summary: you are samira’s roommate and a baker! what happens when you start to fall for her married bosses jack abbot and michael robinavitch?
a/n: only 8 spots left on taglist and then it’s CLOSED
part eight: apple crisp
your pov:
jack’s pov:
your pov, from jack’s phone:
robby’s pov:
The emergency department is as busy as ever, and Robby can feel a headache building at his temples. The day’s been no more awful than usual, but he’s been so eagerly awaiting the return of Jack’s embrace and the coffee you promised to bring him that it’s felt exceptionally long. Unwillingly, he might admit that it’s more than just your coffee that he’s looking forward to, but also you. Still, he’ll never say it out loud.
When his phone begins to buzz up a storm, the messages coming from the pitt groupchat, he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed- especially not when his husband’s phone has been commandeered by you. Your little jabs don’t annoy him but make him smile like he hasn’t in a while. He knows Dana catches him grinning at his phone at least once- her eyebrows cocking as she smirks knowingly.
It’s truly a relief when you and Jack walk through the emergency bay carrying bags of food. Robby rushes forward to ease your burden and you sigh (cutely), rolling your eyes.
“I can handle it, you know. You should really help your husband.”
“He can handle it just fine. You don’t need to be doing our labor.”
Robby grabs some of the bags and heads towards the break room, residents and other doctors’s noses turning towards the delicious smell of food. The three of you are quick to pull the food out, and it feels a bit domestic despite it being inside the hospital. You fit right into his and Jack’s rhythm and a warm sensation spreads through his chest.
Chaos descends upon the break room as nurses and doctors alike collect their meals and a slice of your peach cobbler. Groans of satisfaction and soft murmurs of laughter fill the space as the day and night shift share in a few minutes of joy and peace.
As Robby observes Santos and Whittaker bicker over who gets which piece of cobbler, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to find you peering up at him, a small smjke on your face.
“I brought your coffee. I didn’t know exactly what you liked but I went based off your aura.”
The brunette chuckles, accepting the iced drink you push into his hands. Admittedly, he’s never touched one of those icy, sugary heart attacks so fondly loved by the younger staff, but he accepts it because you made it.
“Grumpy and reckless, right?”
You nod with an unimpressed sigh, “very difficult to work with, by the way.”
Robby grins around his straw, taking a hearty sip. He’s pleasantly surprised by the mix of flavors on his tongue- the earthy taste of coffee layered with hints of vanilla and salted caramel. It really is good and he can see what the hype is all about.
You raise your brows expectantly, “well?”
“It’s good.”
Your smile widens and Robby thinks he’d like to see that look on your face more often, rather than the disgusted one you used to give him or the teasingly unimpressed one you’ve begun giving him more recently.
“I knew you’d like it!” Your voice softens, “I also…having something else for you.”
He narrows his brown eyes suspiciously, “and what’s that?”
“Well,” you huff, “I still refuse to make you apple pie after Jack’s little stunt. But I did want to make you something, as a thank you.”
“Thanks for what?” Jack interjects, sidling up next to Robby and wrapping his arm around his waist.
“For dinner the other day, for this tonight.”
“There’s no need to thank us, sweetheart,” Robby says, the nickname slipping past his lips before he can stop it.
You fluster slightly and he can tell it annoys you. You turn on your heel and pick up a container from the table, offering it towards the couple, “here- my mom’s famous apple crisp. It’s best warm. That way you still get something apple, but I don’t have to ignore my morals to make you a pie.”
Jack laughs and squeezes your shoulder, “we appreciate your sacrifice.”
When Robby does have some of the apple crisp later, he notes that the spice of the cinnamon mixed with the warmth and sweetness of the apple reminds him a whole lot of you.
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Summary: You don’t take the breakup with Jack Abbot well. You find yourself walking aimlessly around the city, until you stumble upon a bar that you always used to go to with him. You end up drinking too much and making phone calls that you definitely shouldn’t be making.
Note: The reader in my story is named Reid!
Word count: 4590
Your apartment was empty.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you had grown to the noises and chaos of the Pitt. In the Pitt there was always someone yelling, someone complaining, someone screaming. There were always sounds of monitors blaring, orders being yelled, people calling for help.
But your apartment was empty.
The emptiness pressed in, making the silence almost painful.
After everything you’d been through over the last few days you knew that you should have felt relieved to be home.
But you didn’t.
You just felt empty.
You checked your phone.
7:47 AM
No notifications.
You were so tired the numbers on the screen blurred together, but you knew you had to shower first. You had to erase this day from your body.
But you didn’t move away from the window for a long while.
Like you were waiting for something.
Or someone to come back.
But no one came.
And you were alone.
———
The water spraying from your old shower head was hot enough to burn. But you didn’t care. You stepped underneath anyway, letting the water assault your body.
The steam quickly filled the bathroom, and you closed your eyes.
But as you did, you remembered another shower room, another time, with Jack keeping you company. You remembered how he had gotten down on his knees. How he had-
Abbot, you reminded yourself.
Your stomach clenched.
He wasn’t Jack to you anymore.
He wasn’t your Jack anymore.
He wasn’t there to tease you, or wink at you, or dance with you.
He wasn’t there to calm your nerves or call you sweetheart.
You finished with your shower as quickly as you could after that.
———-
Your stomach grumbled painfully when you emerged from your shower.
God, when was the last time you’d eaten?
You remembered the protein bars that Jack would slip you mid shift. They seemed to always taste better when they came from him.
You opened your cupboard absentmindedly, eyes scanning over the meagre ingredients. Your eyes skipped over the box of protein bars. You purposefully ignored the pringles.
You settled on a quick sandwich.
The food tasted like ash in your mouth.
Halfway through chewing, you pulled your phone out.
9:01 AM
Mel 8:42 AM: Oh my god I wish you were here today!! I’ve got to work on a fractured tibia and fibula!! And I saw a compound fracture of the femur!! Different guys. It was awesome.
Trinity 8:53 AM: I will never understand the stupidity of men. You should see the state of these brothers after they decided to wrestle. The prize was the last chocolate bar in their fridge. And get this: it was expired.
Trinity 8:54 AM: in 2017
Huffing a small laugh at the juxtaposition of the two messages, you quickly replied back to your friends.
Still no messages from Jack though. Abbot.
You mentally berated yourself for the slip.
There was no messages from Jack and there wasn’t going to be any more from him.
You finished your sandwich in silence.
————
You tried to sleep.
You really did.
You pulled your curtains closed, tucked your blanket to your chin and closed your eyes.
But no matter how long you laid there, you couldn’t get the image of sad green eyes out of your mind.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation in the truck.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the way Robby’s dark eyes had widened when he’d caught you.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Jack’s hands.
Or his mouth.
You just couldn’t stop thinking.
You tossed and turned until you were motion sick.
By two in the afternoon, you’d completely given up on the idea of sleep and decided to get outside and go for a walk.
Maybe that would quiet your mind.
Exercise was meant to be good for you, right?
Certainly better for you than laying in bed thinking about men you could never have.
You quickly changed and made your way outside. The air was warm, seeing as it was just after the middle of the day, but you enjoyed the feeling of the sun on your face.
You walked around your block, passing people walking dogs. You had almost congratulated yourself for not thinking about him for five minutes, when a dark truck headed your way, driving down the street next to you.
You turned to watch the truck, unable to help yourself. You stumbled to the side of the road in an attempt to catch a better glimpse of the driver.
Your heart lurched as you noticed that the model was the same, the color identical. But then the truck came close enough for you to notice the driver and your heart dropped.
It wasn’t him.
It was a young woman, and she honked at you when you got too close to the road, almost stepping right in front of the truck.
You jumped back reflexively, your heart in your throat as the truck drove right over where you’d been standing.
What the hell had you been thinking?
Getting that close to the road?
It was like you’d had a death wish or something.
If Jack had been here to see this, he would have killed you himself.
Some small part of you revelled in that. The idea that he would lose it if you got hurt.
But then another thought hit you.
Would he even care?
Would he care if you were hurt?
If you were…worse?
He clearly didn’t care about you if he could so easily dump you like he did.
But then you remembered the devastated look on his face when he’d seen your tears. The way he’d tried to reach for you. The way he’d leaned into your touch. The crack in his voice when he’d told you it would never happen between the two of you.
You decided to walk as far away from the road as you could, lest you get any stupid ideas.
—————
You didn’t know how long you walked for. What you did know was how many notifications you had accumulated on your walk. Exactly zero.
By the time your feet started to really hurt, the sun was beginning to set, casting the city in a golden glow.
You’d walked a lot farther than you’d intended. One block had turned into two. Two had then become eight, and you were now somewhere you didn’t really recognise.
You wondered what Jack was doing right now. Was he walking aimlessly around the city too? Was he checking his phone as much as you were? Had he eaten? Slept? You hated how much you cared.
Then you wondered what Robby was doing. Was he smug over the fact that he had ruined one of the best things in your life? Was he happy that he had made you consider walking into traffic?
You hoped he was. Maybe it would make your pain more bearable. Because right now? Right now, you hurt. It was like your insides had been taken out, twisted up, and put back into the wrong spot. You simultaneously wanted to scream and cry. But you could do neither of those things, so you walked. And walked. And walked.
———
You finally stopped walking when your thirst became unbearable. Night had fallen, the sky dark and moonless. The glowing neon sign ahead caught your interest. The glowing pink lettering stood out starkly against the dark sky, and you felt like a moth to a flame as you made your way towards the bar's entrance.
Sonny’s Tavern the sign read.
A barrage of memories assaulted you. The Pitt crew all making their way down to the bar after a long shift. Jack’s front pressed to your back as he’d played pool with you. Betting on darts with Whitaker, Mel and Trinity. Dancing with Jack. The way he’d looked at you, holding you close to him as you’d swayed. How warm his hand had felt pressed on your back. How he’d made you smile harder than you had in years.
The way Robby had watched the two of you, like he’d already suspected something going on.
But for some reason, it wasn’t the thought of Robby or Whitaker that made you step into the bar. No, it was the pain in your chest that throbbed every time you thought of the way Jack had smiled when you’d danced. The way he’d looked at you. You wondered if you’d ever see it again.
This was a bad idea. You knew it was. You knew it was, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself.
You had never been much of a drinker.
But you were just so lonely.
And you hurt.
————
The tavern was pretty tame when you entered, all things considered. People danced and laughed, chatted and played games, but you took no notice of them as you made your way to the most far away bar stool at the end of the counter.
You placed your hands on the counter, this feeling completely foreign to you.
You weren’t the type to drink. You’d never really drank much in college or med school, always too worried about studying. And you were always too much of a good girl to even think about drinking in highschool.
So as you sat at that bar stool in that familiar tavern, you felt lost.
Luckily, the bartender wandered over to you, noting your curious look.
He was holding a glass, polishing it with a hand. He looked only a few years older than you, with dark hair and an easy smile.
“What can I get you, gorgeous?” He asked politely.
“I…don’t really know.” You answered, hesitating, eyeing the shelves behind him.
“Rough day?”
“You could say that.” You laughed.
“What do you normally drink?”
“I don’t.” You said simply.
“So what brings you to this bar?” He asked with a raised brow.
You looked down at the bar counter. “I… my thoughts are too loud.”
He just nodded knowingly before reaching for a glass.
“I usually go with whiskey when my head is too loud. You a whiskey girl?” He sounded earnest.
You’d only had whiskey once or twice, and your memory of it was hazy.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” You shrugged.
He quickly prepared the drink and set it in front of you. The ice in the glass clinked quietly.
You took a tentative sip, wincing at the burn.
The bartender laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
You eyed him, then downed the entire glass until there was nothing left but ice.
“Keep em coming.” Was all you said in response.
He prepared another. “I’ll make this one neat.”
“You’re a fast learner.” You praised, the liquid already warming your insides.
He placed the next glass in front of you.
“Just got dumped?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I know that look. The look of someone who’s just had their heart ripped out.”
You laughed humourlessly. “You’re good.”
“It’s almost like it’s my job,” he grinned.
You took a sip of your second drink. You already felt lightheaded, your stomach and throat warm.
“I-I lost something…something good. And I kind of lost it before it ever really became something beautiful, you know?”
The bartender was quiet for a moment.
“I find losing the potential of what could have been hurts more than anything else.” He admitted quietly.
Your eyes burned.
He didn’t ask any more questions.
He just handed you another drink.
You thanked him with a nod, downing your second drink.
You turned in your chair when he served another customer.
You watched the couple at the end of the bar. Your stomach churned when you watched the man reach out to hold the woman’s hand.
You watched another couple at the pool table. You watched the way the guy cheesily leaned over the girl to help her with her grip.
Your throat closed up when you watched a couple on the dance floor, the way the woman’s eyes positively glittered when her date spun her.
Your throat closed up.
People laughed, people shouted, people smiled.
You were surrounded by people, and yet you had never felt so alone.
———
The fourth drink didn’t burn. It went down smoothly as you felt your body relax. For the first time in hours, your head was beginning to quiet. Your thoughts had slowed down, like they were wading through mud.
As you sipped your drink, you noticed that you could hear the music. You could hear the laughter and jokes too, but they didn’t bother you as much as they had earlier.
A group of girls on the other end of the bar were telling a story, and when all the girls laughed, you noticed that you’d missed the joke.
You must be further gone than you’d thought.
You didn’t care.
You were just glad to hear anything other than your raging thoughts.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Your head was slow to catch up to the source of the voice.
A sandy haired man around your age smiled sweetly at you.
His hair was tousled prettily and his jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high. He was handsome. But he wasn’t your type.
You stared at him a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable.
“Me?” You pointed at your chest.
“Of course you.”
You giggled.
“I see you’ve already had a few.” He said, eyeing your empty glasses.
You squinted at him, then laughed.
Not because you thought that what he’d said was funny.
It was either you laughed, or you cried.
“I’ve got-got more than enough men to-to worry about.” You got out between giggles.
He smiled a roguish grin. “Oh really? How many?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” You shot back.
“Oh yeah? Try me.” He said.
“Okay, but you asked for it.” You warned.
You laughed, forcing your hand to hold up three fingers.
His eyes widened.
You counted them off on your fingers.
“One of them sees me as just a friend.”
Whitaker.
“One of them thinks I’m a whore.”
Robby.
“And one of them thinks I’m stupid and naive. Oh, and he also thinks I’m after him because he has a big flashy job. And did I tell you that he thinks he manipulated me into bed?”
Jack.
Abbot.
Whatever.
You laughed without any humor.
The man’s smile dropped.
He said nothing for a moment, then he spoke.
“Oh.”
You snorted, poking at the ice from your first drink with a straw.
“Yeah, oh.”
“So… it was nice meeting you and everything, but I’m just gonna-“ he jabbed a finger behind him.
You snorted again.
“I’m just gonna let you enjoy your drink.”
“Another fast learner!” You cheered.
He quickly backed away from you like you were a bomb about to explode.
Maybe you were.
You downed the last of your drink.
You didn’t care.
He sure didn’t.
—————
Your phone felt heavy in your pocket. The urge to check it for the millionth time won out, and you unlocked it, squinting as the numbers of your passcode danced.
The words blurred as you registered no notifications. Not a single call or text. Not even a damn spam email.
You let out another sad laugh.
He wasn’t thinking about you.
He didn’t miss you.
He didn’t care about you.
Maybe he never had.
Maybe you needed to call him and ask him if he ever did. You just wanted to know. You told yourself that you would be okay with the answer either way. You just needed to know.
You needed to know if you meant as much to him as he meant to you.
But then you had a better idea.
An idea that might hurt more, but might be more satisfying.
You needed to tell him how you felt.
Before you could think about it, you were opening your contacts.
Your thumb scrolled past your contacts. Dana, Dennis, all the way past Jack to who you really wanted to talk to right now.
Robby.
To your drunk brain, this made a lot of sense.
You hit call.
It rang one. Twice. Three times before he picked up.
“This is Doctor Robinavich.” Cold, neutral words.
You said nothing.
“Hello?”
You swallowed.
“Anyone there? Who is this?”
Guess that answers the question of if he had your number saved.
“Robby.” You breathed.
A moment of silence on the other end.
“Reid? Why are you calling me? Is everything okay?”
“I hate you.” Your words were quiet.
The other end was quiet.
“What?” He finally asked.
“I hate you,” you repeated.
“Where are you right now?”
“You ruined everything.” You spat.
“Reid-“
“You ruined- you ruined everything.”
“What’s going on?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
“You made him doubt me. You made him doubt himself.” You snarled into the phone remembering how Jack had thought he- thought he had taken advantage of you. He was so convinced he was the bad guy.
“Who?”
“You know exactly who, Robinavich.”
You heard his breathing stutter.
“Reid-“
“You- you took him away from me.”
“I don’t- come on, be reasonable here. What was I supposed to do?” He sounded almost sad.
“I- I don’t know- not that.”
“You left me no choice.” He said.
The girls down the end of the bar laughed loudly, snapping your gaze to them.
“You know that he wouldn’t even look at me?” You spoke into the phone, anger igniting in your gut.
“Reid-“
“You made him think-“ your breathing hitched. “You made him think that he- he took advantage of me. That he manipulated me. That none of it was real.”
You fought back a sob.
Silence answered you from the other end.
“Have you been drinking?” He asked finally.
“What do you care?”
“Don’t do this. Just answer the question.”
“No,” you lied.
“How many?” He heard your lie.
You looked at the empty glasses, your fifth in your hand.
“Counting the one in my hand?” You asked.
“Sure.”
“Five.”
“Shit,” he swore. “Where are you?”
“Your moms house.” You snorted, thinking you were hilarious.
He swore again. “Where are you?”
“A bar.”
“I gathered. Which bar?”
“I don't know.”
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like… it hurts. There’s couples dancing. And there’s some girls nearby that keep laughing. And there’s a guy playing pool just like- just like Jack and I did.” Your throat closed up.
“Is it- is it Sonny’s?” He asked hesitantly.
“Is that the one that we danced at?” You didn’t need to clarify who ‘we’ referred to. It was you and Jack.
“Yeah.” He said quietly.
You dropped your phone to the bar counter when you took another drink. You only remembered that Robby was still on the line when you heard your name, the voice tiny and high pitched coming from the device.
You picked the phone back up.
“Hello?” You asked.
Hello. That was a funny word. Hell-o. You giggled.
Robby didn’t think you were very funny.
“Reid, listen to me. Are you alone?”
“Huh?”
“Focus. Are you alone?”
You looked around the room. There were people everywhere. Of course you weren’t alone. People were dancing and drinking and flirting and playing.
“Robby, you silly billy. There’s people everywhere! It’s a bar.”
“I know you’re in a bar. But who are you with?”
“Who am I with?”
“Yes.”
“No one. You made sure of that.” You said with a giggle, even though nothing was funny.
He swore again.
You didn’t understand why. This was what he had wanted.
“Okay. Stay where you are.” He instructed.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Why?” You felt like a kid, always asking why.
“Because I’m on my way.”
What?
The words hit you like a bucket of cold water.
“No.” You snapped.
“No?”
“I don’t want you to come.”
“Reid, just listen to me-“
“You’ll just lecture me. Maybe you’ll even ruin me like you ruined him.”
He was silent for another moment.
“I’m not going to lecture you.”
“Well, whatever. I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“I don’t care. You’re drunk. Abbot wouldn’t want you alone like this.”
“Who cares what he would want? He’s gone.”
“Don’t talk like that, Reid. He would want you to be safe. You know that.”
You didn’t speak for a while. When the bartender looked at you with a raised brow, you spoke to him.
“Another one please. Make it a double. Thoughts are getting loud again.” You admitted.
“You got it.” The bartender got to work.
“Reid, stop this right now. Don’t you think you’ve had enough? You’re gonna give yourself fucking alcohol poisoning.”
You laughed. “Maybe then you could treat me.”
Robby didn’t answer that. Instead you heard background noises coming from his end. You heard the jingling of keys and the slamming of what sounded like a door.
“Reid, if you care about Abbot at all, I need you to stay right where you are. Don’t leave, and don’t drink that drink.”
You eyed the drink the bartender dropped in front of you.
“Im on my way.” He told you.
“I don’t want you here.” You argued.
“Don’t care. And I’m calling backup.”
“Backup?”
“Im picking up Abbot on the way. Maybe he’ll know what to do with your drunk ass.”
Wait what?
The words sobered you.
He was going to what?
“Abbot?”
You tried to speak but the call was already disconnected.
The last sound you’d heard was a car starting.
—————
You stared at the phone in your hand.
You couldn’t make sense of what had just happened.
You furrowed your brows as your head swam. Why would he call Jack? You didn’t need him. He didn’t need backup.
You didn’t touch your new drink. You wanted Jack. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to hear his voice. You wanted him to call you sweetheart again. You wanted to ask what went so wrong.
You scrolled through your contacts again.
Maybe you should just call and ask him.
Your thumb pressed the call button before you could stop yourself. You were just going to tell him not to come. To tell him you didn’t need him. Even if you didn’t believe it.
The phone didn’t even ring once.
“Sweetheart, are you- are you okay? Where are you?” His voice sounded so concerned, so warm.
“There it is.” You sighed.
You could die happy now.
“Robby just text me. He’s on his way to pick me up. What’s going on?” He sounded so panicked, you wanted to just hold him and reassure him.
“I’m at Sonny’s. And I’m a little, teensy, tiny bit drunk.” You giggled.
“Why are you drinking by yourself?”
You hesitated. “Because. Because I hurt. You hurt me, Jack. It hurts. Everything hurts.” You wrapped your arms around yourself.
A beat of silence passed.
“Oh, baby.”
“I just needed- I just needed to stop thinking. Just for two seconds.” You admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car engine on the other end.
“I get it. My head hasn’t stopped spinning since this morning.” He admitted.
Then you heard the sound of a car door slamming coming from his end.
“Is that her?” You heard what sounded like Robby speaking from his phone.
But that couldn’t be right. It was Jack’s phone.
“Yeah.” Jack answered.
“Tell her to stay put.” Robby ordered.
“Is that Robby?” You asked.
“Yeah, it is. He’s really worried about you, you know.”
Then a thought hit you.
“How can you even stand to be in the same car with him after what he did?” You asked quietly.
He paused. “Because he didn’t do anything wrong. I did.” He answered, and your heart broke apart further.
How could he still think that? After everything?
“You’re wrong.” You snapped.
“You always did love to argue with me.”
“I hate him.” You spat.
“You don’t.”
“I do. I hate him.”
“I know you think you do.”
“I do.” You insisted.
“If you say so.”
You were both quiet for a moment, and you heard the sound of him breathing on the other end.
You looked at your untouched drink, running a hand through your hair. Your thoughts were slow to form and even slower to make sense of, and you'd almost forgotten he was still on the line.
“Why are you calling me?” You asked him after a moment.
“You called me, sweetheart.” He said calmly.
Oh. Right. Maybe you had had one too many.
“Oh. I forgot about that.”
You heard his quiet chuckle on the other end. Even through the phone, the sound made butterflies erupt in your belly.
You heard the tell tale sound of a car's indicator ticking on the other end.
“How does she sound?” Robby asked. He sounded far away.
Jack's voice was crystal clear. Like he didn’t even bother to cover the microphone.
“Drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” You argued.
“Oh, baby, you’re plastered.” His deep voice did things to your insides.
“Hey! I’m…pleasantly buzzed.”
“How many drinks have you had?” You could practically hear his eyebrow raise from here.
“One.” You lied.
“You have not had one.” He laughed.
“Okay. You caught me. Two.”
“Sweetheart.” He drew the word out, and you felt dizzy.
“Maybe four.” You answered, a smile on your face.
“Four what? Vodka cranberries? Spiked lemonades?” He guessed.
“Nope. Whiskeys!” You said with a broad grin.
He laughed again, and the sound washed over you.
“I miss your laugh.” You admitted.
He stopped laughing.
“You were laughing…yesterday. Before…you know.” You added.
He still remained silent.
Then you heard someone clear their throat.
“We’re five minutes out, Reid. Just hang on.” Jack said, the warmth gone from his voice. Reid. No baby. No sweetheart. Reid.
“Hey Jack?”
“Mhm?”
“Can you…not tell Robby that I called you?”
His voice was quieter when he spoke next. “I hate to break it to you, but I think he already knows.”
“Dammit.” You grumbled. “He’s such a busy body.”
“He really is.” Jack agreed.
You plopped your chin to rest on your palm.
“Can you tell him to not lecture me?” You asked after another moment.
“He won’t.” Jack vowed.
“He’s mad at me.” You grumbled.
“He’s not mad at you.” Jack reassured you. “Hes just worried about you.”
“He wasn’t worried about either of us when he yelled at you,” you argued.
“He didn’t yell at me.” Jack said automatically.
“Yeah? Then why are you not speaking to me?” You asked.
“I’m speaking to you right now.”
“No, you’re not. Not like- not like how we used to.” You said sadly.
“I know.” He said quietly.
You heard the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel.
“We’re in the parking lot.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What parking lot?” You asked, your brain slow and muddied.
“The parking lot for the bar that you’re in, swee- silly.” You noticed the way he stumbled over his words towards the end. Like maybe Robby was watching him disapprovingly and he had to quickly correct himself.
“I’ll see you in a minute, Reid. Just stay put.” Jack ordered.
“Okay.” You sighed. There it was again. Your name. Your chest physically ached. How could he make the sound of your name feel like a punch to the gut?
You gripped your untouched drink. The action made your head swim. You forced your hand to lift the glass to your mouth.
You emptied the contents into your mouth. The burn from the drink hurt a whole lot less than the aching in your chest.
———————
I have already got a part three planned! Drop a comment if you would like to be tagged in the part three!! <3
summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.
tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI
notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!
word count: 7.4k
You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.
Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.
For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.
Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.
You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.
After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.
For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.
However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved.
I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear
"Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.
At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."
You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"
Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"
Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."
Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."
Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."
A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."
You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.
"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"
There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."
You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.
His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"
She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."
Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.
"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.
Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."
Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."
"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."
Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.
"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.
"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."
He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.
Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.
Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"
You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.
At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"
You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."
The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.
"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."
You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.
Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.
During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.
"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."
You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.
When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.
You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."
Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.
"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.
"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."
You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.
But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.
Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.
The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.
You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.
On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.
"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."
You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."
Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."
"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.
His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."
"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."
Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."
"Got it."
He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."
Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.
"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."
Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her?
I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?
As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.
Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.
What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.
You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.
But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.
You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.
"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."
You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.
"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.
As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.
Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.
You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."
"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"
Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."
He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."
You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"
A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."
The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.
"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.
Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."
You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.
Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.
With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.
"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."
You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.
"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."
His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.
Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.
You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.
You had missed something.
Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."
He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.
"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."
You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."
"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."
You jolted just a bit. Go home?
"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"
"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."
Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.
You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.
Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.
Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.
Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.
Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.
"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."
In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."
Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"
"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.
He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."
Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.
"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."
And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.
With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.
Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.
Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.
"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."
You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.
After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.
It was impossible.
I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust.
You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.
Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.
Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.
Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.
You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.
You were you, and you loathed it entirely.
You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.
You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.
And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.
They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.
Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.
A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.
Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.
Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.
"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"
You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.
"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"
Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.
You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."
He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.
"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.
Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.
He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.
Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.
After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"
Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."
His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."
You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"
Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."
"But not good," you scoffed.
"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."
"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."
"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"
Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.
"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.
"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"
"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."
You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.
"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.
By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.
"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."
You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."
He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."
You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."
Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"
"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."
Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"
You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."
In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.
"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."
A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"
"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."
He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.
"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."
You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."
A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.
"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.
"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."
Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.
"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.
"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."
He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"
Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."
"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.
"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."
Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty.
You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you
Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.
Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.
He'd seen the small changes too late.
The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.
His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.
He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.
He was slightly correct, but not entirely.
You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.
It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.
Someone helped you see that along the way as well.
"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.
Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"
Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."
"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.
"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."
"Dr. [Name] could do it."
Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.
Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."
An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.
You were with someone?
He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.
Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.
Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.
"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."
"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."
You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"
He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."
"You know I always do."
Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.
The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.
"Okay, you gotta go save lives."
You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."
From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.
"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."
Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.
But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.
summary: part two of Honeybee...Baz hires you as Lena's nanny but when you fall for Pope, Smurf takes you under her wing. Much to the annoyance of Baz
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! violence towards reader, smurf, baz, murder, breeding kink, unprotected sex, thigh riding, oral sex (f receiving), pregnancy, no use of y/n, spoilers for season two of Animal Kingdom
wc: 5k
notes: Set between season one and two...sorry this took like nine million years
Smurf presses her lips together as she looks at Baz. She thought she raised him better than to put hands on a woman. But like father, like son. Now she has to clean his mess again. She pats his face before smoothing his hair.
"She was trying to steal from me, Smurf. I walked in on her finding one of my stashes," he lies.
Smurf tuts and shakes her head.
"I don't care, baby. She's all bruised up. And Lena saw it. We gotta keep her sweet now or she'll take her pretty little ass down to the police and report you for assault. And we can't have that," she cooes at her eldest boy.
Baz rolls his eyes, "A bullet between her eyes would be simpler."
Smurf slaps him, "We're not killing a girl you had on your fuckin' payroll. The people at Lena's school know her because you can't raise your own fuckin' kid. So you're gonna listen to me about your daughter."
Baz snarls and walks to the other side of the kitchen.
"This is such bullshit. Just cos Pope is all heart eyes for her? Not like you, Smurf, to get sentimental," he says.
Smurf bares her teeth like a wild animal.
"We don't kill women because we lose our temper. Get the fuck out of my house," she hisses.
Smurf finds you later, after you've brought Lena for ice cream. She pouts at the cuts on your face.
"Lena, why don't you go to the pool?" Smurf suggests as the little one runs off.
"Now, sweetheart, I can't let you go back to Baz's house. Not after what he did to you. But Lena needs someone to take care of her. I was thinking you could move in here to help me with her," she said, fixing your hair.
You frown. You don't trust Smurf. You've known so many women like her. But you also know not to get on your bad side. Thankfully Pope comes to your rescue, stepping into the kitchen. He puts an arm around your waist.
"She's moving in with me, Smurf," he says in a tone that doesn't leave room for argument.
"And what about Lena?" Smurf asks. "Baz clearly can't take care of his own daughter."
You shake your head, "No. I'll still nanny for her. I just won't be a live in nanny. I...maybe I could take her instead of Baz's? If that's not overstepping. She just loves being with you Smurf. She is always talking about you and the pool!"
Smurf smiles at you, her eyes narrowing for a moment. She's not an idiot. But she'll allow it. You're making Andrew happy.
"Of course, sweetheart," she says softly. "You can sleep here with Lena when Baz isn't around. I think that's for the best."
You smile and nod your head, "Of course, I think that would be perfect. She needs a strong woman in her life now that her mother is...gone."
Later as you sit in Pope's truck, you look at him, "Are you sure you want me to move in with you?"
He sniffs, "Where else are you gonna go? Not back to Baz."
You roll your eyes, "Ain't you romantic?"
But you like living with Pope. He always makes you breakfast in the morning, telling you that you need to start your day with food rather than running on coffee for hours. He likes having you here as well. Pope can't sleep. But with the weight of you on his chest, he sleeps like a baby. Although on the nights he can't, he can wake you up with rough hands and soft kisses.
You adore that as well. Pope could spend hours eating you out, just drowning in your pussy. He makes you cum over and over and over. Until you have to pull him up and away from you. And he'll look at you with his eyes almost black. If he's not between your legs, he's at your tits, kissing and palming at them for hours on end. You don't even think it's sexual anymore, it's like a comfort for him. A soother... And if that's what Andrew needs you give it to him.
But you adore when he's inside you. Hard and deep, slamming his hips against yours. He manhandles you, having you in breeding press, kissing you desperately. Or he'll flip you onto your stomach, you love how he fucks you prone bone. Sometimes he'll hook his thick bicep around your neck, making your eyes roll back on your head. You love riding him on the couch after a long day.
When you stay at Smurf's you tell him sex is off the table. You know she's listening. But Pope can't keep his hands off of you. And Smurf isn't an idiot, she sees how Pope hangs on your every word. So after a few months of you living between her home and Pope's, she does some digging into your background.
You're folding laundry in the kitchen when Smurf approaches you.
"Hey baby," she coos, calling you the name she reserves for her sons and grandson. "Where did you say you grew up?"
You look up at her and smile.
"I didn't, Smurf. But I grew up the other side of San Diego. But I haven't been back since I was eighteen. I started applying for au pair jobs in my senior year of high school," you explain. "So I left a few days after graduation."
Smurf hums, "And no one cared about your time in juvenile detention?"
You freeze and look up at her.
"My records were sealed after I turned eighteen," you tell her. "So no one needs to know."
"I have my people...and my people found that you did 18 months for robbery and breaking and entering," she says with a hum. "Must have been tough for your foster family."
You twist your mouth in annoyance. You hate talking about your past.
"Yes, Smurf. I grew up in foster care. CPS took me away when I was eight. I was still cute then, got a nice foster family," you say with a shrug. "But then they got pregnant. Triplets! And I was thirteen and starting to act out. So I went back to foster care. Bounced around families for a while. You know how many foster dads are creeps?"
You scrub your hand over your face.
"So I learned how to pickpocket. I just wanted enough money so I could get an apartment. I made friends with a few of the rich kids in the area. And I'd case their places when they weren't around. One of their parents found me. I thought they were on a trip...Her dad was a lawyer so I was screwed."
You look at Smurf, "Is that a problem?"
Smurf smiles at you and pulls you in for a hug.
"Oh baby, you're perfect."
You're not stupid. You are very aware how to Cody family get their money. You're not there for the meetings or the jobs, of course. And you like to play dumb for Smurf, although you're sure she can see through you. But both of you play this game, pretending you don't know what the other one knows. And she likes you like this. Still pliant to her.
You know when the boys are doing a job because Smurf will give you the day off. She'll keep Lena in the house. And you will wait patiently for Pope to come home. It is always a variant on the same theme when he finally walks in the door of your now shared home. Sometimes he will take you desperately, needing to be buried inside you. He'll push you onto hands and knees or press you into the couch and just bury his weeping cock in you with rough, angry thrusts. Other times, you can see the tears threatening to fall from his eyes and he'll kiss you desperately. He'll slowly rock his hips against yours, hiding his face in your neck as you can feel soft sobs rack his body. Sometimes, rarely, he's happy. It's gone well, and sex is soft and smooth and gentle.
One day you're fixing Lena's hair and you overhear Baz talking to Smurf.
"People who have nannies have money," he tells her. "You said she used to do this shit. Why can't she scope out a few places for us? Even just fuckin' job interviews. I don't know. Babysitting gigs so it's not too permenant."
You can hear Smurf take a sharp intake of breath, "We only do jobs with people in the family."
You can practically hear Baz's eyeroll at that.
"She's not doing the job she's just-"
Pope cuts him off, "We're not involving her in this. She doesn't need to be a part of this shit."
"What Pope?" Baz suddenly snaps causing Lena to flinch next to you. "You think you can just run off with her into the sunset? You're sick in the head, man. And soon she'll fuckin' see that. She's gonna drain your wallet and then leave you."
On the drive home, you can tell that Pope is withdrawn. You can see the gears in his head working overtime. You hate that Baz can get to him like that. You reach out and run your fingers through his curls but he flinches away from you. You try not to let it affect you. You know it's Baz and his family who have worked their way under his skin. But still, Pope has never been upset with something you've done.
You make him dinner in silence. Pope likes the quiet but when he finally looks up at you, he sees the hurt etched across your face.
"I'm sorry," he gruffs out. "I just...Baz always says shit like that. Says how I'm weird and I'm not weird."
"No baby, you're not weird," you soothe, stroking his knuckle with your thumb.
"I just...You know...With my family, it's hard. I don't know Smurf was never a proper mother to us. First time I saw someone die I was six. She used have sex with these men in front of me and Julia. And we just thought all o' that was normal. And she likes...She likes when I'm angry. I know she wants to keep me angry. But I don't want to be angry. I want a normal life."
He take a deep breath, "But I don't know how to be normal. I wanna be normal for you. I really do. I don't wanna be Smurf's muscle or Baz's fuckin' punchline."
You look at him, watching the tears roll down his freckled cheeks. You brush each away with soft kisses to his flushed skin. You just want to take him away from this, from his family, from Oceanside.
"Baz thinks no one would wanna be with me. That you'll leave. He thinks no one will settle down and have a baby with me," he sobs.
This makes you pause.
"I wanna have a baby with you, Andrew," you tell him ever so gently.
His eyes flick up to yours as if assessing the situation. Were you being serious? A baby...with him?
"You wanna have a baby with me?" he echoes.
You nod your head, pulling him in for a desperate and messy kiss. You moan against his lips which is enough to have Andrew Cody gripping your hips and lifting you onto his lap. Your hips work on their own rolling against his thick thigh, your skirt bunching up around your waist as as your grind on him. Your clit bumps over the rough fabric of his jeans under the cotton of your panties. But Pope never breaks this kiss.
"Put a baby in me, Andrew, please," you beg desperately.
"You needa cum first," he responds.
It's like you can do it on command because after a handful more rocks of your hips you're soaking his thigh. He grunts out in appreciation and then grips the meat of your ass to lift you onto the table.
He falls to his knees, pulling your panties down your legs. His eyes zero in on your sopping wet cunt that is clenching around the air desperate for him. He doesn't give you a second before he starts eating you out. Pope loves giving you head, could (and has) spent hours between your legs. But today he is on a mission. He zeros in on your clit, sucking and slurping desperately. He knows exactly how to pull you apart and he does in record time. You come undone over his tongue to his satisification. He moans out into your cunt. He could cum from this as well, but he can't. Not when you've asked him so sweetly to put a baby in you.
Finally he stands, unbuckling his belt so he can push his jeans and boxers his thick cock finally free. It rests heavy against his black t-shirt that he still hasn't taken off. But he's desperate for you. And getting you pregnant is his number one priority. He presses inside you in one fluid motion. He doesn't let you adjust. He just splits you open. He's worked you over so well, he slips in without an issue. And then he's off to the races.
He hooks your knees over his forearms, spreading you wide and he slams into you. His heavy balls slam against your ass as he fucks you.
"Gonna put a baby in ya. Gonna see you so fuckin' full. And I ain't ever gonna let you leave," he grunts in your ear.
His words go straight to your cunt and you honestly don't know how many times you cum over his cock until he stutters to a stop. Thick walls of cum coat your walls. But he doesn't pull out. He just presses his weight on you for a few minutes. Your chests heaving in time with one another.
When he eventually moves, he presses two thick fingers inside you.
"Can't waste it. Not when I gotta get you pregnant."
And Pope takes his job very seriously. Every morning and every night he's inside you. If you're free in the afternoon, he pounces. If the two of you are alone he's fucking you. And you love it.
"Is Pope tryna eat you?" Deran asks as you sit by the pool in a bikini that showcases all the hickies Pope has left on your body. There are bruises in the shape of his fingers as well around your hips, ass and even the hint of them on your neck.
You roll your eyes at him.
"Don't be jealous cos you're hard up," you say before jumping in the pool and splashing him.
Out of all of Pope's family, you like Deran the best. If Pope's not around, you usually cling to him. He also has a short fuse for Baz's bullshit. Which is ongoing in the kitchen right now.
"Are we still paying her?" he snaps at Smurf who is counting out cash.
Smurf's eyes flick up, "You hired her because you couldn't take care of your daughter. So yes. We are."
"Well she's not doing a good job is she."
Pope grabs a beer from the fridge, "Lena's at school. You'd know if you spent any time with your kid."
He storms out to the backyard with Baz hot on his heels.
"You think you're a big man now cos you're getting your dick wet?" Baz snarls.
Pope doesn't respond as he watches you in the water.
"I mean, it looks like she'll spread her legs for any of us. Number three is right there," Baz says, nodding to where you and Deran are in the pool.
This catches Pope's attention. He turns and looks at Baz then.
"What's that supposed to mean?" his growls, his whole face darkening.
"You think she was living in my house, with me and not givin' it up? Come on. I'm a hot blooded man! You were always obsessed with my sloppy seconds. Ri-"
But Baz doesn't get to finish his sentence before Pope lunges. Pope is on top of him, landing punch after punch. But Baz is sly and digs him in the ribs. Smurf hears the commotion and comes to watch by the door. You're jumping out of the pool immediately.
Smurf sees you and sighs, "That's enough boys."
Usually her word is law but they're too caught up in the fight to hear anything.
"Andrew, that's enough," you bark.
Pope slams Baz onto the concrete once more before hauling himself off him. He reaches for your hand and drags you back to his car. You can get your stuff later, he grumbles. Smurf's eyes narrow as she watches you. It looks like you have your claws in her eldest boy deeper than she thought.
Of course, Smurf doesn't do anything right away. But she'll have to get Andrew away from you. She thought you simply calmed him down. But if he listens to you over her that's not good.
You can sense that something has shifted with Smurf. But you're not dumb enough to delve into that. No you play dumb. Act like nothing has happened.
"When's you're birthday, Smurf?" you ask her one evening as you help her with dinner. "I doubt your boys ever spoil you. And you do so much for them. They should bring you out for dinner."
Smurf smiles, "That's sweet but I like cooking for them."
You sigh as you watch J, Deran and Craig outside.
"I hope I'm half the mother you are. I mean, Pope talks about you all the time. How you worked so hard for him and Julia as a single mother. And in the seventies, that can't have been easy," you coo.
Smurf freezes for a millisecond, too quick to even notice. Unless you're watching...and you are.
"Does Pope talk about his sister?" she asks tightly.
You nod your head as you throw cherry tomatoes in the salad.
"Oh yes, all the time. Such a beautiful name. Maybe if I'm ever blessed with a girl I'll call her Julia. Maybe Julia Janine...JJ! So sweet," you say before carrying the salad out to the table.
Smurf stabs her knife into the cutting board. Oh she fucking hates you.
In the months that follow, you can feel the tension rising in the house. Not just between you and Smurf. But something has happened between her and Baz. You're not sure what and you're not stupid enough to ask.
One evening you're sitting by the pool on Pope's lap. You're nursing a Coke after dinner wondering when you can go home.
"Baby, do you want a real drink?" Smurf asks you as she sips on her vodka cranberry. It's rare she doesn't have one in her hand.
You flush at the question ducking your head before shaking it quickly. Pope is grinning ear from ear.
"Smurf, I can't," you say as Pope presses a thick hand over your stomach.
A few weeks ago, you had woken up feeling...well...like shit. You pulled up your calendar and realised that you were late. Your period was due almost a fortnight ago. But yours was nowhere to be seen. You immediately ran (literally) to the store. You shoulda bought pregnancy tests but you didn't wanna jinx it.
When Pope found you almost an hour later crying tears of joy as you looked at the two little lines on the stick, he couldn't stop himself from crying. You both had your own worries and didn't want to share until you were over the first trimester. But now, at almost fourteen weeks pregnant you decided to share with the rest of the Cody family.
You could see Smurf's face immediately brighten. Yea, she didn't like how you had gotten your claws into her baby boy. But a baby? Well, Smurf loved babies. So she rushed over to kiss both you and Pope.
"You should move back in here, baby," she cooed at Pope.
He shook his head, "Not with the parties, Smurf. A baby needs sleep and not to get into Craig's coke stash."
Craig frowned, but he couldn't argue.
The only person who wasn't happy was Baz. Which you expected. He was rarely at the house these days. And when he was it usually ended in a fight between him and Smurf. J had become a little lap dog for Baz. And you hated that. But it wasn't your place to get involved.
Since announcing your pregnancy, things between you and Smurf thawed. She brought you shopping for baby stuff. Even though you didn't want to be in her debt. But sometimes you liked to be mothered...it had been so long. So you let her brush your hair when you were too tired and make you herbal tea and even slept over when Pope was away on jobs.
You sit, cradling your now swollen stomach, as Smurf tells you about Julia. How she couldn't take care of her when she was pregnant with J. Everyone who talks about Julia tells you a different story. Pope talks about her like she hung the moon, J speaks about a sad, ghost of a woman outcast from her family and Smurf? Well, Smurf talks about a problem child. A bad apple intent on spoiling the bunch.
You're not sure if it's not just the tree that is poison.
But you let Smurf dote on you because you're not stupid. You want to keep her on side. Not like Baz...Baz has seemingly been outcast from the family. Lena is always with Smurf and her father is spending less and less time here.
Pope tells you one night in bed as he strokes your growing belly that he has a mistress in Mexico. That he plans on taking Lena and going to start a new life down there.
"With whose money?" you ask, your eyes flicking up to Pope.
Has Baz been stealing from Smurf? You don't doubt that he has enough money of his own. But you always know that Smurf has a majority of the funds.
They have enough to live very comfortably on. But nothing too crazy. But you don't argue about that.
One night, Pope is out with Craig and Deran. It's not like him, but you tell him to spend more time with his brothers. It's okay. You know he doesn't like parties or loud spaces. But sometimes they just drink in the back of Deran's bar. And you want him to have that connection again. Especially after losing Baz.
Even though you don't know good of a friend and brother Baz was to him. Pope tells you about Baz and Julia's relationship. How he could be J's father. How he fell for Cath when they were teenagers but Baz took her too. How he didn't want to lose anything else to Baz.
"You won't lose me or the baby to him. I promise," you whisper.
So when you hear the door to the house open you presume it's Pope. You hum, shifting in your bed to give him room to join you. But Pope's footsteps are almost silent and these? Well, these are not. You try not to move, hoping whoever it is will just steal some shit and go. They won't try the bedrooms.
But you recognise those footsteps as they come closer and closer. You know it's Baz. And he's not here for petty theft. You lean across the bed to Pope's side and pull open the drawer of his bedside locker. You're trying not to make noise as you fumble in the dark for what you're looking for.
But it doesn't matter because Barry Blackwell has been in Pope's shitty little beachfront condo before. He knows where the bedroom is and he knows where he'll find Pope's girl. He's known that Pope killed Cath. Even though he knows that Smurf put him up to it, it was Pope who did it. And now he can do the same to Pope.
An eye for an eye.
The baby is just the cherry on top of the cake. Baz should care that by killing you, he'll also be ending the life of his brother's unborn child. But he doesn't really care. He slams the door open making you jump.
"Pope isn't here," you tell him, feigning ignorance.
You blink, pretending that you've just woken up.
"That's okay. He doesn't need to be," Baz says as he stands in the door frame. "You know, Lena loves you. She loves when you take her to the beach and that you've taught her how to swim. Craig's got her her own surfboard now."
You smile and nod, sitting up in the bed. You stroke your baby bump, showing it off to Baz as if to remind him that you're just a woman. A pregnant woman. A soon-to-be mother.
"So it's really going to hurt her feelings when she finds out her uncle murdered you," he tuts.
You freeze at this. He's going to frame Pope?
Of course, he is. Pope already has a violent record. The police won't even question it when Baz calls it in. Because he will. He's an upstanding citizen. And when Lena's nanny who got involved with his mentally unwell brother doesn't show up for work, he'll get worried. He'll call the cops. He might even cry.
Smurf'll be pissed but hell, he might kill her too while he's at it. Pope went on a spree. How fun!
"Don't do this," you beg through tears.
Baz shrugs as he takes a step forward. You try to stay brave, strong. But fuck you're scared. But you look at the man who has only ever made your life worse since he came into it in the eyes as you pull Pope's gun from under the covers. You point it straight at his face.
He gives you that shit eating grin. That pretty boy bullshit smile. He thinks he can get away with this. But he can't. He won't.
And you pull the trigger.
You don't expect it to be so loud. Your neighbours definitely heard. You don't expect the blood spray either. It's messy. But you had no choice. You couldn't fight him hand to hand.
You get out of bed, wiping down the gun with your nightie and immediately getting in the shower. You wash off all evidence of Baz from you and change into Pope's t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You drive to the bar you know the Cody brothers are at. You smile at the patrons and pat your stomach.
But when Pope sees you, he knows something is wrong. He soothes you, tells you that you did everything right. Deran and Craig stand behind him as they look at their older brother's now dead body. You know they all loved him. But he was a monster.
"I took Lena's father away," you whisper. "But he was gonna kill me. He was gonna kill us."
Pope presses a hand to your stomach.
"Take her somewhere," he tells Deran. "We need to clean this up."
Deran brings you to his place, to his boyfriend (although you have to pretend he's just a friend), Adrian. He tells him that someone tried to break in and you're freaked out.
"Why not bring her to Smurf?" Adrian asks as you sit looking at the blank wall.
Deran just shakes his head before leaving.
You don't know when Pope comes to get you. But you go home with him. He gets you into the bath, soothing out your muscles.
"I've never done that before," you finally confess.
"And you won't have to do it again, baby," he promises as he massages your neck.
"We're gonna go. We're gonna leave Oceanside. Craig went to Baz's place and found where he's stashed Smurf's money. We're gonna take our share and go. With Lena," he promises.
"She won't let us," you respond.
Pope presses kisses into your hair.
"She doesn't have a choice," he responds gently.
Smurf believes Pope when he tells her that Baz has run off to Mexico.
"And left Lena?" she tuts and shakes her head. "Typical."
She knew it was his plan so why would she look into it any further? What she doesn't expect however, is less than a month later is to wake up and find Lena's bedroom empty.
She rushes to call you. But the phoneline is disconnected. Pope's is too. She calls Deran and Craig who shrug. They don't know where you've gone.
And while they know that you were leaving. Helped you get everything in order, you never told them where you were going.
"Where are we going, Uncle Pope?" Lena asks from the backseat of a car you jacked.
"Somewhere safe," is all he responds, as he rests his hand on your blossoming stomach.
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open
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Request - Hilli! If possible, do you think you could do a cute one where maybe they're married and working together, and you keep getting pulled away and kept busy and he's busy too so he barely sees you? I just have this visual in my head of Robby stood there all grumpy like 'where is my wife?' and then becomes a clingy husband till the end of shift? 🫶🫶
The emergency department was already loud by seven in the morning. Monitors chirped from every direction, phones rang relentlessly at the nurses’ station, and the automatic doors at the ambulance bay seemed determined to open every thirty seconds. The Pitt thrived in chaos, and on most days, Dr. Michael Robinavich wore it like a second skin.
Today, however, he was annoyed. Robby stood at the central desk, coffee in one hand and a patient chart in the other, his dark eyes lifting every few seconds toward the doors.
“You know if you keep glaring at the entrance like that, it’s not going to make her appear any faster.”
Dana didn’t even look up from her tablet.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You are absolutely glaring.”
Robby frowned at her.
“I’m waiting.”
Dana finally looked up, entirely unimpressed.
“For your wife.”
“I’m waiting for one of my attendings.”
“Who also happens to be your wife.”
Robby took a sip of his coffee.
“You’re insufferable this early in the morning.”
“And you’re grumpy because she isn’t here.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
Dana snorted.
“Sure.”
Before he could answer, Princess approached.
“Dr. Robby? EMS is bringing in a seventy-two-year-old male. Possible stroke. Five minutes out.”
Robby nodded immediately.
“CT’s ready?”
“Already called.”
“Good.”
Princess hurried off. Dana watched him for another moment before smiling.
“What time did she leave this morning?”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Robby sighed.
“Six-thirty.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’ve been here since six-fifty and she isn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“She said she’d be down here early.”
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The pouting.”
“I do not pout.”
Dana’s smile widened. “You’ve looked at those doors every thirty seconds since I got here.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
Before he could argue further, the doors to the Pitt slid open. Both of them looked up. A respiratory therapist walked in. Dana burst out laughing. Robby glared at her.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He didn’t. Mostly because she was right. You had texted him nearly an hour ago.
Leaving now. Save me coffee.
That was it. No follow-up text. No appearance in the Pitt. Nothing. Which was odd. You usually found him first thing in the morning, even if only for five minutes. You’d steal his coffee, lean against his shoulder while you looked over the board, kiss his cheek if nobody was paying attention, and then disappear to start your own shift.
It was stupid. Five minutes. That was all it usually was. But it was your five minutes. And apparently, he missed it.
“You should call her.”
He looked at Dana.
“I am not calling my wife because she’s late to work.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You’re wondering where she is.”
He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Dana’s smile became unbearably smug.
“You are so in love with that woman.”
He rolled his eyes. Before he could say another word, a voice echoed from behind him.
“Dr. Robinavich?”
He turned. Mel King looked apologetic staring up at him.
“Radiology needs an attending for a contrast reaction.”
“Where’s Dr. R?”
Mel blinked.
“She got pulled up there twenty minutes ago.”
Robby’s entire expression changed. Dana looked delighted.
“Oh, mystery solved.”
He ignored her.
“She’s still in radiology?”
“Apparently.” Mel nodded. “They’ve had a rough morning.”
Robby looked toward the elevators. Then back at the Mel. Then toward the elevators again. Dana folded her arms.
“Go on.”
“I’m not going to radiology.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I absolutely was.”
“I have a stroke patient coming in.”
“And your wife is upstairs.”
He looked at her. She grinned.
“You miss her.”
“I saw her last night.”
“You’ve been awake for an hour without seeing her and you’re acting like someone stole your favorite toy.”
Robby looked offended.
“My wife is not a toy.”
“You know what I mean.”
The ambulance doors burst open then, and the incoming stroke patient rolled through. The entire department moved. Robby was instantly all business.
“What’s his last known well?”
“Forty minutes.”
“Deficits?”
“Left-sided weakness and slurred speech.”
“Get him to CT.”
He moved with the stretcher, barking orders and scanning the patient. The morning swallowed him whole. For nearly an hour, he didn’t stop. By the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, he finally exhaled.
He turned toward the desk. And immediately looked toward the elevators. Dana, who noticed everything, nearly laughed.
“You are unbelievable.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You just did it again.”
“Did what?”
“Looked for your wife.”
“I wasn’t—“
“You were.”
He sighed.
“I was just wondering if she was back.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You make everything sound ridiculous.”
“Because it is ridiculous. She’s been gone for an hour.”
“I know.”
“She’s in the same building.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll probably see her in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
Dana smiled softly this time.
“But you miss her anyway.”
Robby didn’t answer. Because unfortunately…Yes. He did. As if the universe had decided to reward him, the elevator doors opened. His head lifted immediately.
You stepped out, hair already slipping from your bun, a stack of charts in your arms and your ID badge twisted backward. He smiled before he could stop himself. Then you looked up and spotted him. Your entire face softened.
You started walking toward him. He actually took a step forward.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you looked. Jesse was jogging toward you.
“The ICU attending needs you upstairs right now.”
You stopped. Looked at Jesse. Looked at Robby. And then sighed.
“Make Langdon go.”
Jesse looked confused.
“They specifically asked for you.”
You closed your eyes. Robby laughed softly. You pointed at him.
“I haven’t even said hello to my husband.”
Jesse looked genuinely apologetic.
“I’m sorry.”
You groaned. Robby’s smile widened. You walked the remaining few feet toward him anyway, stopping directly in front of him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
You looked exhausted. He looked unfairly handsome, as always. You smiled.
“I missed our coffee.”
“I noticed.”
Your eyebrows lifted.
“You noticed?”
Dana snorted from behind the desk. Robby ignored her. You looked between them.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Robby barked.
Dana looked horrified.
“Nothing? You spent the last hour asking where your wife was.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
You blinked. Then looked at your husband. And smiled.
“Oh.”
Robby immediately knew that smile.
“No.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Don’t.”
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I really didn’t.”
You grinned.
“I’ve been in the hospital for an hour.”
“I know.”
“And you’ve seen me for approximately thirty seconds.”
“I know.”
“And you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
You laughed. The sound hit him right in the chest. Jesse cleared his throat. You sighed dramatically.
“I have to go.”
“You do.”
You looked at him for another moment. Then reached up and smoothed his scrub collar. A habit. One you’d done for years.
“There.”
He smiled a little.
“Thanks.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek quickly.
“Try not to miss me too much.”
Behind him, Dana choked on a laugh. Robby glared at her. You smiled brightly. Then you were gone again. Disappearing toward the elevators. The doors closed. Silence.
Dana looked at him. He looked at the elevators. Then back at Dana. She folded her arms.
“Don’t.”
“You are absolutely grumpy.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve seen your wife for one minute and she’s gone again.”
He sighed.
“I hate this shift.”
Dana laughed. And despite himself, so did he.
******
By eleven o’clock, the emergency department had officially descended into madness. There was a three-car pileup on the interstate, the waiting room was overflowing, two nurses had called in sick, and one of the residents had accidentally ordered the wrong imaging study and was now avoiding Robby’s line of sight entirely.
He hadn’t sat down once. He also hadn’t seen his wife. Again. Not that he was counting.
He was absolutely counting.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
Robby looked up from the ultrasound screen.
“Start another liter and page surgery.”
Whitaker nodded quickly. Perlah approached from the opposite side.
“Room twelve is asking for pain medication again.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“Psych consult is here.”
“Tell them I’ll sign the paperwork in ten.”
Emma appeared.
“Can you take a look at this ECG?”
He took the paper from her. And the. He heard it. A laugh. Your laugh. Somewhere down the hall.
His head snapped up. The nurses all noticed. The residents noticed. The patient on the stretcher probably noticed.
Robby was already looking toward the corridor. He caught the briefest glimpse of you through the crowd. Your hair was a complete mess now, your red jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and you were smiling at something one of the nurses had said. Then you disappeared around the corner. Again. Robby frowned.
“You should probably read the ECG.”
He blinked and looked back at the Emma.
“What?”
She held the paper up.
“The ECG.”
“Right.”
He took it. Emma grinned.
“You know, she’s not going anywhere.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Dr. R.”
He stared at her.
“You’re looking at her like she’s about to move to another country.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
He sighed.
“Can everyone please stop commenting on my marriage today?”
Emma laughed and walked away. Twenty minutes later, he was finally making his way toward the staff lounge for his first cup of fresh coffee when he saw you. At the end of the hallway. Walking toward him.
For once. No pagers. No nurses chasing you. No phone in your hand. Just you. You looked tired, but you smiled the second you saw him.
“There you are.” His entire mood improved.
“Here I am.”
You walked closer.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
“You haven’t.” You smiled. “You look grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You definitely are.”
“I’ve had six consults.”
“I’ve had eight.”
“I hate everyone.”
You laughed softly.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“My husband.”
“I was never gone.”
“You get all growly when you’re tired.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
You stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could smell your shampoo beneath the antiseptic and coffee and hospital smell that clung to both of you. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were standing there.
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
You made a face.
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So have I.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
There was something soft in your expression. Something fond. As though you knew exactly what he was doing.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“That look means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
You smiled wider.
“You missed me.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I’ve been working.”
“Uh-huh.”
You reached up and straightened his badge. Apparently, today was a day for fixing his clothes. He let you.
“You’ve looked for me at least six times today, haven’t you?”
He looked offended.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I haven’t.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You just smiled.
“Dr. R!”
Both of you closed your eyes. Jesse hurried toward you.
“Trauma two needs you.”
You looked at him. Then at Robby. Then back at Jesse.
“Right now?”
“They’re asking specifically for you.”
You sighed. Robby actually laughed. You pointed at him.
“Stop enjoying my suffering.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“I absolutely smiled.”
You looked horrified.
“My husband is turning against me.”
“I’ve been abandoned all day. This feels like justice.”
You gasped softly.
“Justice?”
He grinned. Jesse looked between the two of you like he was watching a tennis match. You narrowed your eyes.
“You know what? Fine.”
You started backing away.
“I’ll remember this.”
“Will you?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’ll forget in ten minutes.”
“I’ll never forget.”
“You absolutely will.”
You kept walking backward.
“I can’t believe I married you.”
“You love me.”
Unfortunately, you looked entirely too pleased by that.
“I really do.”
You disappeared into Trauma Two. And he was smiling. Again.
“You are ridiculous.”
He looked over. Langdon was standing a few feet away, carrying a chart.
“What?”
“You’ve seen her for approximately two minutes and you’re smiling like a teenager.”
Robby rolled his eyes.
“I’m not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I hate this place.”
“No, you don’t.”
Langdon moved beside him.
“How long have you been married now?”
“Twelve years.”
“And you still act like this?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if I don’t see my wife for a few hours, I assume she’s busy.”
Robby looked at him.
“I assumed she was busy.”
“You’ve been asking where she is all day.”
“I have not.”
Langdon blinked.
“Mel has a tally going.”
Robby stared at him.
“A what?”
“A tally.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because every time someone mentions your wife, you ask where she is.”
Robby looked appalled.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
A voice suddenly called from behind them.
“Twenty-three times.”
Both men turned. Mel King was standing at the nurses’ station. Robby frowned.
“What?”
Mel smiled.
“You’ve asked where your wife is twenty-three times.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
Langdon burst out laughing. Robby looked horrified.
“You’re counting?”
“Oh, all of us are counting.”
“What do you mean all of us?”
Dana looked up from her tablet.
“We started around nine.”
He stared at her.
“You started a pool?”
She looked entirely unashamed.
“I had thirty by lunch.”
“You people are insane.”
“No,” Langdon said, grinning. “You’re clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
The entire nurses’ station erupted into laughter.
“What’s the joke?.”
Your voice. He turned immediately. Of course he did. You were standing a few feet away, looking entirely too amused. You had clearly heard enough.
“Oh, this is wonderful.” You grinned.
“It isn’t.” Robby frowned.
“You’ve asked where I am twenty-three times?”
“I haven’t.”
“Apparently you have.”
“I really haven’t.”
You smiled.
“Oh, honey.”
He hated that smile. You walked closer.
“Do you miss me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You seem very worried about where I am.”
“I’m not.”
“You seem very interested in my location.”
“I’m really not.”
You looked delighted. Then you reached up and cupped his cheek. The entire nurses’ station immediately went quiet.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
“Stop.”
You laughed. Then kissed his cheek. A chorus of noises erupted behind you. Someone actually whistled. Robby closed his eyes.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Dana said.
You smiled again.
“Unfortunately for you, I have another consult.”
He looked at you.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Oh my God.,” you smiled. “You just said no.”
“Because you’ve been here for thirty seconds.”
You looked positively radiant.
“He’s back.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
You looked behind you.
“Guys, is he clingy?”
A dozen voices answered at once.
“YES.”
You laughed so hard you nearly doubled over. Robby looked personally betrayed. Then your pager went off. You sighed. He sighed. You looked at each other. And then both of you started laughing.
“This day hates us,” you said.
“It really does.”
You stepped closer and squeezed his hand.
“I’ll find you later.”
“You promise?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. You blinked. Then your entire expression softened.
“I promise.”
You squeezed his hand again. Then you were gone. Again. Robby watched you disappear down the hallway. A beat of silence passed.
“Twenty-four.”
He looked at Mel.
“What?”
“You just looked after her.”
“I hate every single one of you.”
The laughter that followed him all the way back to the trauma bay suggested nobody believed him for a second.
******
By four in the afternoon, the entire emergency department was running on caffeine, stubbornness, and sheer spite. Robby had removed his green jacket hours ago, rolled his sleeves to his forearms, and was currently dictating notes while simultaneously listening to a resident present a case.
He was tired. The kind of tired that settled deep in his bones and made the bright lights of the Pitt feel a little too harsh. But more than that, he was annoyed. Because somehow, impossibly, he had still barely seen his wife.
He’d caught glimpses. You walking into an elevator. You disappearing down a hallway. You laughing with a nurse. You stealing a granola bar from the physician lounge.
Every single time he’d managed to get within ten feet of you, someone had dragged one of you away. It was becoming personal.
“You know, if you keep sighing like that, people are going to think something’s wrong.”
Robby looked up from his chart. Dana was standing beside him with her arms crossed.
“I wasn’t sighing.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I exhaled.”
“You sighed.”
He ignored her. She smiled.
“You still haven’t seen your wife.”
“I saw her.”
“You spoke to her for approximately four minutes.”
“It was at least five.”
Dana’s smile widened.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You counted.”
“I did not count.”
“You absolutely counted.”
He set his chart down.
“I have actual work to do.”
“And I have actual work to avoid.”
He glared at her.
“You’re irritating.”
“And you’re pathetic.”
Before he could answer, Mel approached.
“You know she’s in Trauma Three, right?”
Robby looked up so quickly that both of them burst into laughter.
“You two are children.”
“We’re helping,” Mel said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wasn’t looking for her.”
“You looked up before I even finished the sentence.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I regret hiring all of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t. A trauma alert sounded overhead. Everyone moved. A construction worker with a crush injury. Another hour vanished. Then another. And by the time the patient was stabilized and admitted, the sun had begun to dip lower outside the ambulance bay windows.
Robby scrubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted. The Pitt had finally begun to settle into the strange lull that existed between the day shift chaos and the night shift storm.
A few nurses sat at the station charting. Someone had ordered food. Santos looked half asleep while typing notes. And for the first time all day…
There was nothing actively on fire. He leaned against the desk and took a sip of now-cold coffee. Then the elevator doors opened. You stepped out.
He looked up immediately. Of course he did. You looked absolutely exhausted. Your hair was completely out of its bun now, hanging around your shoulders. Your red jacket was draped over one arm, and there was a small smear of something on your cheek.
You looked around. Found him. And smiled. His entire chest loosened.
“There you are.”
You walked toward him slowly.
“Here I am.” He smiled. “You look awful.”
You laughed softly.
“Thank you so much.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
You stopped in front of him.
“You don’t look much better.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“So have I.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were just there. Finally. In front of him. Not walking away. Not being called to another floor. Not disappearing around a corner. Just…there. You looked up at him.
“Hi.”
His expression softened.
“Hi, baby.”
You smiled.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
You laughed. “I’ve seen you.”
“No, you’ve been sightings.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I caught glimpses of you.”
You laughed again. He loved that sound.
“You’ve had a hard day without me.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
“No.”
You stepped closer.
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was busy.”
“You were grumpy.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
He sighed. You smiled triumphantly.
“I don’t know why I tell you anything.”
“You don’t have to. Your face does it for you.”
You reached up and brushed the smear from his cheek. He frowned.
“What?”
“You had blood on your face.”
“Oh.”
You smiled softly.
“You need a shower.”
“So do you.”
You looked down at yourself.
“Fair.”
Then your pager suddenly beeped. Both of you froze. Silence. You slowly pulled it from your pocket. Looked at the screen. And then looked back up at him.
“No.”
He laughed.
“No?”
“No.”
“That’s very professional of you.”
“I don’t care.”
You shoved the pager back into your pocket.
“If they need me, they’ll call again.”
He looked genuinely surprised. You took another step toward him.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“I miss my husband.”
Something warm spread through his chest.
“I miss my wife.”
You smiled. And then, because apparently twelve years of marriage had changed neither of you, you simply leaned forward and rested your forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you immediately. A soft sigh escaped you.
The entire nurses’ station went quiet. Dana looked up from her tablet. Mel looked up from her notes. Langdon froze with a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. Nobody moved.
Because there was something so quietly intimate about it. You, exhausted beyond words, simply standing in your husband’s arms. And him holding you like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly this. Your voice came out muffled.
“I think my feet hurt.”
He smiled.
“I know they do.”
“I haven’t sat down since breakfast.”
“I haven’t either.”
“I hate everyone.”
He laughed softly.
“There she is.”
You smiled against his chest. Then another voice broke the moment.
“There they are.”
You both looked up. Cassie McKay was grinning.
“Oh, this is disgusting.”
You laughed. Robby rolled his eyes.
“We’re standing.”
“You’re cuddling.”
“We’re not cuddling.”
“You absolutely are.”
The entire nurses’ station suddenly found something very interesting to listen to. You looked up at your husband.
“We’re cuddling.”
“We’re not.”
You smiled.
“We definitely are.”
He sighed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. Then Cassie folded her arms.
“You know, this explains your mood all day.
Robby frowned.
“What mood?”
“The one where you’ve been asking where your wife is every ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I really haven’t.”
“You really have.”
You looked at him.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He groaned.
“No.”
“You’ve been looking for me all day?”
“I wasn’t looking for you.”
“You asked where I was twenty-four times.”
“It was not twenty-four.”
Mel looked up.
“Twenty-seven.”
Robby looked horrified.
“What?”
“We kept counting.”
“You people need hobbies.”
“We have hobbies.”
“Apparently, one of them is harassing me.”
You started laughing. The sound was warm and bright and completely unrestrained. He couldn’t help smiling.
“There it is!” Dana pointed at him. “The smile!”
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” several voices answered.
You laughed harder. Then you looked back at him.
“You really missed me.”
He looked down at you. You were smiling at him like he’d hung the moon. Twelve years later, and somehow you still looked at him like that. He sighed. A long, defeated sigh.
And finally said, “Maybe a little.”
Your eyes widened. The entire nurses’ station erupted.
“I KNEW IT!”
“Oh my God!”
“Pay up!”
“You owe me twenty bucks!”
Robby blinked.
“What?”
Dana grinned.
“We had a pool.”
“You bet on me missing my wife?”
“You made it very easy.”
He looked genuinely offended. You were laughing so hard you had tears in your eyes. Then you reached up and cupped his face.
“You are so cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty.”
“And clingy.”
“I am not clingy.”
You grinned.
“Sure, honey.”
Then your pager went off again. Both of you looked at it. Silence. You looked at him. He looked at you. Then you turned the pager over and shoved it back into your pocket. He blinked.
“You ignored it.”
“I did.”
“What if it’s important?”
You shrugged.
“I’m off in fifteen minutes.”
You smiled softly.
“And I’d rather spend those fifteen minutes with my husband.”
His expression changed entirely. All the teasing and irritation from the day simply melted away.
You saw it happen. Your own smile softened.
Then, very quietly, you asked, “Can we go home soon?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his side. You went willingly. As though there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be. He kissed your temple.
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
You sighed happily.
“Good.”
Then you looked up at him.
“I think I need a shower.”
He smiled.
“I think I do too.”
You yawned.
“And food.”
“We can do food.”
“And bed.”
“We can definitely do bed.”
You nodded.
“Perfect.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You simply stood there together while the department buzzed softly around you. Finally. After an entire day of missing each other. Together. And when Dana looked over and saw the two of you still standing there, she smiled to herself.
Because for all of Dr. Michael Robinavich’s reputation—the sharp tongue, the intimidating stare, the chief attending everyone feared—there was one undeniable truth. The man was completely and utterly gone for his wife. And judging by the way you were practically asleep against his shoulder…
You were just as gone for him.
******
By the time you pulled into the driveway, you could barely remember the drive home. The kind of exhaustion that settled over you after a long shift wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Heavy. It sat in your muscles and behind your eyes and made even simple things feel monumental.
Taking off your shoes felt monumental. Unlocking the front door felt monumental. You dropped your bag by the entryway and stood there for a moment in the dim, quiet house. Silence.
No monitors. No pagers. No overhead announcements. Just…home.
You sighed softly. You knew Robby would be another twenty or thirty minutes. He had stayed behind to finish notes and make sure one of the residents wasn’t drowning in admissions. You loved him for that. You also knew he would come home exhausted. Probably with another headache. Probably with blood somewhere on his scrubs that he hadn’t noticed.
You smiled to yourself. Then you made your way upstairs. By the time you stepped into the bathroom, every inch of you ached. You turned on the shower and waited for the water to warm, slowly pulling your hair free from its tangled ponytail.
Your wedding and engagement rings came off and settled beside the sink in the tiny plate. Then your scrubs. Your socks. The day. You stepped under the spray and immediately let out a soft sigh.
Hot water. Heaven. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, letting the water run over your face. For a few moments, you didn’t move. You simply stood there and breathed. The day slowly began to wash away.
You thought about the little old woman you’d admitted who reminded you of your grandmother. The little boy with the broken arm who had proudly shown you his dinosaur socks. The endless consults. The running. The exhaustion. And, somehow, in between all of it…
Your husband looking for you all day. You laughed softly to yourself. You could still hear Dana’s voice.
You asked where your wife was twenty-seven times.
A few moments later, you heard the front door downstairs. Then footsteps. Then the familiar sound of a bag being dropped. A small smile spread across your face. A minute later, the bathroom door opened. You didn’t turn around.
You didn’t have to. You knew every sound he made. The rustle of fabric. The heavy exhale. The soft thud of shoes hitting the floor. The shower door opened. Warm air shifted.
A second later, strong arms slid around your waist from behind. You melted immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You smiled.
“Here I am.”
He pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.
“I missed you.”
You laughed softly.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“And an hour before that.”
“I know.”
You turned in his arms. He looked exhausted. Hair damp from the humidity in the bathroom, dark eyes tired, stubble a little more pronounced than it had been that morning. And still the most handsome man you’d ever seen.
“You look tired.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“I am tired.”
You reached up and touched his cheek.
“So am I.”
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The water ran over both of you. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. You sighed softly.
“Long day?”
He smiled a little.
“You know the answer to that.”
You did. You lifted your hand and smoothed your fingers through the gray at his temple. His eyes fluttered briefly. He always liked when you touched his hair.
“You have a line right here.”
You touched between his brows.
“You’ve been frowning all day.”
“You disappeared all day.”
You laughed softly.
“There you are.”
“What?”
“My grumpy husband.”
He slid his hands around your back.
“I wasn’t grumpy.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I was concerned.”
You grinned.
“Concerned.”
“Yes.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You could have texted.”
He looked offended.
“I shouldn’t have to text my wife to know where she is.”
You laughed.
“There he is.”
He smiled despite himself. Then his hand came up and gently brushed damp hair away from your face.
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“You’ve got circles under your eyes.”
“So do you.”
“I know.”
You smiled softly.
“You know what I wanted all day?”
“What?”
You stepped a little closer.
“This.”
He looked at you.
“This?”
You nodded.
“Just…this.”
His expression softened completely. You reached for the soap and squeezed some into your hand.
“Come here.”
He smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking care of my husband.”
He laughed softly but stepped closer anyway. You began rubbing the soap over his chest and shoulders, your hands slow and gentle. You weren’t rushing. There was nowhere to be. Nowhere else to go. You smoothed your hands over his arms, washing away the day. The smell of hospital. The dried blood he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion. He watched you the entire time.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” You rinsed his shoulder. “I want to.”
Something warm crossed his face. Then he took the soap from your hand.
“Turn around.”
You smiled.
“Bossy.”
“Turn around.”
Laughing softly, you obeyed. His hands were large and warm as they settled on your shoulders. Then he began washing your hair. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers worked through the strands with practiced ease. You nearly melted.
“Oh.”
He smiled.
“What?”
“That feels really nice.”
“I know.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“Once or twice.”
You closed your eyes. His fingers moved against your scalp, gentle and thorough. Every bit of tension in your body seemed to slowly unwind. You sighed.
“I like that.”
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
You smiled.
“I think I might live here now.”
He laughed softly. The sound vibrated through his chest. He tipped your head back gently to rinse your hair, his hand supporting your neck. The care in the gesture made something in your chest ache. You turned back around. He looked just as tired as you felt. You reached up and touched his face again.
“You took care of everybody today.”
“So did you.”
“But who took care of you?”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he smiled softly.
“You are.”
Your eyes immediately softened.
“Oh.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. Then one to your cheek. Not rushed. Not passionate. Just…loving. You smiled.
“You really did miss me.”
“I really did.”
The admission came easily now. You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I missed you too.”
He exhaled softly. Then his arms came around you and pulled you close. You simply stood there. Water cascading around you. His chin resting on the top of your head. Your cheek against his chest. His hand slowly rubbing up and down your back.
After a while, you murmured, “I don’t think I’ve sat down all day.”
He laughed quietly.
“I know I haven’t.”
“My feet hurt.”
“I know they do.”
“My back hurts.”
“I know.”
You smiled.
“You always know.”
“I’ve been married to you for twelve years.”
“That’s fair.”
He kissed the top of your head. Then your forehead. Then your damp hair. As though he simply couldn’t stop touching you now that he finally had you to himself. You looked up at him.
“I love you.”
His expression softened immediately.
“I love you too.”
You smiled. Then reached up and touched his cheek again.
“And for the record…”
“Hm?”
“I think it’s cute that you missed me.”
He groaned.
“Oh, don’t start.”
You laughed.
“I do.”
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
He shook his head. Then he smiled. Because of course he did. You leaned up and kissed him softly. Just once. A slow, tired kiss. Then you rested your forehead against his again.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. The day had been loud. Demanding. Chaotic. But here?
Here there was only warm water and soft touches and your husband holding you like he’d finally gotten something back he’d been missing all day. And for a long while, you simply stayed there. Cleaning each other. Holding each other. Loving each other. Until the water began to cool and your fingers had wrinkled and the day, at long last, finally felt over.
******
The house was dark by the time you finished getting ready for bed. Not completely dark. The small lamp on Robby’s nightstand cast a warm glow across the room, and the television downstairs was still faintly audible, though neither of you had really watched it while eating leftovers in the kitchen.
You had simply sat across from each other. Bare feet. Damp hair. Quiet smiles. The kind of silence that only came after years together. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.
Now, however, you were officially done. Done with the day. Done with people. Done with making decisions. You climbed into bed with a relieved sigh and practically melted into the mattress.
“Oh, thank God.”
Robby looked up from where he was putting his watch on the dresser.
“Tired?”
You turned your head slowly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more tired in my entire life.”
“You said that last week.”
“And I meant it then too.”
He laughed softly. You pulled the blankets up to your chin and sighed. Your hair was still slightly damp, your skin warm from the shower, and every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy. You watched him move around the room. Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt and sleep pants. A little more gray in his beard than there had been a few years ago. A little more tired around the eyes.
Still the most handsome man you’d ever seen. You smiled to yourself.
“What?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You’re looking at me.”
“So?”
“You’ve got that look.”
You smiled wider.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I think my husband is handsome.”
He huffed a laugh.
“You’ve been married to me for twelve years.”
“And?”
“You know exactly what I look like.”
You grinned.
“I still like looking.”
The faint pink that touched his ears made you smile even more. The man who could stare down a trauma room without blinking and somehow still get shy when you complimented him.
“Cute.”
“I am not cute.”
“You are.”
“I am fifty years old.”
“And adorable.”
He shook his head and turned off the lamp on his side of the bed. The room dimmed. Then he walked around the mattress. You expected him to slide under his blankets.
Instead the mattress dipped heavily beside you. Then shifted. And suddenly there was an alarming amount of husband climbing into your personal space. You laughed.
“Michael.”
No answer. He simply kept going. One large arm wrapped around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. His chest pressed against your side. Then his face disappeared into your neck. You blinked. Then laughed again.
“Sir.”
Still nothing.
“Are you comfortable?”
A muffled sound came from your neck. You smiled.
“I can’t understand you.”
Another muffled noise. You laughed harder. Finally, he lifted his head just enough to look at you.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
You smiled.
“Then why are you laying on top of me?”
He looked entirely serious.
“I’ve got my wife back.”
Your entire expression softened.
“Oh.”
He rested his head back against your shoulder. You brought your hand up and ran your fingers through his damp hair. He sighed. A long, contented sigh.
“You’re right…that is nice.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“That happy little sigh.”
He smiled. Then buried his face in your neck again. You couldn’t stop smiling.
“You really had a hard day without me.”
“I did not.”
“Michael.”
“You kept disappearing.”
You laughed softly.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“I was in the same building.”
“I know.”
“You saw me several times.”
“I know.”
You smiled into the darkness.
“And you still missed me.”
Silence.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Maybe?”
“I don’t like it.”
“What?”
“Not seeing you.”
Your hand slowed in his hair. You looked down at him. Even in the dim light, you could see the exhaustion on his face. The vulnerability too. You softened completely.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He sighed.
“I know it’s ridiculous.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know we’re both busy.”
“We are”
“I know we work in the same hospital and that I can technically walk upstairs whenever I want.”
You smiled.
“But?”
“But I like seeing you.”
Your chest squeezed. He looked up at you then. Dark eyes. Soft expression. Entirely too honest.
“I like our mornings.”
You smiled.
“Our coffee?”
“Our coffee.”
“I like our lunches.”
“We never actually get lunch.”
“Still.”
You laughed.
“I like hearing your laugh in the hallway.”
Your smile grew.
“I like knowing where you are.”
“Twenty-seven times worth?”
He groaned.
“Oh my God.”
You laughed.
“I am never letting that go.”
“I know.”
You brushed your fingers through the gray at his temple.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“It was embarrassing.”
“It was adorable.”
“It was not.”
“It really was.”
He shook his head. Then he shifted closer somehow, which you honestly didn’t think was possible. You laughed softly.
“This side of you is great.”
“What?”
“My clingy husband.”
“I am not clingy.”
“You are currently wearing me like a blanket.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You literally said you weren’t.”
He looked up at you.
“I’m emotionally comfortable.”
You stared at him. Then burst out laughing. The sound filled the room. And to his great offense, you laughed so hard tears gathered in your eyes.
“Emotionally comfortable?”
“Stop laughing.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re very mean.”
You laughed harder. He tried not to smile. Failed completely. You cupped his cheek.
“Oh, honey.”
“I regret saying anything.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately…No, he didn’t. You smiled softly and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then another. Then one to his temple. He closed his eyes.
“That feels nice.”
You smiled.
“You’ve had a long day.”
“So have you.”
“I know.”
You kept stroking your fingers through his hair. After a few moments, he spoke again.
“Do you know my favorite part of the day?”
You looked down at him.
“What?”
“This.”
You blinked. He lifted one hand and gently touched your cheek.
“Coming home.”
Your expression softened.
“Getting to be with you.”
You smiled.
“Not being chief attending?”
“No.”
“Not trauma medicine?”
“No.”
“Not the emergency department?”
“Absolutely not.”
You laughed softly. He smiled.
“This.”
You leaned down and kissed him. The kind of kiss that came after twelve years of marriage and still somehow felt like coming home. When you pulled back, he was smiling.
“You know,” you said softly, “I missed you too.”
He looked up at you.
“I know.”
“No, I really did.”
You touched his cheek.
“I kept thinking all day that I wanted this.”
You ran your hand through his hair again.
“Just us.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and covered your hand with his.
“Got us now.”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Silence settled around you. Comfortable. Warm. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars drove by. Somewhere in the distance, a siren sounded. The hospital would still be there tomorrow. Patients. Consults. Traumas. Chaos.
But none of it mattered right now. Because your husband was draped over you like a very affectionate weighted blanket. And honestly? You wouldn’t have had it any other way. A few minutes passed.
“You know what?”
“Hm?”
“I’m glad I married you.”
He smiled without opening his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
You laughed softly.
“That’s all I get?”
He finally looked up. Then he smiled. That soft smile. The one that belonged only to you.
“I’d marry you again tomorrow.”
Your breath caught.
“Oh.”
“And the next day.”
You swallowed.
“And the day after that.”
Your eyes stung unexpectedly. You smiled.
“That’s very unfair of you.”
“What?”
“Making me emotional when I’m tired.”
He laughed softly. Then he lifted himself just enough to kiss your forehead.
“I love you.”
You wrapped your arms around him.
“I love you too.”
He settled back down, head against your chest. You kept your hand in his hair. Eventually his breathing slowed. Then slowed some more. You smiled into the darkness.
“Michael?”
A sleepy sound.
“Hm?”
“You know I’m coming home with you tomorrow too, right?”
A long pause. Then his arm tightened around your waist.
“I know.”
You smiled.
“But I still don’t like sharing you with the rest of the hospital.”
You laughed softly. Then you kissed the top of his head.
“Go to sleep, clingy husband.”
Another sleepy noise.
“Only with you.”
Your heart melted. And sometime later, with nearly two hundred pounds of chief attending draped warmly across you, his hand resting over your heart and your fingers still tangled in his hair…the two of you finally fell asleep. Together. Exactly where you’d both wanted to be all day.
Kara who saw her parents wither away. Kara who carries the grief of an entire planet. Kara who doesn't share that grief with her cousin, because she thinks he could never understand. Kara who holds Krypto like her heart, because he is the only piece of her Krypton that is still alive. Kara who will tarnish her soul so Ruthye doesn't have to. Kara who has every reason to scream, cry and break things, but chooses to stay and make Earth her home because she also has many reasons to find again the happiness she lost. That is a Kara that I love.
the pitt x animal kingdom crossover
|| jack abbot x reader || pope cody x reader ||
summary: your first day at PTMC as a transferred resident was stressful enough without your entire past coming to haunt you.
|| angst, crossover fic, baran al-hashimi'sfriend!reader, SR3!reader, exbf!pope cody, resident!reader, medical jargon, this follows the pitt s2 pretty closely (scenes, patients, medical jargon that I def get wrong) animal kingdom s6 spoilers!!!!!!, grief, memories, flashbacks, one could call this a soulmate au, back in the day they might say a whump fic, age gap implied but not specific, timelines are not canon, lil bit of manhandling and tough love, slightly spiritual in the end (ghosts, spirits, parallel universes) ||
a/n: all credit to this tik tok that made me cry on a monday morning and some inspo from this post // last flashback inspired by pope x angela s4e11 // thank you @pearlessance for your big beautiful brain and your unending support!!
a/n II: im serious guys if you haven't watched all of animal kingdom or havent had the internet spoil it for you like me, do not read :)
wc: 13.8k
You know, for what it's worth, your first day had started normal.
Chaotic, maybe— but normal.
You had no reason to think it wouldn't go by like any other.
Your attending, Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, was scheduled at a new hospital today. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center on the Fourth of July of all days. And at seven in the morning, you'd barely gotten down your iced coffee before you were being ushered into Trauma One for a left thoracotomy on a patient with a knife wound.
You followed them into the trauma bay, everyone getting prepared with surgical gowns, blue gloves snapping, masks pulled up over noses, the metal tray beside the bed already crowded with clamps and packs of gauze. In the middle of the room, the patient was being bagged through an airway, a nurse continuing chest compressions as his skin was slicked with sterile prep procedure, people moving around him like a choreographed dance. You watched from the edge, waiting for Dr. Al-Hashimi's command to join them.
You were grateful to see a few familiar faces. Dr. Samira Mohan, for one, who was calling for a chest tube while one of the nurses cut through the rest of the patient’s shirt. Dr. Mel King was there too, though she hadn't joined for the case. Both of them great doctors who had trained at the VA with you a few years ago. Different in their approaches, but just as good under pressure.
You'd known Baran for a long time now too. Before you'd even met Samira and Mel. You'd worked with her as a medical student doing your year abroad with Médecins Sans Frontières, knew her medical background with seizures—something that you kept secret through the years—even helped her for a few days at home after her laser ablation surgery.
You and Baran were tied at the hip. You knew her, and she knew you.
Which was partially why you were able to get the PD approval and would be spending the next three months following her around a very surly male attending's emergency department.
"Is the VA even a trauma center?"
You didn't like his tone.
You glanced over through your plastic surgical glasses. He was tall, older and bearded, his arms crossed over his chest, standing at the edge of the hospital bed trying not to take as much space as he did. Robby, you remembered. Dr. Robinavitch. One of the residents—a blond-haired doctor named Whitaker—had told you he would grow on you, that he really was a great attending.
You didn't doubt it. You'd known enough great doctors to also know they could still be complete assholes too. Even on their good days.
"We took walk-ins." you said curtly.
Baran tried to hide her smile. Robby’s eyes moved to you, held there for a second, then he nodded.
"We had falls, major MVCs, GSWs." she added with a much more polite tone than you had managed.
You listened to Dr. Whitaker on your left, asking the medical students questions about the procedure, differentials. Things you knew the answers to, the words sitting right there on the tip of your tongue, but you bit them back.
Teaching hospital, you reminded yourself. More specifically, someone else's teaching hospital.
"Javadi, Whitaker, glove up." Robby said to your left.
"You too." Baran said beside you. "Start on internal compressions."
Robby looked over. "I'd rather my—"
"—she is capable." Baran cut in gently. "And a good listener."
She nodded at you, jerking her chin up. "Go on."
You obeyed, grabbing your gloves from the boxes on the wall, the latex snapping at your wrists. A nurse slid the white surgical covering over your shoulders and tied it behind your back, the paper stiff against your neck. Everything smelled like betadine, blood, and plastic tubing.
The other residents began moving around, making room for the other two that crowded the table. You stepped in close, your toe brushing someone else's as you found a place near the open chest.
"Well hello to you too." one of them said, a woman to your left, her eyes narrowed, but even with the surgical goggles and mask, you could've sworn you saw a smile.
You only looked at her, squeezing yourself past, your shoulder sliding against her chest accidentally.
"Take me to dinner first, would ya?" she teased.
"Yolanda Garcia has trouble expressing her feelings," you heard Dr. Robby say to Baran across the room.
"I sure will miss you, rabbit-bitch," she called a little too loudly in your ear to him.
You saw him and Baran step closer, the two of them side by side at the foot of the bed. Not together, exactly. More like two people standing on the same square of floor and refusing to give any of it up, leaning in and almost hitting heads as they tried to look at what was going on.
There was a lot of talking around you. Samira's phone kept going off, Garcia was opening the chest cavity, her gloved fingers moving quickly through blood and tissue, clearly an OR fellow with many, many hours on the table. Whitaker was trying to explain to the medical students what was going on, his voice steady enough, though you could hear him working to keep it that way.
"No tamponade, pretty dry in here—" Garcia said quickly, looking in. "Heart's empty. Somebody start cardiac massage."
"On it, excuse me." you said, a little more forcefully as you stepped into the space between Garcia and a nurse. There was a half-second where the room narrowed to the patient’s open chest and your own hands. You placed them carefully, exactly where they needed to be, fingers closing around the heart. It was smaller than people thought. Slick, warm, a living muscle that didn't care how many times you had practiced this in simulation. A life.
You began compressions.
One squeeze. Release. One squeeze. Release.
"Okay team, I think—" Baran began, but Robby cut her off.
"Samira?" he called, "Next steps?"
Keep transfusing. Open the right chest. Find the source. Move before he runs out of time.
There would be a lot of blood.
The blood started pouring out, pouring and pouring. Thick and red under the lights, running off the drape, splashing down into the basin below and onto the floor. Your fingers kept moving around the heart. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Your forearms began to burn beneath the gown.
"There's too much blood to suction—" Javadi said, panic rising in her voice.
Where was all of this blood coming from?
"Can't locate the source—" Garcia murmured, looking into the chest cavity.
"We need to convert to a clamshell." you said, looking up at Baran, then to Robby.
He nodded, "Exactly."
"Trauma sheers." you called at the same time as Garcia.
"Jinx, now you owe me a drink with dinner." she teased.
Someone handed them over before you could even think of a retort, not that you had one. Your brain had narrowed to the heart in your hands. The life you held there, retaining it, forcing it to continue. The metal flashed in the light before Garcia took them, cutting through the chest, opening it wider. The room shifted around the decision, everyone making space for the next problem.
More talking around you, more hands moving, more suction. Someone called for more units of blood, a second MTP. You kept your hands where they were, the heart softening and filling by turns beneath your palms, never enough to make you comfortable.
"Still bleeding like a stuck pig!" Garcia called after clamping.
You did have one idea—one thing you could do to stop this. Something that could buy the patient enough time to get upstairs. But you knew Baran wasn't exactly keen on risky procedures done because the room had gotten desperate. Better to rush to the OR in her mind. Better to control what could be controlled, to keep the steps precise, to not make a bad situation worse with a move that could tear the lung off its root if done wrong.
But Robby seemed to have the same thing in mind.
"Hilum flip. Rotate the lung one-eighty degrees."
"Like putting a kink in the garden hose." you whispered to yourself.
Everyone looked at him like he was insane, but you knew there was no time to waste.
"Gently. Very, very slow." he said, his eyes on you and nodding. "Whitaker, take over compressions."
Letting go of the heart when Whitaker's hand found yours, you reached for the lung, then looked up at Dr. Robby again.
You glanced at Baran too. Her eyes were wide behind her shield. "He could die if you rip his lung off the hilum." she said.
"I won't."
You sucked in a shaky breath, nodding, and then looked back at Robby.
You looked down and—
—slowly, slowly, you turned the lung.
There were so many bloody gloved hands tucking and moving around you, Whitaker's breath heavy beside you where he'd taken the heart from your hand a moment ago. Your fingers adjusted by tiny degrees, careful around the slick weight of the organ, your wrists stiff with restraint. The room felt close behind your mask. You held your breath for a moment, feeling Dr. Robby's eyes on you. Dr. Al-Hashimi's too.
Then Javadi called, "Blood loss slowing down!"
The words moved through the room like someone had opened a door. You let out a long breath of relief.
"Okay, we fixed the leak. Now we need to refill." Robby said, standing straighter, relief dropping his shoulders too.
You pulled away from the patient, letting Garcia take your place again, Whitaker standing tall and glancing at you with an impressed gaze. You didn't look at him for long, eyes back to the patient, to the monitor, to the line of numbers that suddenly mattered more than what anyone in the room thought of you.
Once normal sinus rhythm came back, you moved to stand back beside Baran. You hadn't realized how hard you'd been clenching your jaw until it loosened.
"Hell of a way to start the day." Robby said, disrobing the white sterile surgical covering. Baran followed suit, and you did the same, peeling the gown from your sleeves and dropping it into the bin. Your gloves were dark with blood, forearms aching.
"Unconventional. But a decent outcome." Baran agreed, every consonance perfectly crisp on her tongue.
All three of you left the bay, the noise of the monitor and raised voices disappearing with a swish of the doors closing behind you.
"Why don't we split up?" Robby said. "For efficiency."
"We can certainly discuss that." Baran answered with a smile. "I'll find you in a minute. I need to speak to my resident."
Robby made a face, but nodded. "Good job back there." he said shortly to you.
You gave him a polite smile, then threw your surgical glasses down into a bin.
Baran came in front of you, watching the attending walk away.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The bay was still noisy behind you, people cleaning, counting, calling upstairs, stripping the room down so it could become useful again now that the patient was stable enough for surgery.
"I'm sorry… for… undermining your authority in the room." you said with a sigh. "I'd thought of it before he even said anything about the flip, I felt confident enough to—but I should've asked—"
"I have always said I admire your confidence, doctor." she said gently when she turned back to you. "Just remember, you have nothing to prove to them. Or to me. I know your work."
"But they don't."
"No," she said, and smiled, chin tipping up in pride. "But they will."
You looked down for a second, trying to breathe around the adrenaline still crawling under your skin.
"Go check your other patients," she said. "And I expect to hear some updates. And…excellent work. You saved the patient's life."
You nodded, sucking in a big breath before turning and going back to your charts.
A couple hours passed in much easier quiet—though you'd never say the Q word out loud. You hadn't worked in many emergency departments, but you knew better than that in any hospital setting.
Quiet wasn't really quiet anyway. There were still labs to chase, discharge papers to fix, scans to check, patients waiting to go upstairs and heart rate monitors beeping.
Your own patients were doing fine. A few waiting on labs, one getting ready for discharge, one still up at CT. Baran had sent you through triage for a while too, helping clear out the lower acuity cases before they stacked up. It was steady, easy work. It kept you out of the way, too.
You were just making your way across the emergency department when you saw the most peculiar thing. An entire SWAT team was rushing in beside a bed, one of their members holding a breathing bag up, cursing and calling out the trauma.
"intubated neck wound—stats not great. Is there a trauma room open?!"
You ran towards the voice, listening to the story.
Dr. Robby blocked your view as he ran toward the incoming trauma as well, already cutting toward the bay, calling out orders to his residents and students.
You heard something about a high-velocity gunshot wound, the bagging not working on him. Warehouse robbery gone sideways. That piqued your interest, a flicker of memory tugging at your brain, making you smile a little as you pushed the trauma doors open.
They were putting him on the table as you pulled on a surgical gown again, blue gloves and glasses going on quickly. Your heart rate was climbing, eyes wide as you took in the victim. His shirt had already been cut open, blood running out of his mouth, over his neck, soaking into the collar bunched beneath his shoulders. Someone was calling for suction, another trying to get a pressure. The other SWAT team members filed out of the room, making space. But still one of them stayed.
"Thought you left us for the open road—" the remaining team member said from the bed as the nurses got the patient hooked up to the heart rate machine.
You couldn't quite place why his voice sounded so familiar.
"And miss seeing you in uniform?" Robby shot back as he rushed beside the bed.
"Should've seen me as a flight attendant." the other man whispered.
You had half a mind to laugh as you pushed forward toward the patient, not looking up. You moved to the side of the bed instead, checking the tube, the blood around his mouth, the barely there rise of his chest beneath the bagging. Not enough movement on the left. The wound at his neck was still pooling blood and soaking the gauze someone had pressed there, bright blood slipping between gloved fingers and down into the sheet.
"You do this intubation?" Robby asked the man.
Why was this SWAT member still here?
You needed room to work, to get closer to the patient. You stood across from the uniformed man, not bothering to look up as you reached for the suction tubing and cleared blood from the corner of the patient’s mouth. You wished he'd leave so you could see clearer around all the nurses and students, wished his vest and elbows and radio weren't taking up so much of the narrow space by the head of the bed.
"Under active fire, yeah."
Your eyes flitted up to him.
Only for a second, or what you meant to only be a second, to see if he was serious.
But for that second, your brain did something very strange.
For the first time in 7 years, you were looking at Andrew Cody.
But… not Andrew.
Andrew wasn't here. Andrew was… he was…
He was dead.
As the man turned to glance over his shoulder, it was Andrew's hair you were looking at. Graying now, still curly. The freckles on the nape of his neck you used to trace like constellations.
Your hand stayed on the suction tubing, but the room had slipped somewhere far away from you. Voices kept moving around the bed, Santos, Robby, Garcia— all of them thinned out beneath the monitor and the hard thump of your pulse in your ears.
The SWAT member was still turned slightly, glancing back at the bullet graze across his left shoulder. The fabric there was torn, dark with a splotch of blood. He looked at it like it was nothing.
He was saying something, but it joined with the rest of the voices around you—muffled in your buzzing ears. You heard something about the SATs going down, about causes of respiratory failure in intubated patients. Things you'd have answers to if you weren't looking at your dead ex boyfriend.
And he looked back at you.
It felt like someone had taken you by the shoulders and plunged you underwater.
But this man was Andrew. Older, for sure. Older than time would've allowed in those 7 years anyway. There were marks of it around his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the heavier shape of his shoulders beneath the tactical vest. But those were Andrew's eyes. Those were his lips—lips you knew, lips you'd kissed, lips that whispered secrets in the dark, lips that had curled back and bared at you the last time you spoke.
You heard the talking around you, but you were frozen. Completely frozen as he smiled at you—this SWAT member, this stranger who wasn't a stranger. Your brain was trying to catch up to the uncanny likeness.
You wanted to cry. You felt like you might faint.
You opened your mouth, lips dry, voice tight, and said:
"Pope?"
seven and a half years earlier
"I'm nervous."
It was dark—sometime around two or three, you thought. The only time Andrew could sneak in through your window without your parents hearing the latch of the gate, the scuff of his boots on the siding, the soft creak of your floorboards when he walked across the room to sit beside you on the bed. You hadn't turned on the light, maybe some part of you thought if you did it would all be too good to be true.
"Me too."
"What do you have to be nervous for?" you breathed a little laugh that felt stale in the darkness, your hands a little shaky around the envelope.
You felt the thick sleeve of his jacket rise and fall as he shrugged, "Dunno."
He was sitting very close, his right shoulder tucked behind your left, his palm flat on the bed behind you as he leaned into you until his chest pressed against your shoulder. His jacket was rough against your skin, still cold from outside, but underneath it he was warm, the heat of him coming through by degrees.
You sucked in a shaky breath, "Big envelope usually means good news, right? Right?"
"I have no idea."
"You're so helpful."
"M'here, aren't I?"
You nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see it. "Yeah."
Shifting the envelope in your lap, you turned it over, then back again. The seal caught a thin line of moonlight from the window, your name looking so neat on the front, printed by someone who had never met you. Someone who didn’t know about the hours spent at Smurf’s kitchen table filling out applications beside J, or Andrew grabbing cash from a rubber-banded stack in his glove compartment to pay for the application. You hadn’t asked where it came from, though you'd already had a good idea.
"Are you gonna open it?" he asked.
"I'm scared."
"Do you want me to open it for you?"
You shook your head, "No, no. It's okay."
"So…"
"It's just that… my whole world is in this envelope right now." you said quickly. Admitting it felt surreal, it gave weight to the paper in your hands. You let your fingers trace over the parchment, the white address sticker peeling up a little as you picked at it. It felt as if maybe it would come up, and someone else's name would be under it. Like it wasn't meant for you after all.
He stayed quiet, waiting for you to go on.
"If this letter says I didn't get in… I don't know what my life looks like. I mean, what would I do?"
"You can stay with me." he said softly, just breath against your jaw as he leaned into you. "We would figure something out."
You nodded. "I know. But… if it says I did get in…"
"It will."
You looked over at him. You could see the outline of his face, the barely there moonlight catching the pretty light in his eyes. You leaned in further, pressing your forehead to his temple, letting out a long sigh.
His skin was warm there. A little damp near his hairline from the hood of his jacket, from the climb, from the summer night still caught on him. Your grip shifted around the envelope, paper dragging against your cotton shorts. When you spoke again, it was hardly a whisper.
"How can you be so sure?"
He rolled his head against yours, gently, sucking in a breath with you before letting it out. The smell of pine soap and minty toothpaste moved over your face with it.
"Because this is what you're meant to do. I know it. I just do."
You licked your lips, smooth with your bedtime lotion and chapstick already applied, leaning into him a little more, pausing there. You felt close enough to feel his breath touch your mouth before either of you moved.
He closed the distance, gently pressing his mouth against yours, breathing you in through the kiss.
His hand found your face—rough palm, calloused fingers, the careful cup of his touch beneath your jaw. It always did something strange to you, how gentle he could be with hands that had evidence of so many split knuckles past. His thumb moved over your cheekbone, soothing.
When he pulled away, you almost followed.
His eyes moved over your face in the dark. Searching, maybe, or checking. He said he never had the right words for this sort of thing, not really, but you didn't need them. Because he looked at you like he was trying to make sure you were still there with him. And that was more than anyone else had ever offered.
His other hand came up, fingertips light as they cupped your skull, turning your face just enough for the moonlight to catch it. To one side, then the other. It should have made you laugh, the seriousness of it, the way he studied you so intensely.
Then he leaned in one more time, pressing a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose.
"Open it." he whispered.
You pulled in one last breath before sitting up straight, crinkling the corners of the manila envelope before flipping it over. You took your time, carefully unfolding the wire clasp, gently slipping your finger between the closure before the sound of tear of paper filled the room.
Pope's hand lifted from the bed behind you to wrap around your body, squeezing you close.
Slowly, you pulled a stack of papers out.
Your eyes immediately dropped to the first line below the greeting of the first page:
On behalf of the Committee on Admissions, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.
Even in the dark, there was no second guessing it. The words were there, black and perfect on the page, and your whole body seemed to understand them before your mind could.
Your vision narrowed, your world opened up, a future you had no idea how to take part in but knew you'd be there anyway. Something changing in your own chemical makeup, the feeling of Andrew's arm around you, squeezing you tighter, whispering something.
When you turned towards him, he was already looking at you—so close in the dark, eyes bright and mouth pulling wide like he couldn’t help it.
You smiled back, big and toothy and disbelieving, your throat burning as tears began to gather. The papers slipped from your hands and scattered to the floor as you threw your arms around him, pushing him back into the bedspread with a burst of hushed laughter.
now
"Pope?"
The man who looked like Andrew's lips pulled into a little smile, his head tilting at you, inquisitive.
"You know," he said, voice touched with amusement, "I never pay attention to that stuff. Can't even remember the guy’s name. He's from Chicago, right? I grew up Catholic, so really I should know."
You blinked.
"Dr. Abbot is an attending here," Robby said as he came up beside you, peeling back the soiled gauze around the patient’s throat and revealing the displaced trachea beneath.
You looked down at the patient again, and the transected trachea snapped you almost back to the present. Almost. Your hands were still shaking, your brain still scrambling to separate the man across from you from the dead one in your memory, but you had to get yourself together. The patient could die if you didn't focus.
"Baby—I need a baby—"
The SWAT member—Dr. Abbot, if you remembered right, looked at you a little funny. You shook your head sharply as if to dislodge your running thoughts and organize them with a quick jostle just as another resident moved in beside him with an air bag. The breathing tube was out now, the open wound exposed, blood spluttering from it.
"I mean, a neonatal mask. I need a neonatal mask! He's not getting any air."
You looked around, everyone was still looking at you a little weird, but Robby only nodded his head, agreeing. "Santos—go!"
"Neonatal?" she asked.
"YES!" you barked, and you were surprised to hear Robby's voice overlapping yours.
She was only gone for a moment, but it felt longer than it should have. Too many seconds with the monitor complaining, too many hands hovering over a body that had no usable airway.
The moment the mask hit your palm, you pressed it over the open wound, sealing it against his neck while someone squeezed the bag.
The monitor began to settle down to a steadier beat.
"Neo-natal mask is working," Dr. Abbot said, his voice lighter than before, almost impressed. Dr. Santos continued the EFAST while the patient was stable enough, and Abbot injected lidocaine with epi to help with the bleeders. Things felt almost normal again, or at least close enough to pause and figure out the rest.
You kept looking up at him though.
Not on purpose, and not for very long. Your eyes would lift, catch on the curve of his mouth or the set of his brow, and then you’d force them back to the patient, to the wound, to the monitor, to anything with a number attached to it. Your brain kept trying and failing to separate memory from present.
He and Robby were talking, discussing next steps around you.
"I could do a Shiley?" you offered.
"I don't like the curve of a Shiley." Dr. Abbot teased.
"Didn't know you were so picky," Robby answered. You almost had the nerve to smile.
This was turning into a very weird day.
When you looked back over to Dr. Abbot, he was looking at you. Your skin lifted in goosebumps.
"You must be Gloria's new hire," he murmured.
"One of them." you answered.
He tilted his head to the side, his eyes skating over your features. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Your presence didn’t seem to have the same effect. He was calm, collected, nothing like you felt.
Robby answered before he could say anything, "We were lucky enough to get two." he introduced you by name, then explained, "R3. "
He didn't sound like he felt very lucky, but you ignored that.
"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Abbot said. You could swear there was a certain tone to his voice. Cheeky, almost. Your skin felt tingly.
Just then, you heard Baran's voice enter the room, "What is going on here? You have a field medic assisting?"
"Dr. Abbot is an attending and also a SWAT physician." Robby explained again to her.
"Transected trachea, we're working on an airway." you explained.
Dr. Abbot was moving in with his tube, explaining it to Dr. Santos, but Baran had shouldered her way between you and the resident.
"We can do this." she said stiffly.
"No, no," he said easily. "I got it. You must be Gloria's second hire. I'd shake your hand, but my tube is ready."
You felt your lips twitch in what could've been a smile if you didn't feel like you'd lost your breath entirely.
"Keep an eye on the SATs," she told you over her shoulder.
You backed away, holding your hands up to keep them from touching anything or anyone.
"What, you're gonna take away the only helpful person in the room?" Abbot asked as he inserted the tube into the retracted trachea while Robby pulled it up with forceps, Santos taking over on the air mask.
"Hey," Robby protested. "I'm the one holding this open for you."
Dr. Abbot smiled, focusing back on the patient, "I'm gonna sew this in, 2-0 silk, please?"
"End tidal, good wave form." you called out, eyes flitting from the attending to the screen.
Robby let out an impressed whistle from in front of you. "Not bad, Abbot."
You moved away, feeling a little hazy, like you were walking through water as you began stripping off your sterile surgical gear. You took in a few deep breaths, focusing on the movement. Glove off. Gown untied. Mask flicked off. Glasses lifted from your face. One thing, then the next.
But you couldn't help the way you kept wanting to look back at him.
It felt almost like you'd been transported. You weren't sure if it was back in time or forward, or to some strange parallel universe that had split open in the middle of Trauma One. Andrew Cody was standing in the room. Graying hair, stubble grown out, blood on the back of his SWAT uniform, his hands busy at a patient's throat.
Not Andrew—Dr. Abbot.
Your brain offered the correction, but it didn’t settle right.
He looked up as if you'd called his name. Those eyes followed you across the room, curious, wondering. It was the same steadiness that would study you from across the kitchen counter, the one that would sneak glances at you from the driver's seat of a car, beside you in your bed. Your stomach dipped as you remembered the last time you'd seen them.
You turned away, unconsciously reaching up to grasp the necklace that adorned your throat between your fingers as you pushed the doors open.
The ED had gotten busier than before, and you inhaled the hospital air steadily into your lungs as you looked around. Your hands still felt like they were trembling, all that adrenaline and unease working its way through your bloodstream. Epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol. You recited it just to have something you knew. Something that was real. Adrenal medulla. Sympathetic nervous system. Hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.
Your body was doing exactly what it was built to do, flooding you with chemicals and tightening your muscles, preparing you for danger.
But instead of danger this time, it was a ghost.
Time passed strangely after that, in pieces easily measured. A CBC resulted. A urine sample collected. X-ray called to say they were ready for the wrist in triage. You'd gone back out there to let your thoughts collect, and maybe to avoid the main trauma center too.
Usually work helped. Even when you'd had bad days before, or days where you felt helpless and tired and worn out, the hours of helping other people could usually quiet whatever was wrong with you. There were orders to put in, pulses to check, nurses asking for discharge plans. There was always something that needed your hands more than your feelings did.
But now… this was different.
In every patient checked, every lab sent, you thought of Andrew Cody.
A broken wrist came in at some point, swollen at the joint and held tightly against the patient's chest, her fingers moving but stuff. Her skin was puffy where it began to swell by her apple watch she hadn't taken off. You touched two fingers to her radial pulse, asking her to wiggle her fingers, then pressed along the snuffbox until she hissed.
"Sorry," you'd murmured. You'd ordered the films and ordered a splint until ortho took a look at her, simple and easy enough.
Except as you were doing it, you felt twenty years old again in a sunken living room in Oceanside, Craig Cody's wrist tucked against his own lanky chest while Deran paced behind you, agitated and barefoot as he tried to call their doctor in Mexico.
Andrew had been standing stiffly behind your chair, one hand gripping the back of it so that when you sat up, his knuckles brushed the top of your spine.
You'd been googling how to make a splint for a broken bone while walking to the fridge for ice. You remembered Craig looking at you funny when you'd returned with one of Smurf's magazines from the bathroom and a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer, wrapping his arm with more confidence than you actually felt.
It had healed fine in the end.
Mostly.
There was a man with split knuckles from a bar fight. Typical day drinking incident for a city like this. But while you cleaned his wounds and bandaged his hand, you thought of Andrew's blood rinsing from his hands in your bathroom sink, quiet while you sat on the closed toilet seat with a towel in your lap. How he would never admit how badly it hurt. Or how badly he hadn't wanted to do it.
There was even a pair of twins, both with fevers. A boy and a girl, maybe four years old, sitting side by side while their mother tried to keep them from touching every surface in the room. They had the same flushed cheeks, the same damp hair at their temples, the same tired little lean toward each other whenever one of them started to cry.
You hadn't known Andrew that young. You hadn't even been alive. But seeing them staring up at you with those big fever-bright eyes made you think of him anyway. Andrew and Julia. Inseparable, but both destined for a tragic end.
You checked their ears, listened to their lungs, pressed gently under their jaws while they blinked up at you. Viral, probably. Nothing too bad. Tylenol, fluids, return precautions. A normal childhood illness on a normal terrible day.
On your way back into the trauma center, you sent a little prayer up that the story of Andrew and Julia would never happen to them.
By the time you made it back to your workstation that had you seated around the edges of the charge nurse area, you felt a little refreshed from your earlier encounter. You hadn't seen the SWAT member—or attending, or whatever his title really was—anywhere yet. That helped too.
You took your seat and pulled the keyboard closer, the plastic keys worn smooth under your fingertips as you brought up the charts that needed finishing. A coffee you'd grabbed on the way over sat beside the mouse, lid half off, the surface already cooling. You began finishing your charts, trying to keep your eyes on the screen and your thoughts inside the room you were in.
"You've been gone for a while."
You looked over your shoulder to see exactly who you'd expected: Baran, standing straight, looking over your shoulder, her perfume faint against the hospital smell.
"Just making myself useful in triage, I guess." you said, looking back at the screen, but you felt her eyes on you anyway.
She let the silence sit there for a moment, the way she always did when she thought you might fill it if she waited long enough. You didn't. You clicked into the next chart and pretended the cursor needed all your attention.
Finally, she sighed.
"Are you ever going to give my generative AI a chance? You could be seeing other patients right now. You could be enjoying a small break in the lounge."
You huffed a little laugh. "When I'm ready to wipe out all the wildlife for data centers, I'll let you know."
She shook her head, a little pressed smile catching at the corner of her mouth. And then, after a moment, she said: "You've been avoiding me."
You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Damn her for being so observant. It made her a great doctor. It also made her an annoyingly keen boss. And a wonderful friend.
You turned on the rolling stool.
"I"m sorry. It's…"
"Did you know him from somewhere?"
Your eyes widened, heart dropping. Feigning ignorance, you asked: "Who?"
"The patient," she said, watching your face. "The one with the transected trachea. He's in surgery right now. I can call for an update if you'd like."
You let out your breath quickly, almost too quickly. "Oh. No, no. I didn't."
Her eyes narrowed a little, that brown gaze searching your face with a steadiness you had watched study patients, consultants, nervous interns, men who thought they could talk over her.
"Okay." she said.
You could hear the tone of disbelief under it, the things she wanted to say but wouldn't.
Clicking your tongue softly against your teeth, you looked down at your lap, at your hands folded there, at the faint red mark across the back of one finger from where one of the twins had held onto you tightly as you took their blood.
"Well…" she continued. "I trust if it's something that needs discussing, you would—"
"—Yes, yes, I promise." You looked back up at her. "I just… I needed to clear my head. I'm good. I'm back."
Baran held your gaze.
It wasn't like a typical attending, not harsh or deciding whether you were fit for work. More like Baran the friend, the one who had once shared a bowl of popcorn and Raisinets on her couch with you as you watched Love Island after her surgery. She knew what you looked like when you were lying. She knew what you looked like when you were telling only half a truth too.
"Okay." she said at last, a smile twitching back to her lips. "You can help me with a middle-aged woman with sudden-onset blindness. Mel is heading up for her deposition soon, and I need someone in there to observe."
"Sure, yeah." You nodded, turning back toward your chart before she could keep looking at you. "Give me a few minutes to finish this, and I'll be over."
She tapped two fingers against the counter beside you, then walked away. "Room 15."
You watched her reflection move across the dark edge of your computer screen before you started typing again.
The words came slower than they should have, and eventually you gave into the notion that you'd probably be spending an hour after your shift catching up, just like the rest of the residents anyway.
You closed out of the charts, and headed over.
Only, halfway across the department, you realized Baran hadn't said where the patient was. Room 15, yeah. But there were 3 different fifteens in this god damn maze. North, South, Central…
You slowed near the charge board, coffee still in your hand, eyes scanning the names too quickly to make sense of them. Looking for anything resembling blindness or vision loss, neuro, consult pending. You found none of it fast enough. You felt the department going on around you, noisy and distracting.
You gave up and walked a few steps away, looking around the different doors, and just decided you'd try all three.
Central Fifteen was closest, and the curtain was pulled all the way across, so you approached, trying to plaster on your best bedside smile.
You pulled it open.
The sight inside hit you so fast you gasped, nearly dropping your coffee as your other hand tightened around the curtain, wrenching it closed again.
Your heart felt like it had catapulted into your throat, your stomach falling the opposite way onto the floor.
Not Andrew, not Andrew, not Andrew, you kept chanting it as you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breath in and out of your lungs.
"You… can come in." the voice said from the bed. It was low and careful and quiet, startled too. His hazel eyes had been wide, flickering up when you'd scared him too. Those broad shoulders bare, thick muscled chest plain as day with his shirt in his hands.
You sucked in another breath and opened it slowly this time to see Dr. Jack Abott sat on the exam bed before you.
seven and a half years earlier
You weren't sure what had gotten into Andrew that day.
It had been a sunny Friday afternoon, the place already loud with music and vices carrying throughout the house. Andrew had asked you to come, and he'd sounded so serious over the phone you hadn't even hesitated.
But now he'd locked you out of his room.
At first you weren't sure if it was just because he needed a minute, or he was messing with you. But Andrew didn't mess with you like Craig or Deran did. He didn't tease just to tease or make you chase him around for the fun of it. If Andrew was making something difficult, there was usually a reason.
You knocked on the door softly at first, a gentle little C'mon, Andy, open up, before you'd started really knocking, practically shouting for him to answer you. The house went on behind you, the day drinkers enjoying summer out by the pool, drinks being poured in the kitchen, a game of kings in the living room. Music carried all through the house. It was why you'd thought maybe he'd just been overwhelmed. Usually an hour or so into a party, the both of you would retreat to the company of only each other in a quiet room.
You leaned your head against the wooden door, and listened.
He was pacing. You could hear him mumbling to himself too, what it was he was saying, you had no clue.
What was his problem?
You were lifting your head from the door, about to go join the party outside when suddenly the bedroom opened up.
"What the hell, Andr—ah!"
You squealed as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside roughly. Then, just as abruptly, he stood away from you, breathing hard, eyes moving over the bed, the nightstand, the floor by his shoes, anywhere but directly at your face.
"Sit." he said simply, pointing to the bed.
"What the hell is going on with you?" you snapped, folding your arms over your chest.
He was doing that thing—the puppy dog eyes, rubbing of his palms together, the eye contact flitting around to anywhere but you. It would have been irritating if it didn't make your stomach twist. You knew him angry, you knew him quiet. And you knew this version too—nervous, child-like.
Andrew could scare other people with all his silences and hard staring, but you knew the difference. This wasn’t anger. This was him getting stuck somewhere in his head, turning a thought over and over until it wore a groove.
"Hey…" you said, and then again, softer: "Hey."
He looked up at you. His big hazel eyes were wide in the afternoon light that came through the bedroom window, softened and yellow by the drapes.
"What's going on?" you murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to take the sides of his hoodie in your hands, fisting the fabric so you could pull him closer.
The fabric was warm under your fingers, the pocket stretched out where he always hooked his thumb. You could feel his breath move through him, uneven under the cotton. He stared at your hands.
"Andy…" you said, quieter.
His eyes flicked to the bed.
"Sit."
You sighed, let go of him, and obliged.
You bounced a little as you landed on the mattress, his unease making you fidget. You could smell the detergent from the perfectly made bedspread, the old wood of the house, the smell of your sunscreen wafting around you.
"You're making me nervous." you murmured.
His eyes finally landed on you and stayed there, "M'sorry. I'm sorry."
He sounded so genuine as he sat beside you finally, the mattress dipping under his weight. His knee brushed yours before he pulled it back, and his hand flattened over the seam of his jeans. You watched his thumb press into the denim, rubbing at the same spot, the skin around his nail going pale.
"Just…tell me what's goin' on." you said, laying your hand gently over his.
He was fidgeting too, pursing his lips, his eyes down turned again. Then he leaned toward his bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch. There was a gold cord wrapped tightly around it, leather softened and expensive. He held it out while not even looking at you, taking in a long shaky breath.
You took it carefully, setting it in your lap with two hands. "What's this?"
He didn't answer.
"Andy—"
"It's nothin'." His eyes stayed on the floor. "Just—well, not nothing."
"If this is what I think, I can't accept."
"Yes, you can."
You rolled your eyes.
He leveled his gaze very seriously on you, his brow set, his hands suddenly still. "Will you just open it?"
You looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed. Fighting him was futile when he had something on his mind.
You looked back down at the leather pouch and untied the gold cord. The knot had been pulled tight, and it took you a second to work it loose with your nail before you unfolded the worn pieces of leather.
Something glittered beneath.
"Oh—" you gasped.
Inside was a diamond necklace.
A white-gold chain connecting to a bejeweled bail that held two small circles stacked above an oval stone, the whole pendant ringed in more diamonds, so bright that it threw little cuts of light across the inside of the pouch.
You were almost certain it was worth more than anything you had ever owned.
You looked up at him. "Andy…"
His jaw shifted, but he was looking at you differently now—those big hazel eyes stayed on you, waiting, nervous, still, but changed with a softness that often was reserved for only you.
"I wanted to get you something," he said, voice low, "for getting into the program. Do you like it?"
"Andy, I can't accept this—"
"Yes you can." he corrected. His tone was soft, hoarse like he was telling you a secret instead of trying to hand you what had to be a five-figure diamond necklace. You wondered if his brothers knew what you were given. If Smurf had any say.
"Wh—why are you even giving me this? Aren't the cops gonna be looking for it?"
He tilted his head at you and whispered, "Don't worry about that stuff. I'll handle it."
You shook your head in disbelief, fingers toying with the white gold chain in your lap. For a moment, you didn't know what to do about him. About his kindness, his generosity, the over-the-top gestures he often made without understanding they were over-the-top at all. To him, it was direct. You loved someone, so you gave. You celebrated.
You loved him for it, for him wanting to give so much. The way he made sure you understood how much you meant to him, never questioning or second guessing.
Still, you wondered if he'd taken it from under his family's noses when they weren't looking. You were almost certain you knew the job it came from, too. The mansion you'd visited under the guise of a decorating crew with a little black dress on, hair pinned and proper, clipboard to your chest while you smiled at a woman who had no idea you were memorizing the hallway behind her.
"We could've gone out for a drink to celebrate!" you said under your breath, though it wasn't mean.
He shook his head. "You worked hard to get in. You deserve more than a round of shots at Deran's shitty bar."
You stared at the necklace. He whispered your name, and you looked up.
He leaned in closer, making sure you heard every word as he said, "You deserve to be celebrated."
You pressed your lips together, your eyes moving over his face—the freckles across his nose, the little scars near his brow, the old nick at his cheek you still remembered touching the first week you knew him. You'd never seen someone flinch like that before. You thought of how he hasn't flinched from your touch in years now. It makes your chest warm as you look at his cheekbones. They were sharper than they had been a month ago, his eyes darker underneath, like he hadn’t been sleeping well.
"Do you like it?" he asked again, quieter this time, his voice losing some of its edge.
You let out a breath, smiling despite yourself. "Yes."
His shoulders eased, a small shift under his hoodie, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. Then, he smiled. Small, almost hidden at first, just the corner of his mouth lifting. And then his whole face split, his cute toothy grin, dispelling all the tension in his muscles. Your own smile grew before you could stop it.
"You do?" he asked.
"Of course I do."
He leaned in slowly, as if unsure if you'd pull away (you never, ever did) and kissed you gently. His mouth was warm against yours, chapped where he'd been most likely biting at it all day before you got to the house. You held the kiss, lips slotting together, and his hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, keeping you close.
Your tongue dipped out to trace the underside of his top lip, and he opened for you, eager enough that your breath caught. His tongue slid against yours, and the kiss deepened, both of you breathing heavier as your hand moved up his chest and around his neck, fingers curling into the brown hair at his nape.
Before you could get as carried away as you wanted, he pulled back. Neither of you let go. His forehead nearly touched yours, his hand still at your face, your fingers still in his hair, both of you panting into the small space between your mouths.
"Let me put it on you." he said.
You smiled a little, leaning forward to push your forehead into his before giving in, "Fine, okay, yeah."
He straightened with the necklace in his hands, the chain flashing between his fingers before he stood and crossed to the dresser. You followed him, still breathless from the kiss, the leather pouch left open on the rumpled bed behind you.
The mirror leaned against the wall by the window, catching the softened sunlight through the curtains and spilling it warm across your face, your neck, the front of your shirt. Andrew came in behind you in the reflection, shoulders broad around yours, head bent as he lifted the necklace.
His fingers brushed your skin as he worked the clasp, so careful that you barely felt them. The chain settled cool against your neck, and the pendant rested heavy at the base of your throat, glittering in the mirror each time you breathed.
Andrew leaned into you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "There." he murmured.
It was beautiful, you had to admit. Glittering in the golden warm light.
"It's perfect, Andy." you murmured.
"You're perfect." he whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.
Heat rushed to your face, and you lifted a hand over your shoulder, pushing your fingers back through his hair as his arms wrapped around your middle. His mouth stayed at your neck, kisses soft at first, then heavier, his teeth catching lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.
"Want you to wear it," he said between little nips. "Nothing else."
"Oh, yeah?" you giggled.
"Mhm," he hummed.
He turned you around in his arms and kissed you harder, one hand going to your hair, the other low at your waist as he walked you backward toward the bed.
now
He even had the same freckles.
There was a mole on his right pec, and your eyes dropped to it before you could stop them. Andrew had one there too. You used to kiss it when he'd lead you to bed, when he'd let you kiss all his marks—scars, moles, freckles, the places violence had touched him and the places he’d simply been born with.
You blinked hard and made yourself look away.
This wasn't Pope. It wasn't Andrew.
It was strange, seeing a body you knew so well shaped by time and some other life. There was a time Andrew had started boxing because he thought it would help get out his worst thoughts, and for a while, it had. He’d built himself for muscle and strength, for something to do with his hands besides hurt people, or himself, or anyone who got too close on the wrong day. Even after he quit, he kept the shape of it, strong through the shoulders, leaner when he forgot to eat, his body always carrying whatever his mouth couldn't say.
Jack Abbot seemed similar, though broader now, thicker through the chest and middle, less carved by violence and more by age, work, routine. The same kind of body built to carry too much. The same kind of shoulders that looked like they were holding a door shut from the inside.
You wondered if he was trying to outrun scary thoughts too.
"I'm… sorry." you said, breath uneven as your eyes went back up to his face.
There, some of the freckles were different. Less sun maybe, no California sunshine out here in Pennsylvania, no Oceanside glare to leave burns on the skin year round. But still. There were too many similarities, the kind your brain kept trying to make sense of and failing. Your blood thrummed in your ears again, warm and rushing.
"I was just… looking for a patient."
Jack looked at you funny again, his eyes scanning you, trying to read the messy thoughts behind your eyes, you figured. You probably looked insane.
"It's okay."
"Are you okay?" you asked, jutting your chin up toward his shoulder. Focusing on something you could see, understand.
He glanced back at it as he opened the kit on the medical tray in front of him. "Yeah, bullet just grazed me."
"Jesus."
"S'nothin'." He picked through the supplies with one hand, tearing open a packet with his teeth before thinking better of it and using his fingers. "Geniuses thought it was a good day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how much time it would take to load everything up."
You nodded, your throat beginning to burn. You wondered who the kids were, if they were another crew like the Codys had been, sitting around a kitchen table with beer bottles and a map, thinking through cameras, doors, exits, timing. Or if they were idiots with guns and no plan, chasing the rush before they’d learned how much a bad one could cost.
"Did… you catch them?"
"Yep."
You huffed a little laugh despite yourself. "Well… I should probably—"
But when you looked up, he was trying in vain to reach the wound, his shoulder rolling forward, arm lifted awkwardly behind his head. The graze sat high along the back of his right shoulder, too far around for him to clean well. He tried anyway, jaw set, antiseptic swab pinched between two fingers, his back arching a little to reach.
Your mouth was opening before your brain could stop you, "Give me that."
"I'm fine."
"I'll start your chart, then."
"No, no. Don't need the paperwork."
You held out your hand, "Our little secret then?"
He looked up at you, stalling, those hazel eyes searching your face again. So familiar, so steady. Your hand stayed out between you.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Goosebumps rose along your skin. You gave him your name.
"No, I mean…" his eyes narrowed, but he shook his head, sighing.
He handed over the Qtip with the antiseptic.
"Promise I won't tell." you said gently, stepping around him.
"Better not." he huffed with a half smirk.
You moved behind him and set the supplies in order on the exam bed: saline flushes, gauze, chlorhexidine swabs, a small packet of bacitracin, nonadherent dressing, tape. This would help. It had to. Simple stuff, cleaning a wound, knowing the steps. Just doing the work. The exam light above him hummed softly, casting a flat white square over his shoulder and the metal tray.
Both of you were quiet, but you saw his eyes slide around to you every once in a while.
You started with saline, flushing the graze from the cleanest edge outward, watching diluted blood run over his shoulder blade and into the gauze you had tucked beneath it. The wound was shallow, ugly more than dangerous, a raw red track through skin with darker bruising already starting around it. No embedded fragments that you could see. No active bleeding beyond the surface ooze. You wiped the skin around it with gauze, then cleaned wider with chlorhexidine, careful to keep most of it around the wound instead of scrubbing straight into the open line.
You hadn't realized you'd begun to cry until Jack turned his head over his shoulder, his brows drawing together.
"Hey," he said, quieter now. "What happened?"
You shook your head, trying to swallow the burn in your throat as the sting in your eyes flooded down your face with tears. "Sorry—I'm sorry."
You took the nonadherent pad from the tray, too quick, grateful for something to do. Your fingers pressed the dressing into place over the graze, then layered folded gauze over it for a little pressure. All you could think about was a familiar freckled shoulder. A familiarly thick neck with the same curls at the name. The man you loved turning his head in your bathroom to tell you a job had gone bad like he was telling you dinner ran late. Blood on the sink. Blood under your nails. His face pale, and you had felt scared enough for both of you.
"Who…" Jack Abbot began, but bit his lip, and you saw the infinitesimal shake of his head, before he was looking up at you, and trying again. "You lost someone."
Your eyes found his, and held your breath.
He nodded, "I know that look."
You wiped your cheek with the heel of your palm, then reached for the adhesive. Jack tore off two strips for you and handed them back without looking away.
"I'm fine." you said. "It's nothing."
He sighed, hands coming together in his lap, and you saw him twist the gunmetal wedding ring on his left hand.
"I lost my wife," he said after a moment. "A few years ago."
You stared at the side of his face. "I'm sorry." it's all you knew to say in that moment.
He nodded, eyes on his own hands. "Not a day goes by I don't think of her. But today…" He looked back at you, and you stood very still with the tape half-smoothed over his dressing. His eyes moved across your face, knowing and far away. "Today I saw you and it was like she was there. In the room."
You sucked in a little breath.
"I don't know why." His mouth pressed to one side. "I guess you—"
"— look like her?" you whispered.
He nodded.
You let out the breath you'd been holding in. You finished taping the dressing, smoothing the adhesive edges against clean skin because your hands still needed something to finish. The pad sat flat over the graze, the gauze beneath it catching what little blood was left.
"You… you look like my…" you weren't sure what to call him. An ex? Dead boyfriend? "Well. He… died, a long time ago." you went on anyway. "And when I saw you, it felt like…"
"… like you'd seen a ghost."
You looked back up at him with wet eyes, voice cracking, "Yeah."
For a second, neither of you moved, neither of you spole. The exam room felt small around the two of you, the curtain drawn tight, the overhead light buzzing, the metal tray with torn packets and pink-stained gauze piled on it. His shoulder was warm under your fingertips where you hadn't yet pulled away.
How could this be happening? You kept asking yourself over and over, but you couldn't understand the cosmic irony—the idea that somehow…somehow, Andrew had lived on. Maybe not in this timeline, but another. So that you would be here. Now. With Jack.
Out of all the lives you could have lived. Out of all the turns you could have missed and the ones you chose. Your parents and your childhood home. Andrew and all the ways he had been the sweetest soul you'd ever known and the most volatile man in any room. The acceptance letter. The way you'd wanted nothing more than to go but couldn't bear to leave and…the last time you saw him. And then, after years of hard work, of trying to forget, you met Baran overseas, half a world from Oceanside, pulling you into her orbit. Then to the city, to Pennsylvania. The VA. The PTMC on the Fourth of fucking July in the middle of humid Pittsburgh.
All of it. Every terrible, ordinary, impossible thing.
"You were so calm." you said quietly. "How were you so calm earlier? If you felt—"
He shrugged, and the dressing tugged a little at the movement. "I thrive under pressure, I guess."
"That explains the SWAT thing," you murmured.
"My therapist said I needed a hobby." he said dryly.
You stared at him for half a second before a smile caught your lips, as if a string was tied to the corner, pulling it up into your cheek.
"You were great today." he said softly, turning his face toward you so that even with his chin dipped, he could still look up at where you stood beside him.
"Thanks." you murmured.
"I can tell this is…" he paused, nodding a little, like he was feeling for the right words before they left him. "This is something you were meant to do."
You squeezed your eyes shut, your lungs hitching over what little breath you'd pulled in.
It was not only the words. It was the way he said them, low and careful with his eyes moving off yours right after, his top teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands rubbing together with the black shirt bunched between them. He looked so much like Andrew then that your chest went tight and your throat thickened.
You pressed your lips together, shutting your eyes against the threat of more tears, and nodded. You wanted to say something back, like thanks or you're not bad yourself!—but the words wouldn't come. They were stuck behind the lump in your throat, and you had to swallow them down before you choked on the grief.
You moved away from him to begin cleaning up the room, taking the trash from the metal tray, feeling his eyes follow you around in silence.
When all was done and cleaned up, he was standing back up with his shirt back on, his hands shoved in the tan camo cargos, shoulders straight.
"I should… go check on my patients." you said, reaching for the curtain. "Baran is probably waiting for me."
He nodded, fidgeting a little where he stood.
You pulled the curtain, but then heard him call your name.
His head was ducked again, eyes down at his boots, one thumb moving against the seam of his pocket. Then he stood straighter and looked at you.
"We should grab a drink sometime."
Your eyebrows shot up before threading together. "Like… swap war stories, or?"
"Or." he shrugged.
You licked your bottom lip haphazardly. You weren't sure what to say. It felt like a terrible idea. Giving in to whatever weird prank God was pulling on the two of you. A man who looked like Andrew asking you out in a curtained exam room with a bullet graze under his shirt. A man who had seen his dead wife in your face and still somehow looked at you like there might be something to do with that besides run.
"I don't know…"
"If it's too much, I understand." he said softly.
"It's just—" you paused, searching for the right words as you fisted the curtain beside you tighter, looking around like the answer was in the room, "s'kinda weird, right?"
"Very weird." he agreed. "But I see no reason why we shouldn't give in. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."
You stared at him a long moment, before he was stepping forward, his voice low. You had to hold your breath.
"One drink." he murmured. "What're you doing after your shift?"
The three B's came to mind. Bath, Book, Bed, truthfully. Maybe crying in said bath if the day kept going the way it had been and falling asleep with wet hair and waking up with sore eyes tomorrow to whatever PTMC had waiting next.
"Nothing." you said instead.
His eyes moved between yours, then down to your mouth, to the necklace at your throat, then back up again. The diamonds sat heavy beneath your scrub collar, hidden from most people, except the chain had shifted at some point while you were dressing his wound. A little flash of white gold against hospital black scrubs.
"Aren't you just… a little curious?" he asked, barely above a whisper, "About what the fuck this all is?"
You couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped you. He smiled back, just a twitching of his lips.
"Okay." you said. "A little."
"Then meet me at Redbeard's." he said, tipping his head. Then, after a second, quieter, "Please."
You gnawed on your bottom lip, looking past the curtain into the ED. Dana was picking up the red landline again, her other hand already reaching for a pen. A tech pushed an empty stretcher toward the elevators, the wheels clicking over the seam in the floor. Across the hallway, Robby stood in front of Santos with a chart in his hand, listening with his head tipped down while she talked.
The whole department kept moving, loud and bright, as if nothing was amiss. As if your world wasn't folding over itself, different timelines coexisting together in this strange space where time and grief took no pity.
You let out a long sigh.
"Yeah," you said, bringing your hand up to clench around the diamonds of your necklace, "Yeah, okay. Fine."
He smiled a little wider, and looked out into the same sea of chaos as you. "Okay. Go. I'll see you tonight. Redbeard's."
You looked back at him and smiled a little. "See you."
Because when you looked at him, all you could see was Andrew’s face, open in that rare way he never let last long.
seven years earlier
The house already felt out of control when you arrived. The bass rattled through the open slider and the large floor to ceiling windows as you made your way through the sea of bodies in the kitchen, the floor wet under your bare feet where someone had spilled. Beer, maybe. Something sticky that pulled faintly at your skin with each step. You made your way to the fridge anyway, pulling out a beer, the cold neck of it relieving to the touch in your hand.
When you turned around, about to open it, you saw Andrew.
He was sitting on the couch in the living room, sitting up from his laid back position, his arm coming off the back of the couch to stand up. His attention had snapped to you too quickly, and you saw his face change. Confusion first, then relief, but then something much, much harder. Something that shut everything else down.
He was up and beside you in less than ten seconds. "Why are you here?"
You blinked, but turned to walk away. “Hi to you too.”
He reached out quickly, pulling you by the arm to turn towards him. You squeaked out a little hey!
“Why are you here?” The second time was lower, meaner, his head ducking as he said the words.
Your smile faltered a little, but you tried to pull it back. “It’s Craig’s birthday, isn’t it?”
“You’re supposed to be gone.”
You swallowed hard. Your bags were packed. Sitting in the trunk of your car. You'd meant to take the exit going east but… but you couldn't. So, you shrugged as averted your eyes from his, beer pressing coldly into your palm, condensation slicking against your fingers. “Yeah, well. I’m not.”
You could feel his piercing stare on you.
The party kept moving around you, but it felt farther away now, muffled under the rush of blood in your ears. People were shouting by the pool as usual, music blaring and scores being called as idiots jumped from the pool house roof into the water. You watched Deran do a backflip, the crashing of the water making you jump.
When you looked up at Andrew finally, you were surprised to see how uncertain he looked. You could see the thoughts moving through his brain, the cogs trying to make sense of why you were here, if he'd gotten something wrong. But you knew, and you knew he knew, that you should be crossing state lines by now. As if you'd said it out loud, face went hard and strange.
Blank, almost.
“So no med school.” he said darkly. It wasn't even a question.
You rolled your shoulders, trying to make it look easy. Trying to make any part of it feel easy. "No med school."
Andrew's eyes only narrowed more, his jaw tightening.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” you said. “I’ll tell them something came up. Or I’ll defer, maybe. People do that, right? They defer.”
His hands tightened into fists at his side, fingers curling in slow, controlled increments.
“It’s fine,” you said, talking faster now because he wasn’t saying anything, and the silence was getting worse the longer he held you under his stare, no matter how loud the house was around you. “I can work. I can help more. I already know half the shit you guys need before you even ask me. Have you talked to Deran about the mattress warehouse off the 23? Because I was thinking if you hit it before—”
And then he was reaching for you, a hand closed around your wrist, and he was moving.
You stumbled one step after him, your shoulders bumping into strangers. You didn't have time to apologize because he was pulling you so quickly, his broad back making a path ahead. You set your beer down to not add to the drinks already spilled on the floor, tugging at his strong hold.
"Andrew—"
He didn't answer, nor did he stop.
"Andrew, please—wait—" and then you saw he was bee lining for the back gate, and you dug your heels into the concrete of the pool deck, the rough edge of it catching under your flip flops as you tried to hold yourself in place.
He whirled around to glare at you, his grip tightening just enough to sear your skin. You had half a mind to be a little scared, but you just looked at him back with the same iciness, refusing to give him that.
"Stop, let's stay." you said, and then, a little softer, "Let's have a drink and go hide in your room."
His lip curled, and he was reaching out to grab you again, but you slipped free.
You ran back to slip into the house, to maybe weave through the crowd and lock yourself away, but he was on you when you met a road block of bodies, his arms going around your waist, locking in before you could twist away.
To anyone else, this probably looked normal. Playful roughhousing with one of the Cody boys and their girl. And besides, no one stopped Pope Cody when he was in the middle of something. No one even really questioned it.
He manhandled you into his arms, even as you squirmed, his hold already set, already decided.
"Andrew—get off!" you yelled, trying in vain to push him. "Get off!!"
But it was no use, he was breathing heavily, his eyes a mix of muddled color and pain, something too tight behind them, like he was making himself do this, no matter how badly he didn't want to be rough with you. His hands were so big, his muscles bigger, and in no time your gravity was being lurched off its axis, and you were being flung over his shoulder.
You slammed your fist into his lower back, his hand coming over the back of your thighs to stop your kicking.
“Put me down!” you shouted, hair falling into your face, blood rushing to your head. “Andrew Cody, put me down right now!”
“No.”
You shrieked in humiliation, in frustration, and he was walking out the back gate. He carried you across the driveway while you hit at him, furious, mortified, trying to twist enough to get a knee into his chest, his side, anything. Pavement blurred beneath you. The hood of your car flashed in the moonlight. He shifted you higher when you nearly slipped, palm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, his breathing heavy but controlled, like he had shut every other part of himself off except the part that knew how to move, how to get this done.
He came around to the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door.
Gravity whirled once again and the world tilted as he brought you back upright, only to push you off balance again and into the front seat.
"No!" you exclaimed, hands hooking at the door edge.
He didn't say anything, only was shoving your limbs into the seat, hands at your shoulders when you tried pushing back, firm, unyielding, not giving you an inch to work with.
"Andrew—stop!"
"No."
"Fuck—" you tried to push him away, "—off!"
You shoved at his chest and tried to duck under his arm, but he caught you again and again, both hands closing around the caps of your shoulders, pushing you down into the seat.
“You’re going.” he finally muttered.
“I’m not!” you spat back.
“You’re going.”
You wouldn't give in, twisting in the seat so your legs were half out the car door. Trying to stand again, he stepped between your knees, his body blocking the open space, boots planted in the ground, one hand catching both of your wrists when you swung at him.
“Andrew!”
“You’re going.”
The words came out of him like he had to force them through his teeth. Like it was all he could say.
“I want to be here!” you shouted. “Why is that so fucking hard for you to understand?”
His eyes burned into yours.
He didn't say anything else, the two of you a tangle of limbs until his hands snapped over the joints of your wrists, holding them tightly between you. You were heaving in breath, your muscles aching, the hair at your cheeks sticking to your face with what you realized then were tears.
“I love you.” you croaked.
He paused for a moment, looking down at you.
“I love you,” you said again, louder, like maybe if you said it hard enough he would stop looking at you like that. “I want to be with you. I want to live with you. I want to work with you. I want this.”
Your tears began to pour hot and fast, slipping down before you could do anything about them.
“Say it back,” you begged, trying in vain to push at his chest with the hands he held firmly in his grip.
He didn’t answer. But he'd had the worst frown on his face you'd ever seen. His eyes hard, brows drawn, as you begged—
“Say it, Andy.”
His mouth pressed into a line.
Your wrists twisted under his hand, but there was no real fight in it anymore. Your whole body had gone loose in pieces, anger draining out and leaving behind a panic so raw and ugly you felt almost humiliated.
“Tell me you love me,” you begged.
His face changed.
“Say it back.” you cried.
He looked down at his feet, his mouth twisting, his brows threading.
“No.” Your pleaded, hands trying to grip at him, but he held you too tightly. "No, look at me. Tell me you love me.”
He was breathing hard through his nose. His eyes were wet and mean with the effort of keeping it in, and that hurt worse than if he had screamed at you. You wished he'd just say something.
“Please,” you said again.
His hands dropped from your wrists as fast as if they'd been burned, and came to your face instead, both palms catching your cheeks, rough and too fast, his fingers curving harshly into your hair. He pulled your face up to look directly at him, his thumbs slipping through your tear tracks.
“Of course I love you,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Of course I do. What do you think this is?”
“Andy—”
“You have to go.” His voice split again, and he looked furious, whether it was at you or himself, you couldn't tell. But it was terrifying. The tears were beginning to blur your eyes. “You have to. You’re meant to do this. You’re meant to be a doctor. You’re not meant to be here with me and this—this shit.”
"I don't care—"
"You deserve a chance at a normal life." he said tightly, more a whisper than words. "I didn't. You have to go. You have to."
He stood there, shoulders rigid, mouth flat. It was his turn to beg.
“Please, sweetheart. You have to."
You threw him off of you, shoving him away, and he let go this time. You reached for the keys where he had thrown them into the cupholder at some point. You didn’t remember him doing it. You didn’t remember anything except his face, his hands, the sound of his voice telling you no.
You slammed the door and put the car in reverse with your whole body shaking, not looking at him. The tires screeched as he stayed where he was, his chest heaving as he watched you, his face crumbling entirely.
At the end of the driveway, you took one final look back in your rearview mirror.
You could just make out the tears falling down his face, his hands in his hair, elbows flared. Panic there, in his eyes. But relief too.
Relief in watching you leave.
now
Redbeard's was a dingy thing in downtown, thankfully close to your apartment, though you didn't even stop home. As badly as you wanted—hell, needed— to wash off the day, you knew once you made it through the door the fear would keep you from walking out again. And you hadn't gotten Jack's number. Picturing him waiting alone at the bar… on his only night off… you couldn't do it. To him, to you…to Andrew.
You found him outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone close to his face as he read something on the screen. It was like he sensed you coming, whatever strange sixth sense the two of you had for one another prickling up his spine to make him look.
You still had to stifle the gasp that threatened when his eyes found yours.
Jack Abbot, you told yourself again and again. Jack Abbot, not Andrew Cody.
For one brief, insane moment, you wondered if Andrew was with you there. If he was standing somewhere beside Jack on that gum spotted sidewalk, looking him over with that severe set to his mouth, suspicious of the warm little smile pulling at the man's face. Or maybe he would have been looking at you instead. Maybe he would have been smiling too, pleased in that way he got when you were brave.
You didn't even believe in ghosts, or spirits, or heaven or hell. Of any afterlife in which Andrew Cody's spirit would be there that night. You believed wholly in science. In blood and oxygen and a heart and a brain to keep a person alive… And you believed that when those things stopped, when there was no blood flowing to the brain, when the cells began to starve, there was no secret door opening somewhere else.
But that night, standing outside a bar in humid Pennsylvania while fireworks whistled and cracked and died somewhere distant over the water, you felt something too strange to dismiss.
Because… what if… what if there was something? What if there was some universe in which Andrew Cody and Jack Abbot's wife could see the two of you exactly as you were. Lonely, sad people who still carried their ghosts around. Maybe they knew. Maybe they had found each other out there, wherever it was, and maybe Jack’s wife had told Andrew about the man she left behind. How good he was, how he needed you and you needed him.
What other explanation was there?
When you approached Jack, there was an awfully familiar twinkle in his eye that had your lips pulling up into a real smile.
"Hey." you sighed.
“Hi,” he said, then cleared his throat a little. “Thank you for… coming out.”
You shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans to mirror him. “Guess I was curious about 'what the fuck this all is',”
Jack’s smile widened. His head tipped back for half a second before it ducked, his eyes dropping toward the sidewalk.
“Yeah,” he said finally with a nod. “Me too.”
You tilted your head at him. “Shall we?”
His eyes moved over you then, from the top of your head to the toes of your shoes, then back up to your face. It wasn’t the kind of look that undressed you. It was stranger than that. Softer. As if he was trying to make sense of the person standing in front of him, alive and still somehow carrying the woman he had lost.
How two lives could run so far apart and still end up here, on the same humid night, grief and curiosity braiding curiously through the two of you like some invisible red thread.
He nodded, then turned and opened the door.
“After you.”
I’ll be honest I looked over this maybe twice before posting so please excuse any inconsistencies or grammar mistakes! ilysm and THANK YOU FOR READING 🤍
summary: Baz hires you as Lena's nanny...but you and her want to spend more time with Pope
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! violence towards reader, smurf, daddy kink, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), no use of y/n
wc: 4k
notes: Set between season one and two, I'm only on season 3 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.
You always loved working with kids. Always knew that you were going to work with kids. You worked as an au pair around Europe in your early twenties. But after almost a decade raising rich brats in France and Italy and Spain, you decided that it was time to come home. Or close enough to home.
That's how you end up sitting looking out at the sea in Oceanside waiting to meet your new kid. Lena.
Her father, single dad, Barry Blackwell had put out an advertisement for a nanny. And you needed the job. You could handle a rich American brat too. The Strand was being gentrified. But Mr Blackwell seems more rough-and-tumble than hedge fund manager.
If you're being honest, he makes your skin crawl. But you need a job.
"This is a live-in position?" you clarify as you sit at the breakfast bar in his home.
He nods his head, "Yea, um, with my job I have to be away from home a lot. I don't like leaving Lena alone."
You blink, "Well yes, she's six. I wouldn't leave her alone either. That's fine. I'll just take Saturday afternoons until Monday mornings off."
The man before you frowns, "What if I need you to work weekends?"
"We can discuss overtime, Mr Blackwell. But I will be taking weekends. I'm being generous with Saturday mornings," you say with a frown.
His frown deepens but he nods.
"Lena's mother would do a grocery run-"
"Mr Blackwell, I'm not a maid. Of course, I'll cook for Lena. But I don't clean, I don't cook, I don't grocery shop."
"If I paid more?" he asks then.
You cock your head to the side, "If you paid more, then we can discuss that, of course."
So that's how you end up working for Barry Blackwell.
You don't mind living in the house by the beach. You get Lena up every morning, you make breakfast, bring her to school. You go clean the house when she's away, even do the damn grocery shopping with the wad of money he leaves on top of the microwave each week. When you pick Lena up from school, you always bring her to the beach.
"Daddy never takes me to the beach," she tells you one day as you eat ice cream.
Yea, you gather. You really don't like her dad. But he's rarely at home like he said.
"Uncle Pope brings me," she says. "We go to the swings."
You stroke her curls and smile, "Your uncle? Does he live around here?"
Lena shrugs, "I think so. Sometimes he's at Grandma Smurf's. But he was away for a really long time. I don't know where. But he's nice."
One morning after you drop Lena to school, you walk into the house to find a blonde woman sitting in the kitchen. You jump when you see her. Nobody has been in the house bar you and Lena since Baz left at the start of the week.
She sizes you up and down, "Where's my son?"
"Mr Blackwell?" you ask.
You've never seen this woman before. Baz told you not to let anyone into the house when he was away. Fuck. The older woman softens at your tone.
"Who are you exactly?" she asks, pursing her lips as she eyes you up.
"I'm Lena's nanny," you explain. "Mr Blackwell hired me a few weeks ago. He needed the help after his wife left. I just dropped her at school. Sorry, he never mentioned any family."
She frowns at your words, "Well that would be why I haven't seen my grandbaby in so long. I didn't know what Baz was doing with her. But he's got a pretty girl like you taking care of her.
"You can call me Smurf. Everyone else does. How about you bring Lena over to my house after school?"
"Oh, sure. I, well, don't know where you live," you confess.
Smurf smiles, "Well why don't you come over now. And we can go get Lena together. We have a pool," she tells you.
You brighten up immediately, "Oh! I was trying to teach Lena to swim. She loves to go to the beach but she can't swim. You think I could teach her in your pool?"
Smurf is delighted by the idea. Let's you gather your and Lena's things before driving you over to the Cody house. You've never been to this area of Oceanside. You don't expect the huge house. And you don't expect to meet Smurf's other sons.
Craig and Deran are making noise by the pool when you walk in. Smurf just ushers you into the kitchen.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asks you.
"Um, no I usually eat after I come back from dropping off Lena," you respond.
Smurf immediately starts cooking for you. You hate being doted on like that. You haven't been in so long. So you try to help but Smurf tells you to sit.
"Can I make you coffee at least?" you finally ask.
Smurf allows this, and you get to work with making fresh coffee for them. You look up when you hear heavy footsteps approaching. Your heart skips a beat when you look up to see a man storming into the kitchen handsome, auburn hair, hazel eyes and sun-kissed skin.
"Who's that?" he asks Smurf, ignoring you.
"Baz hired a nanny for Lena," his mother responds, introducing you.
He frowns as he sizes you up, "What did he do that for? We can take care of her."
Smurf scowls at him, at the suggestion. She doesn't want him to say something stupid in front of this stranger. She puts her arm around you, squeezing you gently.
"This is my eldest boy, Andrew," she tells you. "He's a bit rough around the edges but I promise, he's a sweetheart underneath it all. Now you go eat your breakfast while I speak to him."
You do as you're told. A part of you knows better than to go against what this woman says. It's a gut feeling. And you don't go against gut feelings.
When Smurf leaves you and Lena back to Baz's, Smurf grips your wrist, stopping you from getting out of her car.
"Let's not tell Baz about this visit. I think it's best if we just keep it between us," she says.
You nod your head. You're not stupid enough to disagree with her. And anyway, it's just swimming lessons.
Since Pope learned about you, he knew he needed to keep an eye on you. He spent a week following you. Watching as you brought Lena to school. Where you do your grocery shopping. He watches you when you go to the beach before you have to collect Lena. He likes watching how your body moves in the water when you go for a swim. He tries to ignore how his body reacts to you when you walk out of the sea, water sliding down your body.
You have no idea about Pope Cody. One morning, when you go to wake Lena up to get her ready for the day, you go into her room, and she's not there. Your heart drops. She's not watching TV. She's not in the bathroom. You search every inch of the house.
You're about to call Baz when the door opens and Lena walks in. You rush over to her, falling to your knees and cupping her little face in your hands.
"Where were you?" you ask. "You know you can't just wander outside on your own."
"I wasn't alone," she says as the door opens wider.
You look up from where you're kneeling on the ground to see a man come in. Andrew. The man who you met briefly at Smurf's house.
"Uncle Pope brought me to swings."
You lean back on your kneels with a frown as you look at him. He stares you down and you can't help the way your heart races. You blame it on the stress of Lena going missing.
"You shoulda woke me up," you say to her, stroking her cheeks again before standing up.
Andrew, Pope, looks at you. Cocking his head to the side.
"Where's Baz?" he asks, his voice rough.
Lena answers, "He's away..."
"And is he away a lot?" Pope asks, his eyes flicking to you.
"Lena, can you get ready for school, sweetie. I'll make you breakfast in a second," you say.
As soon as Lena rushes off you turn your attention to Pope.
"You can't just break in here and take off with her," you tell him. "I thought she was kidnapped. Mr Blackwell woulda killed me!"
Pope sizes you up, "She's my niece. I can see her whenever I want."
You look at him like he's crazy. He has to be crazy. It's barely 6am and he thought he'd pay a visit?!
"I knew Baz wasn't around. I was worried about Lena. I thought she was here alone."
"And you didn't call your brother?" you ask, folding your arms in annoyance.
"He didn't answer. Where is he?" he retorts.
You shrug as you turn to the kitchen, Pope's eyes fall to the swell of your ass under your sleep shorts.
"He told me he travels for work. Is that not true?" you ask as you pull out bacon from the fridge.
Pope just sniffs in return. He knows his brother is probably with Lucy in Mexico. Leaving his daughter with a stranger.
"You're a nanny?" he asks then.
"Yea, I worked in Europe as an au pair. I've done all my courses. Everything is above board, if that's what you're tryin' to get at," you say as you start making breakfast.
"And you live here? With Baz?"
You shake your head quickly.
"I'm a live-in nanny. But I don't live with Baz," you say, maybe a bit harsher than usual. "You want coffee?"
Pope's lips twitch, as close to a smile as you'll get. He likes you.
You don't expect Pope to still be there after you get home from dropping Lena to school. But he's there, cleaning the kitchen.
"Lena really likes you," you say. "When she goes to her grandmother's she's always asking if you'll be there. I'm teaching her how to swim. I can't believe she's a Cali girl and she can't swim!"
Pope just shrugs. He's not much of a talker.
"Look, I have no problem with you seeing her but I'd appreciate if you told me first."
He takes another minute before looking at you.
"So I need your number," you say offering him your phone.
That's how you end up texting Pope Cody.
Pope Cody: Hello. I can pick Lena up from school today. I'm in the area.
Pope Cody: Good Morning. I can take Lena for breakfast, she likes a pancake place on the way to school.
Pope Cody: Hello. I made too much spaghetti, I can bring some over for Lena and you if you'd like.
You smile whenever your phone vibrates. You like talking to Pope. Even if it is just about Lena.
Whenever Baz is there, the texts don't come in. Sometimes Pope will come over to hang out with Baz. But you never get to say too much to him as Baz suggests you take Lena somewhere else.
Although one day you walk in as Baz snarls in Pope's face, "No one is ever gonna have a kid with you."
Pope can't meet your eyes as he walks past you to leave.
You spend your Saturday afternoons and Sundays out of Oceanside. Unless Baz has requested that you stay. He pays you in cash beforehand, and you just spend the weekend with Lena. Sometimes at Smurf's. Sometimes with Pope.
You're on the beach one Saturday with Lena, Pope is pushing her on the swings and you are watching on. A woman comes up to you and smiles.
"Your little girl is so cute and your husband is so good with her," she says. "I have to drag my husband out with them."
You should correct her, but you don't. You want people to think that you're a family. It would be nice...
Soon you find yourself texting Pope, not just about Lena.
You: I watched a documentary about wolves I think you'd like
You: I was going to go to the beach tomorrow did you wanna come? Deran said you used to like surfing!
Baz comes in all flustered one afternoon. He hasn't been home in almost a month. It's the longest that he's been away. He rushes over to Lena and she's so happy to see her Daddy. You go back to cleaning as she babbles about everything that has happened since he's been away. You smile.
She's a great kid. One of the best you've taken care of.
You hear Baz ask her to repeat herself and your head shoots up.
"She's teaching me how to swim in Grandma Smurf's pool," you hear her say.
It's not her fault. She's just a kid. And even though you had told her not to say anything about Pope or Smurf, you can't blame her for spilling details. But the colour drains out of your face nevertheless. Especially when you hear Baz telling her to go to her room. She does as she's told.
You continue cleaning as you hear Baz's footsteps storm into the kitchen. He grabs your hair and pulls you backwards. He's pressed against your back and you're looking up at him, fear coursing through your body.
"I thought I told you not to let anyone in the house. And now I hear Smurf has been sniffing around. And you're bringing my kid around to her house," he hisses at you.
You whimper as his grip on your hair tightens.
"She's her grandmother. I didn't think-" you being before Baz slams your head against a cupboard.
"Yea, you didn't fuckin' think. When I tell you something, you fuckin' listen. You stupid bitch," he snarls, hitting your head against the cupboard again.
You're bracing yourself for another slam, but you're suddenly falling to the ground. Baz has been hauled off you. You collapse. You turn to see Pope dragging him off you. He punches him once before pushing him to the other side of the room.
You whimper when you hear footsteps coming towards you but it's not Baz. Pope scoops you up into his arms and carries you out of the house.
"Lena," you breathe shakily.
You don't wanna leave her alone in that house.
"She'll be okay. Baz isn't gonna hurt her," Pope promises as he brings you to his car.
He puts you into the passenger side and drives you to his home. You've never been to Pope's house before, even though you spend most days with him now. You start to get out of the car, but Pope once again gathers you in his arms, bringing you into the house.
"Are you okay?" he finally asks, his face a mask of anger.
He places you down on the couch. He strokes the cuts on your face, he can already see where the bruises will come up. Baz at least hadn't broken your nose.
"Let me clean you up," he breathes after you nod that you're okay.
You're shaken but it wasn't the first time that you've gotten hit. It's just been a while. Fuck, you thought you were over that stage of your life. Shouldn't have gone to fuckin' Oceanside to mind some kid.
"You promise Lena'll be okay?" you ask him when he finally returns with water and cotton pads.
Pope grunts as he cleans you up, "I wouldn't have left her there if I thought Baz would hurt her...I'll get her in the morning and bring her here. Is that okay?"
"Thank you, Andrew," you say softly. "You didn't have to do any of this. And thanks for being there."
You don't query how he knew you needed his help. You're just glad he was there. His large hands are still holding your face and his rough thumb slides over your lower lip. He is well aware that he shouldn't do this. But he can't help himself. You gently kiss the pad of his thumb, your eyes never leaving his.
He brushes his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. His eyes never leave yours. Pope has never been good with eye contact but he holds yours for what seems like hours. He doesn't want to push you. Not after what Baz did to you. But you're the one who finally breaks and presses your lips against his. Pope tentatively kisses you back but when he hears your little whimper, he's a goner. His hands drop from your face to your waist, pulling you onto his lap.
You've been waiting for months to run your fingers through his auburn curls. You tug at his curls as you deepen the kiss. You're suddenly dry-humping with Pope Cody on his couch like two teenagers. And you couldn't stop if you tried.
That is until his hands slide up your shirt and grasp your tits. You moan into his mouth as his rough palms press against the swell of your breasts, squeezing and releasing. He pulls your shirt over your head, breaking the kiss for just a second to do so. He doesn't even undo your bra, just pulls the cups down so your breasts fall free. He flips you onto your back. He kisses down your neck and then to your tits. He spends what feels like hours laving at your nipples. Whichever tit isn't in his mouth is being played with by his rough hands. Your arousal is all but rolling down your thighs when he finally pulls away from your tits.
His eyes are so blown out they're almost black. He pulls your jean shorts and panties down in one move. He groans at the sight of you.
"Lemme see that pretty pussy, baby," he tells you as he spreads your legs. You've never been this turned on in your life.
"Andrew Cody, if you don't fuck me right now," you whine out.
Your whines only result on him smacking you hard on your weeping cunt. Your back arches off the couch. Fuck you need him.
"Now lemme see that pussy."
Pope crawls between your legs, getting eye level down with your pussy.
"So pretty," he praises as he spreads you open, his eyes scanning you. He blows on you, causing you to shudder. His thumb teases your clit watching how you clench around nothing.
"So, so pretty," he praises.
Finally he presses kisses up your thighs and eventually presses his tongue inside you.
"Fuck, yes, right there," you whine out in pure need, grinding against his face.
Pope decides he needs to have you ride his face next. But not yet. He wants to play some more. He focuses his attention on your clit, hooking your legs over his wide shoulders. And within just a handful of ministrations, you're coming undone over his tongue. Your orgasm hits like a freight train. You're painfully turned on. You've been wound up for so long. And Pope Cody is just so happy to help you let loose.
Once you come down from your high, you pounce on him, pulling his clothes off. Desperate to see him. He chuckles softly as he helps you take his clothes off.
You follow his lead, kissing over the freckles on his neck, down his chest and stomach. He tenses under your movements and you smirk, nipping over his abs. His cock is leaking, standing to attention. And he's fucking huge. You should have expected that.
"Wanna fuck my face, daddy?" you coo up at him.
That name sends Pope wild, he grabs your hair and guides you down onto him. Once you've gotten used to him, he starts rocking his hips up. He holds onto you as he starts fucking into your mouth just like you asked.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Shit," he grunts after just a handful of thrusts. "I can't take this anymore. I need to be inside you. I need to fuck that pretty pussy of yours."
Pope grips you, flipping you back onto your back so he's on top of you again. He teases your clit with the head of his cock, smirking as you start to squirm.
"You want daddy's cock, huh? You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?" he growls in your ear.
You nod desperately, dumbly. Finally he's pressing inside you, inch by inch. You lock your legs around his hips as he finally bottoms out.
"Just like heaven, baby girl," he breathes in your ear.
He should be gentle, sweet, slow, after what Baz did to you. But he's desperate. So he starts jerking his hips in and out of you. The snap of skin on skin fills the room. Your pussy is so wet you can hear it just as well. You're so desperate for him.
"You gonna cum on daddy's cock?" he breathes as he fucks you. His hands palm at your tits with each thrust.
And as if on command, you cum again. You soak him and Pope looks victorious. But he's not finished with you yet. He pulls out to flip you onto your stomach and press inside you again.
"Fuck, so big, daddy," you whine for him as he pounds into you.
Pope kisses over your neck and down your spine, as best as he can from this angle. He buries his face into your neck as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over again. Your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm hits you.
This time you clench so tightly over his cock, Pope can't move. Your cunt literally milks his cock, forcing his orgasm out of him. He hasn't cum in so long that his release his hot and thick. It starts sliding out of you as your abused pussy can't take it all.
And Pope, you hates mess, marvels at the sight. After you've both come down from your highs, he gathers you in his arms.
"Sorry...was that too much?" he breathes.
You shake your head, "No. It was perfect. Needed it. Needed you."
"I can sleep out here," he says suddenly.
You look at him in shock, "Oh no baby. I wanna sleep right next to you. What if I need daddy's cock in the middle of the night?"
Pope gives you a wolfish grin as he kisses you again.
Baz thinks everything is alright when he wakes up the next morning and sees that Lena is already gone to school. But then he realises that all your shit is gone. And he sees red.
He drives straight to Smurf. Planning on spreading some bullshit about the nanny. Some sly bitch you tried to swindle him. He walks into the house, crocodile tears at the ready so mommy can fix his mess.
He frowns when he sees Pope sitting on the couch looking like a fucking king and you curled into his side. He's running his hand up and down your arm as the cuts and bruises Baz left on your face are on display.
"Baz," Smurf tuts when she sees him. "We need to work on your temper."
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open
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series desc: reader is best friends with Deran Cody. she's a known introvert and sweetheart. so what the hell is she doing with Deran and Craig? but right when she thinks about slipping away, something (or someone) pulls her right back.
girlygirl!f!reader x andrew "pope" cody, no outright physical description of reader, no y/n
tags: canon typical behavior, mention of smurf!, alluding to drama/tension with reader and J, mention of the Cody’s illegal activity, mdni
a/n: communication with deran this chapter! we will see if reader can move on…
taglist for this series is CLOSED, blog is 18+, asks/inbox always open, don’t like don’t read
to be added to the general animal kingdom taglist, comment on this post
୨ৎ pairing .ᐟ.ᐟ michael robinavitch x psych fellow!reader
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ there had been a shift between your relationship with robby. you weren't sure what to make out of that. it wasn't until trouble had stirred up at the PTMC, with you at the center of it, that you came to terms the type of man michael robinavitch was.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no physical description, no use of y/n, workplace violence, medical assault, discussions of violent assault, workplace harassment/verbal abuse, mentions of anxiety/ptsd/depression, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, trauma aftermath, slow burn, protective!robby, enemies to lovers, colleagues to lovers
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ OKAY this is just a blurb reallyyy...wanted a little filler between the last part and what i have planned for the next, longer part. plus, this might set up this dynamic well (if it works out the way i want it to lol). also tried something new with the format…
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 14 k
the slippage in the system >> a mirage on sand
8:00 AM
"Are you doing better?" The voice rang familiar to your ears. While typing at the workstation down at the Pitt, you didn't even see the figure strolling up from behind you.
Craning your head to the side, looking past your shoulder you noticed Caleb rolling up, parking his wheelchair to angle in your direction. Pausing your typing, you pushed the chair back, one hand still holding the edge of the desk. You gave him a smile, letting out a deep sigh, "Alright as I can be. Haven't exactly cleared it out of my system, but I'm here."
A stomach bug was no joke, you supposed. The last thing you expected was for it to keep you locked in your apartment for a week. It was an unsettling week, but you somehow survived. Walking into the PTMC this morning felt like riding a bike. Breezing in all while your feet did most of the work.
"You sound better. I was worried I would need to make a house call the last time we spoke on the phone." Caleb chuckled endearingly. The small grin was amused, but as he looked you up and down, he really was relieved it was milder than he thought.
“I had a friend drop off some things to ale me.” You stated, hoping to calm his worry.
Which was the truth—you wouldn’t dare lie to Caleb at this point. He was right about most things, and you were comfortable enough to relearn trusting your superiors. What you were omitting from him was that the particular friend was one he had a special interest in as well.
And as if the world enjoyed playing tricks on you, that ‘friend’ came strolling towards you, hands in his green fleece jacket pocket. His eyes landed on you before shifting to Caleb, your names slipping from his mouth with ease. He had dropped the ‘Doctor’ title from your surname a while ago, since the blind-dinner-date.
He looked you up and down, eyes crinkling with familiarity. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Shoot away, Robby.” Caleb welcomed with a grin on his face as he examined you both.
He must have noticed your controlled expression. You were attempting to obscure the small, hesitant smile on your face with a quiet ‘hi’ as Robby stood across the workstation.
Truth was, you weren't sure how to act with Robby anymore.
The floodgates of your past had been opened, and at this point, there wasn't much Robby didn’t know about you—and that thought alone was chilling. You had never been this exposed, and with him having your home address, the urgency to run over rolled around your mind.
“I have a teenager in Central 14 whose mother is expressing concerns about her sudden lack of energy and inconsistent mood.” Robby shared, careful with his volume as he scanned around the department floor. “Mother stepped away for coffee. She was hoping someone could come down to talk with her.”
You hummed, nodding along with his words. Craning your head to the side, you smiled. “Let me finish up my notes for the patient in south 20, and then I will meet you with your patient.”
Robby gave you a silent nod, rubbing his hands together. “Thank you. It’s good to see you back.”
Clearing your throat, you agreed frantically, accepting the newfound compassion from him. Weird, you thought. Robby spared Caleb one last look before excusing himself. Without second thought, you bowed your head, typing away on the chart, hiding the heat rising on your cheeks from Caleb.
Caleb leaned one arm on the desk, bearing his weight to his left. You missed the not-so-subtle look he aimed at Robby who was standing by the nursing station, talking with Whitaker. “You never told me how the dinner went.”
You scoffed, playing it easy and cool. Internally, sirens were going off. It had been a couple of weeks, and you were still digesting the conversation over the meal. You both lasted longer than you had anticipated, laughing even, over your personal embarrassments like a couple of college friends—not that you knew what that felt like.
Since moving to Pittsburgh, you didn’t allot yourself time to socialize. Upon landing, you always assumed this would just be a stepping-stone to where you wanted to go. Now, it was settling too deeply in your heart for you to abandon it so mercilessly. Something too good to say goodbye to.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked Robby yet.” You coolly deflected, your eyes laser focused on the words you were typing. Your fingers were moving fluently, but your brain was spiraling elsewhere.
It was as if the fogginess from being sick hadn’t completely left you. At least that is what you hoped it was. At least then, you could excuse yourself, more so than some sad excuse to hide your preoccupation. Why would it matter if Caleb knew? He’d be gratified that two coworkers he was invested in could mingle and bond over fact beyond their personal missions to improve patient care.
Caleb chuckled, his body rattling with the vibration. “Who’s to say I haven’t? Maybe I just want to hear it from you.”
“You make it a habit to set up people on blind-dates?” You rhetorically asked, not expecting any reply. Saving the changes on the chart, you swiftly logged off, and scooted the chair back across from Caleb.
“You made me resort to those methods.” Caleb shrugged a proud smile on his face.
God, you hated to admit he was right, especially when he was aware of the positive reaction of his actions. You rolled your neck, preventing him from reading your expression entirely. Caleb thought for a beat, before wheeling himself back. “Think of it this way: the likelier he is to endorse you, the likelier admin is to keep you. It’s convenient and logical. I thought that might appeal to your senses.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “You chose logos over pathos. Well played, Dr. Jefferson.”
Caleb bowed humorously, gracefully accepting the sarcastic compliment. You stood from the chair, playfully rolling your eyes. While looking up at you and preparing to wheel in the opposite direction, he called out for you. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“See you later, Dr. Jefferson.”
As you began walking by the nursing station, you sensed a taller presence strolling beside you. With practiced ease, you glanced beside you to see the device handed to you. Robby stared down, sporting his round glasses. “Jenny McGuire, seventeen, came in presenting abdominal rigidness. Mother expressed concerns over lack of appetite.”
“Apparently, the family experienced something traumatic, and Jenny has been secluding herself more than usual.” Robby swiftly shared, watching your fingers scroll through the annotations made by Dr. McKay.
“Did you or McKay get anything out of the mother about what happened?” You questioned, eyes peeking between your eyelashes, to guide your way through the bustling halls.
Robby hummed, shaking his head. “Nothing in specific, but she seems distraught from it, per her mother.”
You stopped before approaching the room, turning to stand in front of Robby. Eyes flicking across the floor, watching nurses and other ER personnel pass by briskly. “Based on that, it could be signs of depression or some form of PTSD, but won’t know for sure until I talk with her. Would you like to be present?”
Robby’s eyebrows shot up. His hands were on his hips and despite the green Patagonia he had, the muscles in his biceps flexed subconsciously. He stood there slightly puzzled. It wasn’t an odd question, nor a jab at the last major conflict the two of you had, but you did find value in his involvement.
Upon the blossoming trust you were slowly conforming between you and him, there were small epiphanies you had about the wise doctor he was. He was older than you were by a decade at least, which gave him an advantage you yet to have. While observing him (even sourly), there was a command he would always have in a room.
While speaking with the residents and med students, you have always noted the respect they had for him. The similarities in some of their forms of treating could be traced back to him. So even when you wanted to escape him, it was near impossible.
“If you’ve spoken with her before, I have no problem with you present. She may feel comfortable if you introduced us first, anyway.” You shared, offering some reassurance for his hesitancy.
After a beat, Robby allied with a closed smile. Mimicking the action, you spun around walking in the direction of Jenny’s room. Robby maneuvered around you, approaching the threshold of Central 14. Stopping at the door, he knocked lightly, putting on a soft smile and stepping aside once the door was wide open.
“Hi, Jenny, how are you holding up?” Robby asked softly.
Jenny, a small frail, blonde girl sat up on the bed, both hands bracing around her stomach. She tried to hide the grimace in her face, but you immediately noted the action. She shrugged, making no effort to vocalize her current condition.
While pulling up a stool at her bedside, you introduced yourself, mirroring the soft and mellow presence Robby emitted. You rested your hands still holding the tablet on your lap, providing your undecided attention to Jenny. She scooted over, staring at you with wide eyes.
“I am a psychiatrist here at PTMC. Would you like to tell me why you came to the ER?” The question came out inviting, ignoring the fact, you had already read over her chart. You figured if she could put into words what was wrong physically; it would be an indicator of whatever else was wrong.
Jenny sat there, her eyes observing you up and down. It was like she had seen a ghost, and when you turned to Robby, he caught the same vibe from her. Robby leaned forward, hands folded. “I know it seems intimidating, but sometimes talking to someone can help.”
The silence was deafening. She didn’t peel her eyes away from you, even as Robby tried to slip his presence in. Staring at her eyes, she was fixated on one physician; as if the only person that existed worth acknowledging was you. Right as you were about to continue speaking, you noticed the quick shift in her demeanor, sitting taller, face tightening.
“You were a part of my sister’s case.” She mumbled, trembling on the hospital bed. “I saw your name in an article.”
You furrowed your brows, straightening your posture. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“Diana Richards.” She croaked out, her voice firmer as it bounced off the room walls. “My sister had acid thrown in her face right before Christmas.”
Your body froze, hands tightening around the device in your lap. Shit. You hadn’t expected your name to make national news, considering the court personnel was small, and those sitting in the viewing gallery were family and friends affected. Too distracted by the question thrown from both parties, you didn’t distinguish anything past the prosecution and defense tables.
When you double-looked the chart, ‘McGuire’ on the header, you never could have assumed relation.
“I did testify at the trial,” You confirmed, nodding your head cautiously. The palpable tension between you and the distressed teenage girl was something buzzing all around your body. With the weight like a ton of bricks, the pressure in the small exam room was crushing. “I am sorry about what happened to your sister.”
“Are you?” She quipped up, her furious glare firing up as she leaned towards you. The tension was no longer concerned over what to say, it was contemplation on how to deescalate a growing fire. “The man who did that to her should be in jail. You’re the reason he’s not!”
Before you could react, she aimed cold saliva at your face, landing below your right eye. You flinched from the action, your hand instinctively reaching for your face. Completely focused on the emotional teenager, you didn’t realize Robby had moved around the corner.
Hurriedly, he pulled you up from the chair by your shoulders. Without another word, Robby led you to the direction of the door, calling out for Princess passing by. As she saw you hunched forward, she rushed over, taking you in her arms. “What happened?”
“The patient spat in her face.” Robby hurriedly mumbled, standing in front of the room, turning back to look through the window. Jenny was now sitting back on the inclined bed, staring off to the side.
“Why?” Princess questioned with obvious apprehensiveness as to what might lead a meek teenager to act as vicious as some of the grown adults they have treated. This was abnormal and out of character for a patient of her demographic.
Robby sighed, watching you carefully as Princess directed you to an office chair. He followed along; close enough to remain a reachable distance to the patient’s room. She immediately grabbed a tissue, carefully wiping away the residue on your face. “It’s a long story.”
The soft plushness scratch the surface of your skin, causing your body to shiver. Stuck in daydream, it was a bad case of Deja vu. Instead of a man insufficiently aware of his actions in one of the behavioral rooms, a disturbed teenager was trying to consolidate with the current events of her life. Regardless, you were losing both fights.
Princess craned her head, standing right in your view as she furrowed her brows at you. “Did any of it get in your eye?”
Fumbling over words, you lightly shrugged your shoulders. “I’m not sure. It happened too quickly.”
When you were able to flutter your eyes open, Robby was standing from the distance, watching Princess work vehemently. His expression hardened by the events that just unfolded. This was the most emotional you had seen him at work.
When you walked out the behavior room with blood pouring out your nose, his natural caregiver instincts kicked in. He was ordering test and examining the integrity of the bones in your face. Although he was only monitoring from the distance, the natural instinct kicked into gear. You skittishly turned away, avoiding the darkness in his eye.
As if on cue, McKay was making her way around, casually waving her arms as she strolled around the desk. Princess and a couple more nurses gathered around you. McKay’s steps faltered, and before she could utter a word, Robby called her over.
You’d flutter your eyes carefully in their direction, mostly focused on McKay’s back. You could see the hush exchange of words. She craned her neck, peeking back at you with her face scrunched in confusion. No doubt, Robby was trying to form some intervention.
If this were any other moment or patient, you would have fought against being pushed aside. Tell Robby there was no need to coddle you or deem you incapable of staying committed to your work. Sitting with Princess still gently trying to wipe away the excretion from your face, you still tried to convince yourself this was something you could overlook.
Instead, you were succumbing to the idea you had screwed up.
Some girl was sitting on a hospital bed, completely overturned by the actions of a stranger whose paths crossed hers. It didn't have to be Dianna Richards, nor her family, but it was. You had unluckily been stuck having to repent for your involvement in the matter.
Your eyes caught the dirty blonde woman, approaching Central 14. With the coat she was wearing, two disposable coffee cups in her hand, you sense your stomach drop. It was a surreal moment from the second she peered into her daughter's room to the slightly panicked expression when she looked at Robby.
With his hands on his hips, he turned to whom you presumed was Mrs. McGuire. McKay stood back, eyes flicking between the two like she was preparing for a bad movie. You sat up straighter and Princess took a step back to follow your line of sight.
“You should stay here. Robby can handle it.” Princess whispered to you, one hand on your shoulder as she pressed her lips in a thin line.
You didn’t argue or make any sudden movement. Suddenly, you were in a state of catatonic shock.
Everything was blowing up in your face. A record of your actions suddenly taking a turn for the worse. A man who you had a conflicted relationship with was managing to interfere in your life even from miles away. What you had thought was a good idea was now souring like milk.
The patience Robby was displaying made it clear he was trying to calm her down. You had suspected she was overtly distressed as her daughter from the chair you were sitting in. It wasn’t until the voices started growing louder.
Everyone in the vicinity heard it.
“I don’t care what you think about what happened to my family. I don’t want her involved with my daughter's care.” She stated definitively. You could see her motion to you in the corner and you knew your entire cover was blown. “Find someone else or we will leave.”
If her eyes were daggers, you’d be bleeding on the linoleum floors. The glare of pure fury and disgust she sent your way was enough to bury you where you sat. Without another word, she made her way into the room, sitting at her daughter’s bedside.
Your eyes remained glued to the room, suddenly cold, enough so to elicit chills down your spine. Tugging onto the cardigan you were wearing, you crossed your arms over your chest. Robby spared Mrs. McGuire one last look before slowly approaching you. There was a hesitation in his steps, as if he were approaching a stray kitten starved and scared.
Standing a couple of feet away, hovering and obscuring your figure from the room, you flicked your eyes at him. “The mother?”
He confirmed with tight lips. Rubbing his hands together, his eyes roamed over you in the similar fashion as when Mr. Richman lashed out at you. It was only saliva, but he still examined you like he would any patient. He sighed, “Look, for your safety, I think it’s best we find someone else to cover the consultation.”
“We’re a bit understaffed today.” You mumbled, sagging your shoulders as you leaned back in the chair. Princess standing behind you excused herself. You could sense she didn’t want to be caught in any animosity between you and Robby.
She knew better than to intervene between two doctors who dominated their respective fields.
“We’ll find someone.” Robby assured, glancing at McKay who was fiddling with the zipper of her gray jacket. She remained quiet yet observant of the entire interactions. You noted the small narrow of her eyes, but made no effort to ask her about it. “Things seem tense enough. You probably shouldn’t go back there.”
You opened you mouth to speak, before shutting it completely. Was it worth it? Fighting nobly over the tired out issue when forces outside were telling you otherwise? You work was meant to be charitable, but you were finding it harder and harder to give it up so willingly.
“Let me make the call. I’ll explain it to whomever I find.” You explained to Robby. Willing to listen to his advice while you were still in a place to do so.
You stood up promptly, breezing by Robby and McKay and heading straight for the elevators. With your head down, you avoided the questioning side-eyes from those who were tempted by the scene. It was as if you were sacrificing your dignity every time you came down to the Pitt. You were barring yourself to every challenge, which was starting to chip away the brick wall around your heart.
It didn’t help that someone like Robby was watching the worst of it. From the argument over patient care and the revelation of your condition. Robby was finding his way through you blindly, but he was much closer than some.
Standing in front of the elevator, it had hit you that you were losing control of the separation you meant to have from your work and personal life. The life you were trying to preserve, sensitive to the details, was merging into the professional life meant to compartmentalize. Everything was hitting you like tons of bricks, and you were only hoping things change before they get worse.
10:00 AM
If you had more to do, you wouldn’t have felt the day drag. Considering Caleb was occupied with the patients in the behavioral health ward and you had been condemned to the Pitt, it wasn’t like you didn’t have work. There were patients popping up throughout the morning rush that needed menial attention from psychiatry. Basic consultations that didn’t require follow up.
However, your mind wasn’t as focused on the patients as you should be.
You stood at the workstation, digital chart in hand, as you wrote notes from your last consultation. It appeared as you were busy, but your eyes kept wandering over to central 14, like something was called upon you from inside.
It has been over an hour since Dr. Malek had entered; a fourth year psych resident who was more interested in forensic work than critical-care. You were gnawing away the inside of your cheek, practically mutilating your mouth from the riddle of anticipation. It wasn’t your place to judge whether Malek was capable of doing the work, despite having a year of experience over him.
Caleb was solely responsible for putting the residents in line, but that didn’t stop the doubt you sensed.
While staring intensely at the door, you caught it clicking open. Malek slipped through, gently closing it behind him as he whispered farewells to the McGuire’s. Your body jolted up. Waiting like a lion on the prowl, you joined Malek as he walked past you, stepping in harmony.
“How did things go?” You asked in a hush tone. He didn’t flinch as you settled beside him, shoulders partially brushing against one another. He was expecting the ambush from the small flex of his jaw.
He barely looked at you, preferring to scroll through the device in his hand. He kept trying to advance, swerving around people as he searched for someone other than you to speak with. “I don’t know if I should be sharing this with you.”
“Consider this as consulting a colleague.”
The quickness of your comment had him halting in his steps. He turned to you, slight frustration in how you pushed for the answer. Although being a few years his senior, he exuded an energy that was fit for someone your age. He let his hands fall to his side, exasperated at this point. “The girl is depressed. Hell, the mother too.”
You tucked the device under your arm, staring at Malek with desperation that he didn’t understand. It must’ve made you look pathetic from an outsider view as he rolled his eyes in frustration. “Jenny was with her sister and her husband when the assault happened.”
The deep breath you sucked in was stuck somewhere because the tightness in your chest didn’t decompress. Your eyes darted across his face, trying to make out more with the silence. It couldn’t have been a joke, that was distasteful, even for him. He had spoken it intentionally, trying to give you what you wanted while also warning you to stay away from where you shouldn’t be.
That was your fault.
“Thankfully she didn’t see anything, but she heard her sister screaming.” He sighed, pretty devastated even while he put up the front. “Imagine having to live with that sound for the rest of your life.”
“Outside of the fact her sister won’t be able to see or recover from the injuries on her face.” The vile taste in his mouth was evident as he scowled, personally hurt by the offense.
You faced away as he narrowed his eyes at you. With the tension, you were wishing Robby would suddenly need you for a consultation or pick a fight. Something of that sort would be better than the scrutiny of a colleague who was treading towards a scarily esoteric farce.
“None of us understand why you defended that man.” Malek shrugged, lips tightening in a thin line. His nostrils flared and he shook his head.
Lifting your head, you looked at him with a blank expression. What the hell? Cocking your head to the side, you scoffed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“He assaulted a woman, and you, let us not forget.” He all but spat at you.
It was a reprimand for having come to ask questions. For lingering in a space, you knew better than to test. You should’ve known the repercussions of being a recluse, of not putting in an effort to be friendly enough was going to come back at you.
He took a step forward, and the hallway you two stood in started feeling stuffy. Retracting your neck slightly, you futilely attempted to put a boundary. Malek's forehead creased, “He had to pay for what he did.”
Smiling sarcastically, you chuckled dryly. “Because suddenly you care about my well-being.”
Malek chuckled coldly, the same detachment you had heard from Robby before. At least now, you assumed there wasn’t that animosity between you two. Malek had a fury that was unrecognizable, like he had spent time repressing that only you could pull out of him. “I think sometimes you forget you’re not as brilliant and perfect as you mistakenly think you are.”
“All because I refused to let a sick man go to jail? For a mental condition he has little control over?” You retorted. It felt obvious. All the reasons you could’ve possible defended anyone who put their hands and weight over you shouldn’t have existed,
Except, it wasn’t for you and everyone was missing the point, just as Malek was opening up wounds again.
“Because you believe you’re so virtuous. Too virtuous to put aside your beliefs and worry about how they might’ve felt about the verdict.” Malek motioned his head back to where the two of you came from. Where the McGuire’s were, confined in the same hospital Mr. Richman had unleashed a ruckus in.
Malek pointed a finger to his head, eyebrows furrowed down. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he wasn’t the right person for you to enact your crusade of righteous indignity?”
Your head was telling you to walk away. With the sudden rise of his voice, uneasiness settled in your weak stomach. The fogginess from before was more than just brain fog from being sick. This wasn’t the typical arguments over patients and who presented the most competent plan of care. This was quite unsettling. Malek, who had kept his honest opinions about you hidden under sarcasm and cocky grins, was finally laying it thick.
“All of us tolerate you because Jefferson dotes on you, but you’d be surprised to find out how few of us want you as an attending after your fellowship is up.” He bluntly stated with no shame as he stared you in the eyes.
He was suddenly closer in proximity. From the tunnel vision you were experiencing, your body was suffocated by his .You urged your feet to step forward. To react as quickly as you did with Robby. Witty and decisive leaving no doubt of your confidence within yourself.
It was like being stuck in paralysis. You mind kept wandering at a hundred miles per hour but your body was tossed to the side of the road like a carcass.
“Dr. Malek,”
You welcomed the voice, turning away from your colleague to meet Robby’s hardened stare. Pulling yourself away, you stood meekly in between both men. If your legs hadn’t stiffened, you would’ve taken the chance to run. Instead, you stood there, in the midst of the silent standoff the two were having.
“Please show yourself out of my ED.” Robby ordered, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “I will not tolerate you degrading a fellow colleague in a department full of staff and patients to hear.”
Malek glared over to you, the tightening of his indifference to the entire situation. Chilling from the physical enmity, you learned Robby cutting swiftly through was a worse idea than you imagined. Robby inclined himself further, pushing his overbearing presence and standing prominently in Malek’s line of sight. “You can debrief with Dr. McKay once you get your fucking act together.”
Robby didn’t relent, and you were thankful once Malek resigned, huffing away with an agitated pace. You kept staring at his back, almost waiting for him to turn back and enforce himself again. When he disappeared behind the walls and into the rest of the chaos of the ER, you let a shaky breath go.
When you turned to look at Robby, he was already looking down at you. His eyebrows furrowed in the same effort he’d examine patients, sitting on a hospital bed, laying their health in his hands. You didn’t want to play that role. You weren’t defenseless as much as he saw you at the moment.
“I didn’t need you to save me.” You muttered, heading in the opposite direction of where Malek went.
Your arm barely brushed by him, and he swiftly recovered by maintaining an equal steady pace behind you. “I was mostly sparing him. I sensed you weren’t going to tolerate that shit for much longer.”
With a sour chuckle, you tried to hide how breathless you suddenly were. The stack of issues in the past three hours were losing its foundation. It was like the mountain of what was wrong with your life was crumbling with time, and you couldn’t hold up the front you had worked on for years. “Sounds a lot like an unwelcome intervention to me.”
With the speed you were walking, everyone could tell you were trying to evade Robby. Except, he was tailing you. A dog with a bone. Your eyes darted around, effectively trying to find some escape for the ER and everything reminding you of the shit-show.
“This is my ER, anyways. I should be entitled to cut bullshit when I see it.” Robby pointed up, still trailing behind you. It wasn’t a remark or sarcastic. It was a reminder that he was always aware of his department, and he didn’t take disruptions lightly.
Finally looking ahead, the elevator beside the trauma rooms was right in front of you. Stopping in frustration, you bowed your head. Your hands clammed up beside you and the weight over your chest as you tried steadying your breathing was like lifting a boulder. It came back down with each exhale unsteadily.
After a moment, you turned around carefully. Your eye landed on Robby’s feet, trailing up the dark cargo pants he wore. Eventually, when you stared directly back at him, you crossed your arm, hiding the trouble you had breathing correctly.
Shrugging, you scoffed. “He's probably right, you know?”
Robby narrowed his eyes at you, suddenly confused from the immediate switch. You let him think it was a deflection. It was easier than trying to explain why you froze up in front of a hostile colleague, when you had encountered worse patients. “Maybe I’m too holed up in my personal world to acknowledge the damage of my intentions.”
“About Mr. Richman?” Robby questioned, trying to make out from the cryptic look in your eye. He couldn’t make out anything at face-value, and you were hoping he’d just walk away. “I’m sure the judge based his decision on different testimonies made. None of us know what truly sealed the deal for him.”
“But I defended him, inside, and outside the courtroom. Morgan, you, even Jefferson warned me what might happen if I spoke out too much.” You explained, reminiscing over every occasion where you could’ve avoided this.
Mr. Richman was the catalyst for all these interactions. From Robby, to the McGuire’s, to Malek. You would never regret treating a patient, but you weren’t sure you wanted to go out on a limb ever again.
You frowned, holding onto the strings in your heart tugged into all directions. There was too much at stake, and the last thing you needed was for Robby to pull at them like a puppet master. With a shaky smile, you let your hands fall to your side. “I just wanted someone to walk away from the entire process with something positive.”
The rattle of your body scared you. It had you turning away, trying to hide in plain sight from Robby. He stood still, straightening his posture. His hands were now on his hip, and you caught the slight air stuck in his throat.
“I haven’t been able to stop looking over my shoulder since then.”
Your hand extended lazily in the direction of the patient's room. “But that girl and her sister may never be able to go out in public without fearing something of this magnitude may happen to them again.”
Robby’s stoic expression didn’t pave anything for you to rely on. It gave little insight of whether he opposed Malek’s words or found you amateurish in the face of conflict. You were hopeless. Standing in front of the one man who could ruin your position apart from Jefferson. He was right.
It was practical to play nice and feed into the role Robby would need you to act. You didn’t want to conform to giving into the challenge of the chief attending for the simple necessity of keeping a job. It was the only reason you had fought about Mr. Richman before, during, and even after the trial.
“Is it selfish to have wanted Mr. Richman to have the help he never did have?” You questioned, your wispy voice barely scratching through the noise of the ED.
Robby didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure you were searching for one. This was the one time he had seen you out of your depth in your facilitation in his department. Apart from the dinner, where you tested how close you could inch into the deep well of suppressed emotion, there wasn’t anything personal of you in your work.
There was no way you could treat patients if you were stuck in the flawed aspects of your life. Today was making all of that evident.
“The hospital where I did my residency has an outreach program. “ You explained quietly, reluctant to tell Robby.
You pursed your lips, and the heat in your cheeks contradicted the shivering down your spine and the frigid coldness of your fingers. “Their mission wasn’t just to treat- and-street patients but to meet them halfway for them to have some continuation of care no matter their circumstances.”
Robby shook his head, “Has anyone—“
“That’s beside the point.” You interrupted, fluttering your eyes close briefly. The raise of his eyebrows finished the question you cut off rudely. You didn’t need this to turn into another ‘bonding’ moment. “I was willing to do that no matter the danger of it.”
“That’s what I tried to explain to the judge and prosecution and they made it sound like I had some hero-complex I hadn’t resolved.”
The groan that escaped you was the subsided disappointment of your composure. Everyone around you had seen too much. There wasn’t much to hide from Robby at this point, and once this shift was over, you were committed to the idea of planning where to run once your fellowship was done.
Your ears were tingling from how quiet the ED became. The department was attached to your soul, which only knew how to prioritize patient care. In your years of training, you heard all about compartmentalizing as well as the consequences of burning out. You thought you had mastered the first part enough that you wouldn’t have to worry about drowning in a lake; but the rocks in your pockets were finally weighing you down.
“So, the incident with Mr. Richman had been the first time a patient had assaulted you?”
When he gauged your reaction, he had a wide eye stare that tried to hide the intensity of his personality and role in the ED. It worked with patients well enough to foster a safe space for them to grieve or release what they’ve kept inside them.
It worked on patients–but you weren’t one.
“I hadn’t been punched, pinned to the ground, and choked before if that’s what you're asking.” You scoffed, your lips curving upwards, but it missed the same sarcastic wit you would usually deflect him with. “Even when they spat, yelled, and fought the treatment, I reminded myself they were just scared people who needed help.”
Sacred. If you were treating yourself, maybe that would be the one word scribbled all over your chart.
Afraid of further repercussions from the Richman case. Frightened of how the rest of the staff would see you after Mrs. McGuire and Malek painted you out as a self-absorbed health-care worker unable to make out an indescribable debt. Terrorized by the idea Robby might concede to what he thought of you when you initially transferred to PTMC.
Months of unraveling to be burned by a spark and caught aflame.
The dinging of the elevator ringed behind you. Turning to the sound, you found a couple of respiratory therapists walking out, laughing at the conversation held. You pulled yourself aside, letting them past before stalking to the elevator.
When you faced Robby’s direction, he stood stiffly, uncertainty in whether to approach or forget the conversation occurred. You made the decision, pressing the button of your assigned floor. “Maybe, you won’t have to worry about me overstaying more than I'm welcomed.”
As the doors closed, the last thing you saw was the slight twitch of his eye
12:00 PM
In the last couple of hours since you spoke with Robby, you were almost hoping not to work with him for the rest of your shift. Not because you were offended or mad about his course of action earlier. With the buffer since Mrs. McGuire’s blowup to that of Malek’s, you came to the realization Robby was sparing your dignity from worse.
He could have thrown you into the wolves. Make you pay for all the times you blew up in his face over the executive action of patients in his ER, but treated by you. A part of you believed he should have. Maybe putting you in ‘contempt’ would teach you a lesson.
Instead, he was handling you like a box with a ‘FRAGILE’ label on the side. Wanting so desperately to open the gift, but too afraid to break it before he was safely able to.
Sitting in the ED, it was like an animal in a cage. You knew the staff passing by were likeliest engrossed in their jobs, patients, and lives to be distracted by you, but that didn’t stop the onset paranoia; sensing eyes pitying you while behind your back.
You tried to focus, rolling your shoulders rhythmically as you typed away at the workstation. Every time a resident came by to grab a device on the docks, you would flinch before refocusing on what you were doing. As McKay stopped, putting the tablet on one of the slots, her eyes found you. Attempting to hold onto the current train of thought, you continued flitting your attention across the screen.
“Mrs. McGuire is wondering when they can be discharged.” She mentioned casually, moving aside to not stand directly in front of you. She leaned forward on the nursing station counter.
When you lifted your attention from your work, she gave you a polite smile. You peeled your hands from the keyboard, which spent the better part of an hour stuck together. Returning the action rather stiffly, you tried easing your tense muscles. “I don’t know. I’m not the primary psychiatrist on their case, nor have I been updated on their plan of care.”
McKay stood there silently, letting her weight sit on the counter for a beat. She glanced around warily for anybody who might be looking for her. “I heard Robby kicked out Dr. Malek.”
Her words didn’t prompt a visible response, but from under the desk, your leg was bouncing. She leaned in closer, her voice huskier as she spoke in a hushed tone. “And I also heard what he said. What an asshole. And he’s supposed to be the girl’s psychiatrist—“
“I have another patient to check in with. Sorry.” You interrupted before McKay could utter another word.
Standing from the desk, you sauntered away as if your worst nightmare had walked into the ED. Hastily curving around McKay, you kept your head down. Your feet were practically guiding your decision. If you no longer wanted to face the music, they were moving before you could doubt the action.
Except, your feet weren’t your brain.
When you did finally bother to look up and across, you noticed they brought you by central 14 again. You cursed under your breath when you noticed the glass exposing the department outside the room. Before Jenny or her mother could assault you with their eyes, you turned your back towards them, opting for a stealthy escape.
Your brain said to ‘move forward.’ If you left up to the behavioral floor or found some other passion project to screw up, you would forget them long enough for them to leave. The hospital. The forefront of your mind. Your life.
Cutting them out like a weed in your garden.
However, your feet halted you once more. This time, you weren’t just stuck in place, you were turning back around to cross paths with central 14. With your feet moving disorderly with your brain, you hadn’t made up your purpose for having to confront the situation. You knew you had to decide once daring to step into the room.
It didn’t run as smoothly as you recklessly planned once confronted with Mrs. McGuire coming out of the room and running into you. Reacting rapidly to the intrusion, you stopped, stepping back a couple feet to provide space.
She firmed up in front of you, taking in your attire. Her eyes zeroed onto the badge clipped to the waistline of your black slacks. Hyper-aware of the conclusion she was reaching, you tried not to fuel the fire. You finally decided this wasn’t worth the fight.
“When can my daughter be discharged?” She questioned brusquely while crossing her arms.
Her stare was just as hardened as Malek’s was. A warning. You shouldn’t poke the bear and you shouldn’t have put yourself in this position again.
Clearing your throat, you shook your head. “I’m not sure, ma’am. I am not familiar with your daughter’s case. I can try to locate—“
“So, unless my daughter is a deranged lunatic, she won't be receiving immediate care here?”
Your mouth remained agape, words slipping from your mind completely. Your defenses had been at an all-time low. Every chance to defend yourself–where you would have shut down coolly and responded with the rapid professionalism Dr. Jefferson admired in you—-was just another trap to drag you through shrubbery and dirt.
This shift may just ruin you before you even make it to the end.
“With all due respect, the case was a little more complicated than that.” You mumbled in return, defeated over the same skipping record. It was painful having to remind yourself why you took an opposing stance. You could not cave in now.
Her sour scoff had you flinching slightly. “Actually, it isn’t.”
“You’re the reason that son-of-a-bitch is locked in some cushy mental hospital instead of prison.” She enunciated, one of her fingers wagging at you, like she was scolding a child. “The integrity of my daughter’s face was completely burned off by acid.”
“And all you see is some poor sick man? What about my daughters?” She begged, her voice trembling.
There were tears welling up in your tear ducts. You strained your jaw, containing the raw emotion. It had been reckoning brought by you. How dare you be sad now? Before you could open your mouth, respond with a weak excuse and weaker voice, you heard your name called from behind you.
“Is there a problem?” Robby questioned coming around you. He stood by your side, providing a shadow over your shorter stature.
You kept your eyes ahead, opting to let Mrs. McGuire paint the image. There was no repairing the damage to your reputation. It would have to linger and exist in the area, leaving everyone in the prerogative to make a narrative you had no control over.
She retracted herself, letting her arms fall to her sides in defeat. “I just want to take my daughter home.”
Knowing Robby, his eyes shifted towards you, hoping to read into the situation or possibly check in with you. The exhaustion had to feel as palpable as the bags under your eyes when you walked into the department. Avoiding his gaze shamelessly, he nodded to Mrs. McGuire. “I will go ahead and start the paperwork once I check in with behavioral health.”
Mrs. McGuire’s fury and desperation must have simmered as she dragged herself back in the room. Your body succumbed to the action of Robby, who was turning around and leading you gently away from the room. You sensed the presence of something lingering on your lower back, only hovering and not touching.
“You shouldn’t have been talking with her.” Robby warned, bringing his head closer to your ear. He remained even in his expression, just two colleagues conferring with each other closely. “That could’ve gone a lot worse.”
“I can control my emotions.” You muttered, flickering your eyes side to side. At this point, you were depending on Robby like a north star—allowing his burly body to hide and guide you elsewhere.
“That’s not what I was referring to.” He motioned softly, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not concerned over your objectivity more so her apprehension in a busy ER. You’ve dealt with enough for one shift.”
When you stopped by the elevators, the coldness of his hand coming away made you cower. It was as if the only form of physical protection from your mishaps was tearing itself away. You were a soldier stuck in a landmine without Robby. Sniffling slightly, you nodded in understanding. The meekest you have probably been taking something adjacent to a command.
“You should stay up there. I can handle whatever consultation comes in with Caleb.” Robby suggested politely.
He stared at you, taking in the daunting expression. You felt like a ghost, stumbling around the halls of the hospital, equally haunting anyone in your path. Everything you touch turning as sickly as you are. After a beat, you nodded cautiously. “This doesn’t make me incapable of doing my job.”
“I never said it did.” Robby assured quietly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
He reached over to press the up-arrow. With the glow of the button, he stood in wait with you. He was now sporting his black scrub top with a gray long-sleeve under top, stuffing his hands in the pocket. A silence settled. If this were any other person watching you slowly decompose, you would have escaped away and ran for the stairs.
Except this was the same person who you debated and reasoned about a plan of care for patients. Who, at times, made you feel alienated enough to push his buttons. You treated him with sarcasm and embittered his fizzling emotions, evoking responses unsuited for an attending physician who should have better governed his reactions.
He didn’t owe you kindness, and yet he was extending an olive branch for you to make peace with.
When the elevator dinged, he outstretched his arm, holding it open for you. Once settled inside, he reached in to press the numbered floor for you. Standing on the opposite side of the threshold, he smiled earnestly, lips curling upwards, crinkling the corner of his eyes. “Take care of yourself.”
Then the doors shut.
You weren’t sure that was a task you were capable of. If it were, you would have protected yourself from all the previous heartbreak. From your failed attempts at becoming a neurosurgeon, to coming to terms with your illness, to moving across the country with little emotional support. The lack of practice you had regulating your mind and body outside of working was making itself obvious and you hated the sensational need to be comforted.
When at the behavioral health floor, you walked around like a zombie straight from the ground. You beeline for the dictation room. At least you had enough charting to be done to keep you away from the public eye for the second half of your shift.
Situating yourself in the far corner of the room, you opened your laptop and went straight to the full inbox. Most of the messages you had been ignoring were requesting professional statements of Mr. Richman in a medical and observational sense. News outlets and publishing journals begging for statements to contradict one another.
You knew neither were worth participating for, with the current rising waters you were drowning.
The rest were administrative notices you’ve missed since you were gone. As you scrolled through the latest of your e-mails, you eyes landed on a new chain of a previous conversation that hadn’t existed before.
JEFFERSON, CALEB 6:46 AM (unread)
FW: INTERNAL REVIEW W/ ADMIN
Whenever you have the time, review the testimonies. Robby and I discussed scheduling a time to sit down to review timelines and order of events. With your unexpected absence, we were waiting until you came back to plan that out accordingly.
Do not fret over the logistics. This is customary when an incident occurs, especially with the arrest of a federal crime. The objective is to protect other staff from this type of violence. This shouldn’t affect you finishing your fellowship (not if I can help it), but you will be interviewed alone with the compliance and risk management panel.
They will reach out when they have the schedules available.
STILES, MORGAN 4 days ago
To: ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL, JEFFERSON, CALEB
42 attachment >>>> click to view all
Attached are the current translated transcripts for the upcoming internal review. (I happen to know the stenographer closely, so appreciate this favor.) Please be made aware you will be asked about all aspects of the decisions made while Mr. Richman was under the hospital's care.
Brace yourself for questions regarding the testimony of the victim and witnesses as well as those relating to the assault of hospital staff. Their testimonies were included.
Thank you,
Morgan Stiles, MHA, J.D., CPHRM
PTMC - COMPLIANCE HEALTH ATTORNEY
ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL 4 days ago
To: STILES, MORGAN, JEFFERSON, CALEB
Thank you, Morgan. Is there any legal repercussions either the ER or Psychiatry should expect up to this point?
STILES, MORGAN 3 days ago
To: ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL, JEFFERSON, CALEB
The internal review is an evaluation of the course of events to analyze flaws in the plan of care for the patient (and defendant, in this case), in which the hospital may improve on. A compliance-focus meeting handled through the course of a few days by interviewing the involved personnel. The hospital will not contradict the judge’s ruling. As of now, they seem agreeable to the reason for the ruling.
There are current discussions of the family suing the city for their failures during and after detainment, specifically in their failures to contain Mr. Richman while here. You will need to answer questions of the test, examination, and protocols applied regarding the incident.
The hospital has been receiving criticism publicly for treating Mr. Richman. I do advise you and your staff to refrain from making public acknowledgment of the ruling, the defendant, or the actions whether they occurred in this hospital or not. I do not believe any explanation needs to be given about the matter.
JEFFERSON, CALEB 3 days ago
To: STILES, MORGAN, ROBINAVITCH, MICHAEL
All is appreciated, Morgan. We are mostly pleased Mr. Richman will be receiving the care he needs.
We will be awaiting further instruction from admin regarding the reviews.
Your fingers scrolled up towards the attachments Morgan included. Each labeled with the name of the witness and the date of testimony. The ‘McGuire’ name stood out on the document titles. Jenny had testified a few days after all the expert witnesses including you, Robby, Jefferson, and the court appointed psychiatrist to reevaluate Mr. Richman.
The cursor of your mouse hovered over the files warily. Reproachfully, you swallowed a lump down your throat. To have access to all the testimonies as if they were secrets made you shift.
All court records are public, you reasoned.
After a beat, you decided on starting with what mattered most to the hospital admin. You did not need an awful replay of your amateur display of defensive strategy.
Your mouse moved to the right of your testimony, clicking onto the file ‘ROBINAVITCH_M.’
3:00 PM
To say your eyes were sore was an understatement. Two hours behind a computer screen, reading and logging every small detail you could devour through words was bound to do that. You hadn’t bothered to get up and do much. Once for the restroom, once to grab water, and the rest of the time you spent it stationed in the corner.
Some of the younger residents and interns came in, charted for a few minutes before leaving again at the sound of another page. None of them made too much noise to distract you, just a shy greeting as they walked in and then busied themselves with their work.
You had lost track of time as you stared down at the last few pages of Robby’s first testimony. You would have assumed you would be much farther in your preparation for the internal reviews, but the line of question and responses had you glued to the particular file.
It wasn’t questions regarding Dr. Robby’s ability to lead a department let alone his credibility as an emergency physician. They were punitive judgments they disguised as questions for Robby from the prosecution. All judgments made about you and the testimony you had given a week prior. With that understanding, you couldn’t just look away while the judge and the rest of the court had to listen to the prosecution tear your credibility without your knowledge.
Robby hadn’t bothered to bring it up either. You rubbed your eyes lazily as a way to reboot its ingrained focus. Scrolling towards the next page, you started on the first line.
MR. FOWLER: In your professional opinion, did any course of action taken by the psychiatrist involved with Mr. Richman’s care raise concern of her judgment?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Beyond the scope. Dr. Robinavitch is not a psychiatrist nor the chief of psychiatry.
MR. FOWLER: Your honor, the witness is an emergency physician. His professional judgment is still pertinent to the psychiatrist involved. She is a fellow, who is specializing to work alongside the department Dr. Robinavitch supervises.
THE COURT: Prosecution may proceed, but tread lightly, Mr. Fowler. Witness may answer.
THE WITNESS: No. She presented reasonable judgment when she requested nurses to remain as witnesses while evaluating Mr. Richman. She consulted with the arresting officers before entering the room–
MR. FOWLER: Whom she rejected the request to have inside the behavioral room the defendant was in, is that correct?
THE WITNESS: I am unaware if the officers made an offer to be present. Whatever executive decision made complied with the type of care provided to any patient who comes into that ER.
MR. FOWLER: But not every patient brought in is detained for a felony-level crime. Nor are they prone to having an outburst, which results in the assault of a healthcare worker, correct?
THE WITNESS: Violence against healthcare workers is an ongoing issue with no resolution. Staff in my department do constantly fear the next time a patient may punch, scratch, spit, or shove them. It happens more often than I would like.
MR. FOWLER: Please answer the question, Dr. Robinavitch.
THE WITNESS: [pause] No.
MR. FOWLER: So, did you agree with the approach taken with Mr. Richard, understanding the circumstances he came in? As you said, violence against healthcare workers is of utmost concern to you.
THE WITNESS: I do believe that what occurred in my department was unfortunate, but it wasn’t an error on the decisions made in the plan of care.
MR. FOWLER: [pause] Isn’t it true you and the psychiatrist involved have had previous conflicting opinions about patient care?
THE WITNESS: Yes.
MR. FOWLER: Enough so to question her judgment or her psychiatric opinion?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Beyond the scope, again, your honor.
MR. FOWLER: Rephrase. Has it made you doubt whether the plan of care for patients, who have come to the ER needing a psychiatrist consultation, is in their benefit?
THE WITNESS: No. My conflicting opinion isn’t a question of her competence, as you allude to. It is to challenge her recommendations, as I would any resident or consulting physician. That’s how we all learn. It is how I ensure enough consideration has been put in all aspects of a case.
MR. FOWLER: So Mr. Richman, is what, negligence on her part? So much to ignore precautions in order to prevent the assault? What if it had been one of your doctors or nurses?
MR. HUDSON: Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence. Prosecution is arguing with the witness over lack of foundation.
THE WITNESS: Mr. Fowler, you are making a judgment from words on paper and images you do not have the comprehensive knowledge to understand. This delicate case was handled by someone who has more experience with patients of this caliber than you and even I have.
MR. FOWLER: Your honor—
THE WITNESS: Mr. Richman is an individual deemed to be in need of care from someone whose professional opinion I respect. If she sees it that way, so do I. What concurred from that was unpredictable, but in no way is it a representation of what she is incapable of doing. It should be a wake-up call about the issues in our healthcare system from those inside as well as outside the hospital.
THE COURT: Please contain yourself, Doctor. [pause] Mr. Fowler, you were warned to tread light. Either move along or rest your case.
Before you could scroll to the next page, something vibrated on the table beside you. With the screen of your phone pointed up, you simply turned to the side to view the incoming message.
DR. KYLE MALEK now
There are a couple consults down in the ER. Got tied up with Jefferson.
Dr. Robby couldn’t reach you.
When you opened the call phone, you noticed no notification except from Malek. Pausing, you stood from the chair, wandering to where you had left your backpack across the room. When you pulled your personal phone out from the side pocket, you found the missed messages from Robby.
ROBBY 15m ago
I didn’t want to bother you unless necessary, but Caleb got caught up in an emergency upstairs.
Have a couple of other pediatric psych consults. Nothing urgent or serious. Just some concerned parents.
You knew it must have been a last resort if he messaged you privately. From the verbiage, he was probably agonizing whether to finally pull you down to the depths of the ER after two hours of solitude. It was considerate, which was more than anything you had received now and days.
When you made your way down, you headed straight for the nursing station, starting the manhunt for Robby. Stopping by the station, you picked up a device. Glancing around, your eyes caught Dana stalking around the station, glasses propped on the lower bridge of her nose.
She smiled when she looked at you, moving towards you. “Well, thank goodness you’re here. I have patients in need of a psych consult and we need beds.”
Trying to muster as joyous a smile as she had, you chuckled nervously. “So I heard. Who’s first on the list?”
“Central 12 is a 13-year-old boy. Dr. Mohan is the primary, but he is all yours, honey.” She instructed with a small wink.
You nodded, listening to the information. When you lifted your gaze, you noted the illuminating patient board. Fractured wrist was the primary complaint. Your eyes went further down the list to Central 14. Still occupied by the same patient.
Taking in a deep breath, you composed yourself to head in the dreaded corner of the ER. You were hesitant, hoping another altercation of some sort wouldn’t occur. That your paths would not cross to forsaken you again. Keeping your head down you thought would be a worthy way of disguising your presence.
From McGuire's accusatory stare. From Robby’s genuine concern. You needed to stay concentrated on the patient you could help. You were no use if you couldn’t unscramble your brain enough to do that.
However, to curse your already terrible day, you caught the exact people you were hoping to avoid exiting central 14 together. Slowing down your pace, you watched with careful eyes as Robby stood facing Mrs. McGuire, one arm draped across her daughter's back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They must have been discharging as Mrs. McGuire carried her purse with her and a packet in her hand.
Something told you there was no reason to linger. She had said her piece and there was no way to explain yourself to them. It wasn’t gallant to stumble over your words and teeter on the edge of breaking down when you came off vehement in court.
Except, despite that new look that you were sporting since then, Robby hadn’t changed from the time you met him. You had been focused too much on everything else to realize he extended that warmth towards you.
That’s when Robby’s voice cut through your indecision. His furrowed brows were trying to understand why you stood alone in the hall, device in hand. He instructed with his head to come closer, and when you woke yourself from the daydream, you approached cautiously. You tried not to zone in on the McGuire’s staring at you like a prey approaching a much smaller, weaker predator.
“Mrs. McGuire’s here wanted to speak with you.” He initiated, scratching the side of his beard. With one-step back, he let the attention be centered on the two of you, but he remained in the background. You could sense his presence like a bug on your shoulder.
Mrs. McGuire, with wet eyes, cleared her throat. She looked at her daughter before facing you with her chin held up. “I wanted to apologize early. What happened was uncalled for. You’re here to do a job.”
“Earnestly, I signed up to do this job regardless of what came with it.” You responded, hands gripping on tighter to the device.
If that hadn't been the case, you would've quit after Mr. Richman, and you wouldn't have willingly stood in front of her and Jenny--who was shrinking the pink hoodie and avoiding obvious attention on her.
She hummed, eyeing you carefully. Your body tensed, as if bracing for some blow yet to come. Your shoulder sat up higher as the silence fell. With your mouth agape, the words stopped as Mrs. McGuire sighed. “We won’t see eye to eye on the verdict made, but I am sorry he did that to you."
"In our grief of what occurred, I’ve forgotten that you also fell victim to his hands. I’ve been recently reminded of that.” Her eyes flicked to something behind you, and you knew she was staring appreciatively at Robby.
You put on a shaky smile, nodding in gratitude. The skin where the punch landed and his hands squeezed around your neck heated up. It was like his life marked you, but you did your best to hide the grimace. “Likewise. I am hoping for the best for you and your family moving forward.”
With a stiff nod, she glanced over at Robby, indicating a conclusion with actions only. You stepped aside, putting on a polite smile as Mrs. McGuire guided her daughter to where Robby was motioning. While he stepped behind them, he looked at you over his shoulder. The encouraging smile that was gently reminding you that it wasn’t ill will. There weren't huntsmen coming for you and your strong sense of identity in your work.
They were people who were confused and hurt, similar to how you were after the assault and with the reminder of the trial. He was still here telling you there was nothing wrong with you or the work, and you didn’t have to feel let down by the reaction alone. You sighed, before clearing your head once more to approach Central 12.
8:00 PM
“I don’t need to be safeguarded.” You sighed out, sitting across from Caleb in his office. You had managed to catch up with your charting at a decent time. If it hadn’t been for the emergency on the behavioral floor, you would’ve gone home an hour ago.
But you knew Caleb would need the help after sending home one of his residents.
“It’s not pity. He acted out of line for a fourth year resident and I won’t tolerate harassment in the workplace.” Caleb spoke definitely, staring at you from above the rims of his glasses. He was typing away on his computer. You didn’t want to know if it pertained to the discussion at hand.
You groaned lightly, uncrossing your legs while sitting up taller. “It's fine.”
“No, it isn’t.” Caleb emphasized, stopping his typing. He repositioned his wheelchair, before slipping off his glasses and letting them fall against his chest. “I wish you would stop pretending it is. It’s okay to be mad or upset over what he said. It was uncalled and unprofessional.”
“And he’s a fourth year resident with one foot out the door! It’s not personal, whatsoever.” You joked, chuckling tiredly as you stood up. Grabbing your backpack from the floor, you slung it on your shoulders. “His residency is almost over along with my fellowship. After that, neither of us will have to worry about the other ever again.”
Caleb sat pensively, hands folded in his lap. From the small scrunch of his face, you knew another question was brewing. He pushed his thumbs together. “And what do you plan to do after your fellowship?”
You scoffed with a tight grin on your face. “After the shit-show today? I don’t think you or Robby need me as a liability, let alone this hospital. I’ve brought on enough issues.”
“Is this about what Malek said? Or the McGuire’s?” Caleb questioned his voice softer as he probed. The same technique you used on Jenny that morning. It was a sad reminder of failures you should have been able to control on your own.
“And if it was?”
“I’d tell you not to fixate on these lapses alone.” He suggested firmly. “They are in no way an accurate representation of the type of character and work I’ve seen.”
You glanced away, the attention too centered on you for your liking. It wasn’t bad attention (compared to the scrutiny from earlier) but it was attention that focused on the part of you that didn’t belong in work. The insecurity you had walking PTMC that you had managed to keep wrapped under the fold of your personality. Cold and calculated while protecting the intimacy of your thoughts.
Or at least, what was once protected.
“I should probably head home. I have a night shift coming up soon.” You excused yourself by making your way to the door.
It was a somber conclusion, like you might never see him again. Your depleted energy had no effort to give to anything else--especially regarding your emotion convocation.
“You are good at what you do. Inside and outside of here.” Caleb announced, like it was a doorknob concern you joked patients always had. One last anchor thrown into the sea like a redeeming feature. The difference between walking out of the office with nothing and walking out with salvation from ailment.
Your hand grasped the doorknob, not turning back. You silently nodded, gesturing to him that you were listening. From the small twitch of your lips, you knew better than to turn around and worry him with your fractured emotional boundaries. Instead, you wished him a quiet ‘good night’ before closing the door behind you.
Your brain was running on autopilot and before you could process your decisions, you had taken the elevator down to the Pitt instead of the main floor to head to the parking garage.
When the elevator doors open to reveal the chaos of the night-shift settling in, you cursed under your breath. You had been too exhausted, bone-dry for too long, that you were questioning if it was a good idea to drive.
Thankfully, it was enough to obscure you from any lingering day shift. You merged around like high-traffic, curving around nurses and other ED staff. Whenever you catch wind of a night-shift doctor, you lower your head further.
Your eyes landed on Shen, who waved at you lazily while holding a Dunkin’ iced coffee. That’s when you scurried out towards the ambulance bay. As wide automatic doors slid open, the breeze hit your cheeks. Your eyes fluttered from the heaviness of the wind kissing your face.
The red lights from the ambulance glowed sitting stationary on the driveway. You proceeded carefully; making sure a couple of paramedics weren’t going to jump out the vehicle with some trauma patient. Looking around like a kid lost, you turned your head to the right.
Kneeling down, craning his head to the side, Robby was fiddling with something on a motorcycle. Despite the body of the two-wheeled vehicle, Robby taunt muscles still seemed wide in comparison to his ride.
“Do you wear a helmet with that thing?” You asked aloud, stopping away from the emergency entrance.
Robby looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. You flashed him a playful smile, tired albeit, hardly capable of synchronizing with your eyes. He still chuckled hoarsely. “Yes. I am an emergency physician. I know better.”
Tossed aside, you could see the durable backpack. Clipped to the handle at the top was the helmet in question. You hummed, nodding lazily. “So what? Your ride broke down on you?”
“Yeah. Perfect way to end a 12-hour shift.” He huffed out. “First time I test drive this thing and it fails on me.”
He cursed under his breath at the same time something clattered on the ground. You inched forward, standing beside the wall of the hospital, you could see the ratchet on the ground glinting against the light.
Scrunching your nose, you sat yourself slowly on the small ledge wide enough to sit. “This is your first time taking it out for a spin?”
Robby had grabbed the ratchet again, twisting it against something in the body. With a heavy sigh, he let go, letting his elbow rest against his one lifted knee. “Longer distance than from my house to my local grocery store. Figured it was about time to see how it ran before commuting over hundreds of miles with it.”
“You’re still adamant on that spiritual journey of yours?”
When Robby turned to look at you, he hesitated on his response. He put on a charming smile, even when his body would heave with every breath out, as if the weight of the shift was dragging him. “It’s the only thing close to a vacation I have to look forward to.”
Scoffing unconvinced, you narrowed your eyes at him. “Most people go somewhere tropical or at least choose not to bet against the odds.
“What odds?” He questioned the back of his exposed to you as he continued tightening something. His hands reached up toward the ignitions, twisting the key, the motor came to life. The low grumbled emitted loudly from where you stood. Robby smiled appreciatively at the sound, before shutting the ignition.
“The odds that the only thing guaranteed for us on this Earth won’t come get them first.” You crossed your legs, leaning forward slightly as your voice lowered. You knew the wind would carry the vibration of your voice, and Robby’s body gave him away as he squared his shoulders. “You should know the statistics of motorcycle accidents by now, Robby.”
“I’m a safe driver.” Robby assured, groaning as he pulled the ratchet off. He secured whatever area he tinkered with, standing up slowly. He reached down for his backpack, resting it over the seat of the motorcycle. “I wear my helmet. I don’t speed.”
“That’s not the point.” You mumbled. After putting the ratchet away, he slung the backpack on one shoulder, holding it up naturally. He turned his body in your direction, staring at you absentmindedly.
Sighing, you rolled your neck. It wasn’t the type of night to be picking a fight, not that you had the energy; but you’d shelf the conversation for another day when your mind wasn’t exhausted. Robby tapped one foot on the ground, watching your body slump back into the wall. “How did the rest of your shift go?”
With eyes closed, head pressed against the brick of the building, you snickered. “Fantastic. I’m excited to come back and do it all over again.”
When you opened an eye to gauge his reaction, he shook his head trying not to appear amused by your sarcasm. From the way he slouched, you assumed he felt the same after today. Playing mediator while running a department was not for the weak. You had proven you weren’t up for half the responsibilities he currently had.
“I’m sorry if I wasn’t much help today.” You apologized, while wiping your hands on the side of your pants. “I know I brought on more problems for you.”
Robby stood silently, the small crease in his forehead giving him away. He softly negated the statement with his head, “You couldn’t have predicted how today would go. I’m sorry this is how we welcome you back after being gone for a week.”
Your hands ran down your face, laughing out tired and still in denial of the entire day. Even if you had a magic eight ball that could warn you of the choices you made up to this point, you would’ve made them all over again. “I wouldn’t have expected it to go any other way.”
Cocking his head to the side, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack while the other he stuffed into his jacket pocket. “Are you starting to see the appeal of this place?”
When you pulled your hands away, you stared at Robby with furrowed brows. Over dinner, Robby had inquired of your plans. He knew you were planning to stay in a clinical setting, considering the fellowship you chose, but you made no affirmative decision of where you wanted to work.
You made it clear California was no longer an option, despite the fact you did your residency there. You could go back to Boston, where you went for undergrad or settle back in your hometown trying to remember old stopping grounds. Whenever you thought of the projection of a life like that, it didn’t align with what you had envisioned before.
Pittsburgh happens to have the best emergency-psychiatry fellowship. Even though you have spent less than a year establishing yourself, it felt more like a sanctuary than all the places you’ve been.
“I think I’ve dug myself a hole too deep to climb out of.”
Robby resonated with the statement. He examined you carefully. You were certain you looked exhausted. The bags under your eyes weighed heavier as you delayed your trip home.
Before Robby could follow up with some smooth distraction or deflect from your current disappointments, you sat up taller. “What did you tell Mrs. McGuire?”
He paused, inhaling a sharp breath. Glancing around warily, he considered his words. You chewed the inside of your mouth, bouncing the one foot on the ground rhythmically. The night was filled with dying anticipation, which sat much thicker than smog.
“You must have told her something. She was cursing my existence in the morning.” You tried to lighten the mood, but the joke didn’t land the punch.
There was a timidity in Robby as he stared down at his feet. He wasn’t the assertive chief of a bustling ER department outside under the glowing lights of the ambulance. He was irresolute because you were sitting in front of him about something. You feared he thought this was some ploy to dig venomous fangs in him.
“She asked me what I thought about your position during the trial.” He clarified, lifting his one free hand to rub the back of his head.
“And what did you tell her?” You questioned with a meek voice. The shaky breath released a clear indicator of the lump forming in your throat.
He let his head hang, the disheveled top of his head now clearly visible. “I explained that as someone who has worked with you for the few months I have, I don’t need to question your judgment.”
When he peered at you through his eyelashes, he saw you unravel your legs. Both hands grabbed the edge of the wall you sat on. You lean forward, eyes darting across his face. “Mr. Richman’s state of mind is complicated, and if anyone was more than capable of making a clear evaluation of his needs and rationale, it would be you.”
Instead of giving in to the misty sensation of your eyes, you composed yourself, glancing at a rock on the ground. “How did she take that?”
“The wound is still fresh and she may still hate him for what he did, but I think she came to terms we are all flawed individuals.” Robby’s words were melodic. It was like reading off a fortune cookie. A well-rested you might’ve made that joke out loud, instead you caved into yourself as Robby readjusted his backpack. “It won’t necessarily make sense now, but maybe in the future, when the tensions have settled.”
It was ironic, if anything. After what Malek said, it made it clear that Robby’s incessant indifference came from what he interpreted as defiance. The perfectly educated persona you put on while in the hospital to make patients trust your easier was all he saw.
He had found a weak spot, though. Even through the immaculate professionalism, he realized there were attributes within yourself you let weigh you down. It somehow didn’t confine you to the ‘FRAGILE’ box. It made him more attentive and invested in watching you succeed.
“I saw Morgan’s email this morning.” You mentioned casually, standing up tall. You inched one-step closer. “I read over the transcript.”
He simply nodded, making no indication he noticed the hints you were dropping. I know what you said about me. I know how you truly see me. “I read over the transcripts of your testimony. Most of the prosecution's questions, at least.”
With the truth out in the open, Robby straightened himself, curtly nodding. He awkwardly chuckled, finally understanding the subliminal message you were sending him with your wide, eye gaze. With his silence, he was inviting you to criticize him, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted honesty.
The part you read was familiar to the Robby you faced while in the ED. Unrestrained when pushed. Brutal honest if necessary. Except, he wasn't fervent. He didn’t tell you he pushed you while fully convinced of your training and competence to treat patients. That he never questioned whether a patient was safe under your care. He trusted you to enact respectably, and he let the court know that too.
“You shouldn’t have stuck out your neck for me.” You scolded gently, sighing in defeat.
“I didn’t do it just for you.” Robby countered, as if attempting heroism while too overworked and beat by the day would convince you both of the noble effort. He meant it though. The way the corner of his eye crinkled while his cheeks flushed a color too crimson for the spring air.
“And the stuff with Mrs. McGuire? Malek?” The questions came out like digging with desperation. You had to find something more, because you couldn’t accept the charity from a man whom you tortured for his respect.
It was as unethical as lying on the stand, swearing an oath to attest to the truth of the facts and events. You knew Robby wouldn't have lied about that. He was aware of the risk to himself and the hospital if he tried to spin what occurred, because he had thought about being in the room with you.
And if you had known what you did now, you might've initiated that conversation.
“Dr. Malek was out of line and frankly, I’ve never liked him.” Robby laughed dryly, his shoulder shrugging. You rolled your eyes at him, head cocked to the side. He scratched the side of his beard, eyes fluttering lightly. “And I was simply having a conversation with Mrs. McGuire.”
Simple. Nothing about that was simple, you thought. When you finally reached a point to be professional partners, it was like the universe was reminding you that ‘partnership’ wasn't in your vocabulary. Trusting so blindly to let yourself guide by the reasoning of another man. You hadn't given Robby an inkling of that impression. He must have known that from the times he stared at you once something else blew up in your face.
He considered turning his back and looking the other way, but some line and hook sunk him into the cold waters of your pond. It was temperatures he was learning to survive in, and you were adjusting to sharing the vast, sparse space with something other than your thoughts.
You turned to the hospital walls, scaling the sides with your eyes. He classified you the most competent person to do the work. Even when you doubted it, and even after admitting psychiatry was never your first choice. Despite that, your judgment was the one he relied on without your realizing it. “You’re making it harder to settle on where I want to go once I’m done with this fellowship.”
You raised your eyebrows at him, noticing the grin. His eyes sparkled, playfully wounded by the words. “Would it be so bad if you stayed?”
“After today, it might be.” You tried not to mellow the energy. Maybe he took it as a joke, but you knew he was reading in between lines to understand your shrewdness.
“I disagree.” Robby responded automatically. It was instinct. After spending most of his shift listening to the strong superficial beliefs of your character and intention, he must have been too used to speaking nicely about you.
Clearing your throat, you started slowly making your way closer, wrapping up the evening to just rot in the same bed you had been forsaken to a week prior. Reaching towards the side pocket of your bag, you pulled out your keys. “We shall see what the hospital review brings. Maybe then I’ll change my mind.”
“It won't be as bad as the trial, that’s for sure.” Robby assured you. With the red lights still flashing, his freckled skin stood out more with each crease and wrinkle accompanying every time he stretched his lips into a smile.
“Like I said, we shall see.”
You flashed him a tight smile, the fabric of your cardigan brushing against the thicker, canvas material of his dusty, brown jacket. Before you could disappear into the darkness of the side of the hospital, you spun back around.
Robby was already looking at you.
With your hands clasping onto your keys, you tried focusing on the smell of the metal and the cold material stabbing into your skin. “If it doesn't pan out, I still appreciate all of it. Just thought you should know.”
You didn’t clarify what ‘all of it’ was. In eight months, Robby made an everlasting mark. Whoever was supposed to follow him wouldn't get to taste the bitter sweetness of your inner soul. Robby fought for that satisfaction, and you didn't think anyone except him could attempt to do so again.
He stifled a boyish grin on his face. “I hope it isn't the last of it.”
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader
Alternate Ending Here
Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
WC: 11K
Tags: Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader
A/N: This was a request a while back, but I think I accidentally deleted the message. Sorry! So hopefully the person that requested this sees it.
The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.
How could they not?
The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.
But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed.
People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.
But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.
And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read.
That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.
But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.
When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.
He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.
But he caught you anyway.
A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.
A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”
A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”
A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.
You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.
Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.
And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.
At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.
That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.
As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.
You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.
Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.
But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.
But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.
You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.
Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.
Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.
Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.
Robby hadn’t.
He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.
“You seeing anyone?”
You blinked. “Like dating?”
“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”
Your face had gone hot.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t do that.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Cutting.
And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.
“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”
That had shut you up.
Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.
Dangerous.
Robby had seen that. He had seen you.
Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.
Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.
Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.
Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.
“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”
“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”
“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”
“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”
Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.
Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.
But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.
You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.
Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.
“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.
And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.
You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.
But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.
Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.
Mohan noticed.
She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.
She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.
“It’s the gross kind,” she said.
You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”
“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything.
Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.
Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.
“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.
You didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Yeah.”
“He’s harder on us.”
“He expects more from us.”
“That’s one explanation.”
You looked over at her.
Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”
Something in your chest sank.
“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.
Mohan didn’t answer right away.
That was answer enough.
Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”
You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.
“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.
You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”
“Abbot is usually right.”
“Annoying habit.”
“Deeply.”
Another silence.
Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”
There it was. The question you hated.
You forced a shrug.
“I’m tired.”
Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You looked away.
For a second, you thought about telling her.
That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.
That Robby’s voice had started following you home.
“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”
“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”
“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”
Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”
Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And somehow, that made you feel worse.
By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.
Technically.
He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.
The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.
And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.
But enough.
Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.
If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.
Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.
But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.
Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.
Especially not you.
And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.
Mostly. Almost.
Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.
Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.
You.
The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.
He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.
So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…
He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.
And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.
By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.
The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.
People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.
Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.
Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.
Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.
Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.
You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.
Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.
Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away.
Your chest tightened.
Mohan followed your gaze.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
That was the problem with old friends.
They heard you anyway.
—
By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.
Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”
Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.
Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.
You had not stopped moving in six hours. Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.
It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.
They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.
So you kept moving.
Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.
You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.
Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.
His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.
You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.
“Hey.”
Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.
You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s why I’m saving time.”
She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.
“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.
“So have you.”
“I ate.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”
That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.
Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.
“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I said I can’t.”
It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.
You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.”
“That’s annoying of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.
Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.
“Room ten.”
Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.
You turned.
He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”
Your brain supplied the answer too late.
Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?
Your fingers tightened around the chart.
“Pending,” you said.
Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.
“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Right.
Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.
“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”
Robby’s expression didn’t change.
“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”
The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.
But enough.
Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.
Your stomach dipped.
“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.
You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.
Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.
You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder.
You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.
There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.
Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.
Of course he had.
He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.
“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”
Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Then maybe believe me.”
The words landed badly.
You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.
Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.
You looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m just—”
Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.
You shook your head.
“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”
Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.
“Okay,” she said.
There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.
You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.
“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”
The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology.
You softened before you could stop yourself.
“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.
Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.
Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.
“R4s should not need reminders.”
You pushed it down.
You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.
That was all.
Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
You gave it to him.
Clean. Organized. Defensible.
His eyes stayed on you.
“And your impression?”
“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”
“Likely panic,” he repeated.
Your jaw tightened.
“With appropriate workup.”
“I heard you.”
“You said it like that.”
Something flickered in his face.
Warning.
You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”
The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.
“What?”
His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.
“You heard me.”
Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.
You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“I hope not.”
Your face went hot.
No.
No, no, no.
He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.
“You hope not?” you repeated.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”
Your hand curled tighter around the chart.
“My history?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Don’t twist my words.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”
“I ordered a standard workup.”
“You reassured her before you assessed.”
Your breath caught.
The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.
“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”
“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”
Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.
Your chest felt hollowed out.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then make sure it doesn’t.”
Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
Robby went still.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.
“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”
The floor dropped out from under you.
“Safe to practice.”
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.
“I am safe.”
“Are you?”
The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.
You stared at him.
He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.
“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”
Mohan moved. “Robby—”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.
“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
Robby’s voice lowered further.
“That is dangerous.”
There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.
Now he was holding it like a weapon.
Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.
“You told me getting help made me safer.”
“It does,” he said.
“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”
For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
The department went too quiet around the edges.
Your breath stopped.
Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.
Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.
“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.
“You don’t get to call it that.”
“What?”
“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”
The last piece of you went very still.
Not calm.
Still.
You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.
“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”
Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.
He had cut you open.
But it was too late.
You stepped back.
“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.
Then you walked away before your face could betray you.
Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.
You didn’t turn around.
You couldn’t.
Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.
And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.
You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.
The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.
Then your body caught up.
Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.
Not here.
Not at work.
Not because of him.
You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.
Not a sob.
You refused to call it that.
Just air leaving wrong.
Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.
No.
That was his voice.
His damage.
His cruelty.
You knew that.
You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.
Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.
The department swallowed you whole again.
Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.
No one looked directly at you.
That was how you knew everyone knew.
Mohan found your eyes from the board.
You gave her one small look.
Don’t.
She stopped.
Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.
Panic, most likely.
You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.
“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”
The patient’s eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
You smiled.
It hurt.
When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.
He saw you.
For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.
Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.
Of course he did.
So you kept working.
You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
You swallowed.
“Don’t apologize for learning.”
The words tasted bitter.
Across the room, Robby watched you.
Not openly.
But you felt it.
Worry wearing a muzzle.
By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.
Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.
“Eat something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re spiritually buzzing.”
A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Dana’s face softened.
That almost undid you.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Dana hummed. “Sure.”
Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Half the department flinched.
Nobody said anything.
Another burst followed.
Mohan closed her eyes at the board.
Robby went still.
You saw it.
The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.
For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.
Noise.
Blood.
Bodies.
Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.
You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.
Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.
He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.
“Drink.”
You had stared at him.
“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”
You had laughed.
Then cried.
And he had stayed.
That was the part you couldn’t let go of.
He had stayed.
Another firework cracked.
Robby looked up.
His eyes met yours.
Something broken moved across his face.
Then he looked away first.
And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.
—
Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.
“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.
Mohan found you near the elevators.
“Come up with us.”
“I should finish charts.”
“You can finish them after.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”
You looked at her.
For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.
Instead, you smiled.
“I’ll come up later.”
Mohan didn’t believe you.
But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.
She stepped inside.
You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.
Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.
You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”
Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”
You stepped into the elevator beside them.
Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.
The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.
It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.
Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.
Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.
Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.
It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.
The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.
For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.
McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.
Everyone looked peaceful.
Not fixed. Not untouched.
Just… peaceful.
And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.
Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.
It was this.
Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.
Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.
A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.
“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.
“It was,” Mel agreed.
It was.
You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.
Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.
Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”
You kept your eyes on the sky.
“Yeah.”
Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”
Your chest tightened.
Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.
Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
Too quick. Too sharp.
The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push.
No one did.
They let you stand there.
Let you pretend.
The fireworks kept going.
Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.
Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then Dana pushed off the wall.
“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”
Everyone looked at her.
Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.
“Go home,” she said.
No argument. No softness. Just Dana.
“You all did enough today.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.
One by one, they moved.
Not rushed.
Just… done.
Dana passed you last.
She nudged your shoulder lightly.
“Don’t stay up here all night.”
You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”
Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push.
She nodded once anyway.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.
The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.
Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.
“You coming back down?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
She hesitated.
You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.
“You scared me today,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She was right. That made it worse.
“I just need a second alone,” you said.
Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.
The door opened.
Closed.
And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.
Just yours.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.
The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.
For a while, you listened.
To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.
Everything sounded far away.
Even you.
Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.
But no one did.
The roof stayed quiet.
And the quiet got inside you.
One step.
That was all it was at first.
Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.
Then another.
Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.
Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.
The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.
You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.
The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.
It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.
A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.
Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.
The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.
Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.
You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.
No wall now. No barrier.
Just warm concrete.
Open air.
Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.
Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.
The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.
Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.
But this was quieter than that.
This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.
You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.
You looked at it.
No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.
Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.
Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.
The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.
Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.
Almost.
Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.
Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.
For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.
Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.
Just open space.
Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.
Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.
Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.
Your chest felt calm. Too calm.
Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.
Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.
You swallowed.
And for the first time…
You believed him.
“Neither do I.”
The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.
Not quickly. Not all at once.
Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.
Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.
A world still organized enough to feel insulting.
For the first time, the height became real.
Not symbolic. Not dramatic.
Real.
The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.
Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.
Below you, the hospital kept breathing.
Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.
Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.
Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.
Up here, it waited.
Quiet. Patient. Polite.
And for one awful, honest second…
You wanted the quiet.
Not death. Not exactly.
You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.
You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.
You wanted to stop waking up already tired.
Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.
Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.
Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.
The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.
The open air pulled at your shoes.
One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.
A tear slid down your cheek.
You didn’t wipe it away.
You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.
Behind you, the roof door opened.
You didn’t turn around.
Couldn’t.
For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.
Then everything behind you went still.
“Hey.”
Robby.
Your eyes closed. Of course it was him.
The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.
His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.
“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.
Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.
“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”
Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.
And somehow, that scared him more.
For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.
Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.
He swallowed.
“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”
Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.
Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.
“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”
A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.
“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”
Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air.
The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.
“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”
Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.
His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.
You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.
“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.
Robby swallowed hard.
“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”
A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”
Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.
Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.
His voice came back thinner than before.
“Don’t move forward.”
The words landed carefully. Terrified.
“If you move, move back. Just back.”
A small, broken laugh left you.
“That’s usually my line.”
Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”
He moved. Not closer. Not yet.
Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.
You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.
Soft. Almost peaceful.
The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below.
But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.
“Okay,” he said instead.
His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.
“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”
You didn’t look at him.
“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”
His breath hitched.
“Tonight, you just have to move back.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”
Your fingers loosened. Just a little.
Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.
“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”
You didn’t.
His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.
“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”
For one suspended second, you didn’t.
His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.
“Please,” he said.
That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.
Robby took one step closer.
You shifted.
He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.
“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
The words hollowed him out.
You heard it in the silence behind you.
The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.
“That’s okay.”
You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.
Robby’s breath caught.
You heard him swallow it back down.
“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”
A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.
“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”
Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.
You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.
“I was wrong.”
“You meant it.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.
“I’m sorry.”
Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.
“You were ugly.”
“I know.”
“You were cruel.”
“I know.”
Your voice thinned into something smaller.
“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”
Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.
“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”
His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.
“I know.”
Your right hand slipped off the ledge.
Fully.
Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.
The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.
Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.
“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”
You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”
Kid.
The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.
Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.
Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.
“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”
His voice twisted.
“I do know how.”
His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.
The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.
Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.
“I just stopped doing it.”
That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.
Your breath fractured.
“I hate you.”
The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.
Behind you, Robby went very still.
“I know.”
Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.
“I don’t.”
His breath caught.
“I know that too.”
Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.
“I wanted you to come back.”
The words barely made it past your mouth.
Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.
“I’m here now.”
Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.
“Too late.”
He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.
His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.
Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.
Open air on yours.
For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.
For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid.
Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.
“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”
You cried silently, staring down.
“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”
He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.
You didn’t tell him no.
His throat worked.
“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”
Your fingers tightened slightly.
He saw it. Held onto it.
“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”
“I don’t want tomorrow.”
“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”
“I don’t know what’s left.”
“You are.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is to Samira.”
Your face crumpled.
“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”
“They don’t need me.”
“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”
He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.
He froze. You froze.
Your hands stayed down. Barely.
Robby’s voice dropped.
“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”
You sobbed once. Hard.
“I don’t believe that.”
“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”
His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.
“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”
Your shoulders shook.
“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”
You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.
The open air seemed to notice before you did.
Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.
“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”
Your breath shook.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.
“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”
Your fingers twitched against the ledge.
His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.
Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.
“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.
Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.
His breath tore out of him.
“Kid—”
This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.
You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.
All of it.
The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.
Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.
“I’m scared.”
Then your balance tipped. Too far.
Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.
For half a second, there was nothing under you.
Nothing.
Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.
Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.
Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.
He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.
For one second, there was no sound.
No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.
Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.
His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.
Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.
A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.
This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
You froze.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice cracked on it. Then again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.
He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it.
You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.
“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.
He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.
“No. No, I did this. I did this.”
His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.
“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”
A sob tore through him.
“And then you almost—”
He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.
You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.
A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.
You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.
Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”
You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.
“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.
His breath collapsed above you.
“I know.”
“I thought I was going to do it.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to want it.”
“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”
He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.
He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.
“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”
You cried harder.
He pulled in a ruined breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.
You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
Robby’s arms tightened.
“I know.”
“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”
His breath shuddered against your hair.
“Then we don’t stand up yet.”
“I can’t go back down there.”
“Then we don’t go yet.”
“I can’t see everyone.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”
“I can’t be alone.”
That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.
“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
His breathing hitched.
“I was.”
You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.
“I was leaving wrong.”
The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.
“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”
His hand shook against your shoulder.
“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”
Your throat closed.
“That’s horrible.”
“I know.”
“That’s stupid.”
A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”
You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.
His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.
There. There. There.
Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Quieter now. More exhausted.
“I should’ve protected you from me.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.
Below, the hospital kept moving.
Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.
Life continued.
But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.
You were still breathing.
He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
His voice broke again.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
For the first time all night, you believed him.
Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.
But about this.
About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.
summary: texts between bee and jack during their first shift together after the date
tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, potential ooc, swearing, innuendos/sexual comments, fluff, flirting, pining, use of pet names, age-gap relationship, power dynamics, no use of y/n, indirect talk of losing a patient, see masterlist for more detailed tags
author’s note: so sorry for only one update last week! was busy celebrating the 4th (in a liberal way) and had a bit of writer’s block. but we’re back now enjoy! this chapter is basically pure fluff.
synopsis: you met deran and craig at a party when you were twenty. flash forward three years, their eldest brother you've never met, pope, is now out of prison. the big shocker? he's hot as fuck. he also happens to be the guy you were anonymous pen pals with while he was in prison
warnings: 18+, age gap (pope is late 30s, reader is 23), cursing, smurf slander, reade being a freak over pope, implied pope being a little bit of a stalker but reader fucks w it
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