pace behind you now seemed like a distant echo.

And it isn’t until Dana softly grabs hold of your arm, gently saying your name in a tone that’s not unlike soothing a child, that you finally snap out of it.

You were prepared for this, this little voice echoes in your head. He’ll probably avoid you, and you stay as far away as possible, and it’ll all be fine.

You force your eyes to make contact with Dana’s, who has evidently returned to the state of worry and concern you had literally just appeased with your smiles and jokes earlier.

“It’s fine, Dana” you say, the most superficially composed smile growing on your face.

You berate yourself into projecting an easy calm in your voice, ignoring the twitching of your fingers and repressing the urge to cross your arms and curl into yourself. God, it was her birthday - she didn’t need to be fretting on you like this.

“We’re all big boys and girls here. It’s really not a problem!”

Fuck, if only your voice hadn’t squeaked at the end of that sentence and given away the cracks in your false confidence.

Dana’s eyebrow furrowed again, eyes squinting and seemingly assessing the bullshit you were pouring forth. Equally assessing whether now was a good time to call you on it.

“Listen, if-“

A squeal accompanied by arms wrapped around you quite literally yanked you from the conversation, spinning your around and finding the face of one Cassie McKay.

“I can’t believe you made it” she semi-squealed, pulling you into a fierce hug. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this face!”

You hear Dana sigh, followed by a familiar male voice as you’re pulled from Cassie’s arms.

“Hey! Stop hogging her!” Frank bellowed, only semi-joking. You are again torn from Cassie’s embrace into the quick but tight one from Langdon, smiling and winking over his shoulder at Mel.

“Jesus, can you stop pulling me around like a rag doll please? You’re gonna give a girl a complex!”, you chuckle.

Frank’s stint at rehab had left him angry at the world - torn between hating himself for every misstep that landed him there, and everyone else around him. As soon as you had heard about it all though (via your group chat with Princess and Perlah), you started messaging him across the platforms. Text, Instagram, Facebook, you name it. Initially, you were thoroughly iced out - 3.5 weeks of complete and utter silence on his end in response to your incessant, one-sided jabbering. It took an absolutely repugnant TikTok video link to a video comparing animals with their celebrity look-alikes that finally broke the ice.

“Are you sure you aren’t the one who should be monitored 24/7 and in a 12 step program right now?”, was all you got back from Frank. But you knew it was enough to remind him that the sibling-like bond you had forged in the trenches of the Pitt were not forgotten to time or distance. And so you kept it up, sending him inane videos and memes, knowing it would make him scoff a laugh and question your sanity - even after his time at the facility was done and he had returned to work.

“You look pretty good for someone who spent 6 months in a padded cell,” you joke, still holding onto his shoulders.

“It was rehab, you asshole, not a goddamn asylum from the 1950s.” He replies, shaking his head but still laughing quietly.

“Whatever. Just count yourself lucky Mel seems to like them a little bit coo-coo…”

You make circle motions on the side of your head in the universal sign for “crazy”, winking and laughing as you duck behind Frank to give Mel a warm hug (and sweep stealthily away from an arm gesture you knew meant he was coming to pull and / or mess up your hair).

Mel giggled into your shoulder as you said hello, and you fist-bumped a greeting to Whitaker who stood behind her shoulder.

You hear Dana’s name being called from a distance, and wave her off with a ‘go, go’ motion while you caught up with the rest of the group that had corralled around you, smiling in re-assurance to the charge nurse to take her leave comfortably.

Before you know it, a glass was dangling in front of your face, connected to a familiar arm stretched over your head. You reach the glass filled with what looks to be your standard drink order, and turn to find Robbie with a small, hesitant smile on his face.

“Hey there, stranger.” He quips, “Reckon it’s my turn for a hello hug?”

You could spot the awkwardness on him from a mile away. The drink was the alcoholic equivalent to an “I come in peace” sign to an alien - cautious, attempting to be friendly, but fully prepared to be rebuked.

A part of you that had hardened over the years cracked, seeping a slight warmth into your veins at the sight of him expecting to be shunned by association.

You pulled him into a death grip - eyes welling a bit, and a deep breath echoing through you at the friend, the mentor, the truest kind of family you used to know wrapping his arms around you.

“I tried to call,” he mumbled weakly into your shoulder, almost pathetically.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you whispered back.

“I thought you hated me.” He replies pathetically.

You pull away, connecting his slightly watery gaze to yours.

“Never.”

You quickly dab at your face, making sure mascara wasn’t leaking from the outpouring of love you never expected to be graced with in his bar, while Robbie makes quick work to do the same on his zip up jacket sleeve.

“Now,” you begin, “where is my ridiculously hot best friend who happens to be married and spawning offspring with you?”

“Putting said offspring turned hellion to bed before the babysitter arrives,” he chuckles.

You smack his arm and gasp, putting an exaggerated hand to your chest.

“Don’t you dare speak about my godson like that. He is a ray of sunshine and I’ll hear nothing else on the matter.” You defend, frowning at him with a threat in your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Robbie replies, shaking his head, “tell that to me when he’s standing over you, breathing heavily and whispering about chicken nuggets under his breath at 3am while you’re trying to sleep.”

You cackle at the vision of it all, laughing harder at the thought of Gray’s curly head of hair and deep chocolate eyes looming above Robbie every night like something that needed to be exorcised.

“Heaven help me when she gets here…” he begins rubbing a hand up and down his face, the picture of exhaustion at their years of antics together.

“Ahhh shut up, you’ve missed me,” you chide, softly elbowing his stomach after he turns to stand beside you and his arm wraps around your shoulder.

Robbie sighs deeply.

“We really have, Y/N. We really have.”

You smile quietly, before Robby continues.

“And not just the day shift…”

Your sharp intake of breath is enough for Robbie to know he’s said too much, or the wrong thing altogether. His eyes are tainted with an apology - but also a truthfulness that makes you clench your glass and take a deep sip of your drink through the straw.

His saviour comes in the form of an arm looped through yours, Cassie’s, as she drags you to the dancefloor. And as you pull away from Robbie, your bittersweet smile at him lets him know he’s off the hook.

He raises his own glass in a soft motion and nods, seemingly making his way to the back of the room before disappearing from view altogether.

You are spun in your boots on the sticky dancefloor, tassels on your skirt swaying as you join the group dancing to the band. Mel, Frank, Cassie, Dennis, Trinity, Samira, Javadi and Matteo clap, holler, stomp and step to the country jam being belted out on the guitars and drums in front of you all. You give the four you hadn’t seen yet a quick ‘hello’ and warm smile, turned quickly into a full on belly laugh and cackle as Whitaker whips out a quick country two-step and some moves that were evidently reminiscent of his farm boy youth. Jaws drop and suddenly he’s giving them all a crash course in Line Dancing 101, Frank surprisingly struggling the most.

And this right here, this sense of joy, wholehearted, unabashed, and enveloping, had been missing from your sunny, Californian existence.

You signal that you’re headed to the bar with your empty glass, and turn to make the short walk over. Stepping up to the bar top, you signal the barkeep in a Stetson who promises to head over to you next.

And then it hits you. The goosebumps and tingling - the sensing you had picked up on before. But this time stronger, more intense and evidently triggered by the final steps closer of a presence to your left that you’d be able to spot in the dark without any light.

The smell of him alone almost caused your knees to wobble, held up straight only by your nails that had seemed to embed themselves into the sticky wood of the bar top.

Looking straight ahead at the selection of top shelf spirits, your brain felt like it was misfiring a chant that wouldn’t manifest.

He’ll ignore you, you ignore him.

He’ll ignore you, you ignore him.

He’ll ignore you, you ignore him.

But there was no ignoring the warmth exuding from the body that was a whisper's distance from yours now, seemingly intent on causing your heart to palpate, almost to the point of medical intervention. Your hands were getting clammier by the second, knowing that the eyes boring into the side of your face had once been softened through gentle caresses and whispered confessions.

He says nothing, but from your peripheral you can see the sculpted frame leaning on the bar top, elbows on a sticky surface, fingers intertwined, solid forearms with a bulging vein as though it took physical might to restrain himself from touching you. And while every element of his body looked the picture perfect portrayal of composure, she knew that those hazel eyes wouldn’t be pointed with rage, or fury, or pleading at the same line of vodka and scotch on the bar wall that you would be. They would be squarely and firmly placed on you.

So in a move so wildly stupid, so incessantly moronic, and against every fibre in your being telling you to run from a world of pain in those hazel eyes, you turn your head so that you are face to face.

And the most juxtaposing cacophony of cold hard steel, pain and anger flares as he takes in your face from this distance.