#abbot!reader

abbotyogaofficial

♫ sunrise - norah jones

liked by drabbot, danaevans and 409 others

abbotyogaofficial as grateful as my body was for our beautiful trip to italy, i can't wait to get back in the studio this week

abbotyogaofficial forgot to mention! i will be running more meditation classes this week, a healthy soul means a healthy body!

-> docrobby you married a doctor, you can't seriously think you can meditate your way to good health?

-> abbotyogaofficial maybe if you practiced some mindfullness every once in a while, micheal, you wouldn't be so negative all the time

-> drabbot thats my girl!

-> docrobby you really believe this stuff?

-> drabbot nope. not at all. just like seeing you get humbled!

huckledenny wait is this her?

-> trinsantos 'abbot yoga and wellness studios'? it must be...

-> torijavadi well that was not what i was expecting

drabbot

♫ heaven - bryan adams

liked by abbotyogaofficial, mateodiaz and 90 others

drabbot a week stuck inside the pitt means connecting with nature again

abbotyogaofficial this weekend was so healing

-> docrobby don't start again

-> abbotyogaofficial you're a doctor, you should know spending time in nature is good for the immune system

danaevans looks like you both had a lovely weekend

jjshen no way you get to just 'reconnect with nature' while i have to remove chopsticks from a kids nose

trinsantos why is abbot's wife the coolest person ever?

-> drabbot she's not cooler than me though

-> abbotyogaofficial yes i am

-> drabbot yes ma'am.

abbotyogaofficial

♫ paradise - sade

liked by drabbot, trinsantos and 615 others

abbotyogaofficial spent the weekend planning a new yoga flow for tuesday's class and getting in touch with my creative side as the moon shifts towards the waxing crescent tonight

drabbot can't wait to see what recipes you come up with this month honey

trinsantos wait she's an astrology girlie too

-> torijavadi we should go to one of her classes

-> abbotyogaofficial trinity i have three spaces left for my tuesday class if youre interested!

-> trinsantos oh my gosh yes definitely

-> torijavadi three spaces you say...

-> huckledenny oh no.

-> abbotyogaofficial ill see you all next week!

trinsantos

♫ one hand in my pocket - alanis morissette

liked by melking, huckledenny and 103 others

trinsantos see there's this thing called yoga, and me and my gang, well, we suck at it

abbotyogaofficial you guys did so well for your first class, yoga isn't just about your body but your mind as well and showing up is one of the hardest parts!

-> trinsantos you're my favourite abbot

huckledenny at least i didn't fall asleep in the savasana...

-> trinsantos i was being mindful and relaxed!!

-> torijavadi you were snoring

samiram i can't believe i missed this one, i'll be back next week!

-> abbotyogaofficial we missed you mira! can't wait to have you back with us next week

Many look to be fighting sleep, you can only begin to guess how long they've been there.

Joining the queue gives you time to study the people around you.

A bleeding hand catches your eye, poorly wrapped in gauze. The bandage is growing progressively more damp with red and nobody moves.

If that was your hand, you'd be rushed past the entire queue, Jack would assign the most skilled doctor available to your care and never once would he make you feel like you deserve anything less.

Shame settles into your gut at the thought, a room of people in need of help and you're about to extend the waiting time even more.

You debate on leaving, toughing it out in solitude until Jack gets home later.

He'd be upset if he found out you were so close to him and left, but his forgiveness has always been easy to earn, he can never stay mad at you for long.

Lupe calls you forward, the strain of a long day evident in her voice. It's too late to leave, the least you can do is not drag things out and further agitate the people behind you.

Even though Jack working dayshift is rare, Lupe's seen you enough over the years to recognize you. She confirms that you're there to see him, and not in need of medical attention.

It feels wrong to say that you're not sick. Physically, you're no more sick or in pain than usual; you can only guess what goes on in other people's heads but you know there's no way healthy people look at the world the way you do right now.

The double doors cut the waiting room and interior cleanly in two. A different kind of discomfort lies on the other side.

With less people around, the stale cold of the emergency department happily absorbs you, it makes you wonder how Jack sustains that feeling of warmth he's never without.

Nurses brush past you, trying to keep up with an impossible pace. Only when someone bumps into your shoulder do you start moving forward, slowly and nervous as if you're on thin ice with the floor.

Jack won't be anywhere near triage, you keep an eye out for him anyway. You listen for his voice or heavy, slightly uneven footsteps.

By the time you reach central, you still haven't found any trace of him.

There's a harshness to Dana's voice when you hear it directed at a medical assistant you don't recognize. It deters you from speaking first, instead you wait silently for the person to leave so she'll realize you're there.

"Hey, kiddo, long time no see. You looking for your dad? Does he know you're here?" She tucks her glasses into her shirt, looking you up and down.

"I tried to call him but he didn't answer," you say.

"Yeah the E.D. will do that." You don't follow where her gaze goes. There's a mess of files to your right, growing. "Hey, Robby, have you seen Abbot?"

Robby generously lathers his hands in sanitizer and strides up to the work station in front of Dana. He rhythmically taps the base of his hand against the surface. "Still in Trauma 1 with the motorcycle head lac."

The image your brain has been using to make your problems feel small gets clearer when you hear what he says. A life-threatening injury, in Jack's hands.

You don't notice how Robby perks up when he spots you, as if the environment is instantly more bearable with you in it. "Oh, hey, I didn't see you there. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

His smile dissolves when you don't respond. He's unsure whether you're waiting for his words to process, or if you missed them altogether.

He and Dana share a look but she can only shrug in response.

He says your name to in hopes of getting your attention, also neglected.

Rounding the work station, Robby runs his hand over its side until he's at the edge of your personal space. "You okay? What's wrong?"

His badge dangles in front of you as he rolls up his sleeves.

Attending physician, emergency medicine.

Importance, necessity, urgency.

Every second he spends talking to you is a second he could spend with a patient.

He crosses his arms, his wrist watch going right to your eyes. It feels like you can hear it ticking, tracking each second you believe he's wasting.

Tick, tick, tick. How many patients have gone from stable to critical since you got here? How many more will by the time you leave?

How do you admit that you're there to sidetrack one of Robby's most needed doctors when they're already short-staffed?

"Nothing, no. I'm fine, I was just…"

"Just what?" Robby's studying your face in the same way Jack does. Diagnosing.

That marks his third ignored question and the maximum he'll let slide.

He accepts that he won't be getting any valuable answer out of you, at least not in the middle of the floor. You think he's leaving when he moves out of your field of vision.

He comes back, standing a step closer.

"Dana's going to tell Jack you're here when he's done. In the mean time why don't you and I go somewhere a little quieter?"

Robby's hand finds your shoulder as he slowly starts to lead you away. Your body doesn't object to how his hand pulls you closer to Earth.

Mel approaches you two, tablet in hand, a question on her tongue. "Dr Robby can you—"

"Not now, find Samira or Langdon."

Mel hesitates, pulling a face. Robby silently tells her he's not about to change his mind. She shoots you a brief smile before speeding away to find a senior resident.

"It's not an emergency or anything, I can just wait in the staff lounge." Your mind is reeling with what she wanted to ask, what impact it will have on whomever she's treating.

Would it be fatal? Life altering? Would it end up creating bigger problems for the entire staff?

"You would not be here if it wasn't important." Robby's voice brings your thoughts back to shore in a way few things do.

Guilt obstructs any excuses you could try to improvise. You should've thought about this further. Gravitating to Jack is an involuntary reflex, you didn't consider that he might not be around thoroughly enough.

Robby continues walking, guiding you to follow him by a palm on your back, firm without feeling forceful.

He opens the door leading to the viewing room and stairs and motions for you to step past him.

You're not fond of sitting on stairs stepped on by hundreds of dirty shoes, you're also not in any position to argue.

Robby appears unbothered by it.

He sits down and leaves enough room for you between him and the banister. With that to rest against, and him on the other side, the world feels less daunting. Insulated. Safe.

Space where fear resided is filled with Robby's scrub sleeve brushing against your arm.

"What's going on?" He bumps his leg into yours, gently starting to pry.

"Nothing."

To you, Robby is an undeserving participant in your turmoil, a bystander dragged in against his will.

Though Jack regularly reminds you that he loves taking care of you, he has to be there for you. Robby doesn't.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. A blanket statement, one that feels too thin for the amount of guilt it's supposed to cover.

Robby shakes his head, stern and rigid. "You have nothing to apologize for."

He scratches lightly at the right side of his beard, the coarse sound soothing. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Probably the simplest question he can ask and yet it forms another spiral among many others in your mind. Some reaching depths you'd rather avoid. You don't know how many words you can formulate in an intelligible way, if any.

"You'll probably be getting a lot of talking from Jack," Robby thinks out loud. "Maybe we just sit and wait for him, and if you want to say anything you just speak up, does that sound okay?"

You barely have to think before nodding. He copies your movement, satisfied, and stops looking at you to stare at his hands.

He's not very good at sitting still, he picks at his fingers until they turn red. His torso shifts like the tag of his shirt bothers him, or maybe his back isn't reacting kindly to his hunched posture. He still doesn't say a word.

If your next conversation with Jack is anything like the ones you're used to, he'll find a way to know what to say, and how to say it, and that voice in your head will start to cower.

But it already has, faintly. Thoughts you'd rather not think haven't left, but Robby's breathing is more noticeable than when you first sat down. Measured, gruff, so overtly human.

He'll stay on those stairs for as long as he needs to and, despite the voice in your head's insistence on it, you won't ask him to leave.

"I like sitting with you." The words are easier to say than you thought they would be.

Robby's frown slips, the creases in his forehead relax as the ones by his eyes tighten. His gaze stays in front of him even though it's now filled with joy. "Yeah?"

He'll hold that over Jack's head for the foreseeable future and you'll never find out from either one of them.

The door you came through squeaks open, you and Robby instantly recognize who opened it by his walk.

Jack's in front of you before you know it, already inspecting you with laser-focused eyes.

Robby slips away without another word. Jack takes his place, holding onto the handrail as he carefully sits down and slides over to you.

Through the door's glass you can still make out Robby's legs, already accompanied by a gurney.

divider creds: @saradika-graphics <3

Here is a fact: you do not have a poker face. You have never had a poker face. Your face is like — okay, it’s like one of those old houses where all the windows are original to the building, single pane, no insulation, everything visible from the street whether you want it to be or not.

Every thought is just there, just broadcasting, just completely available to whoever happens to be looking.

Here is the fiction you are choosing to nurture tonight: the bar lighting is merciful.

Dim. Amber. Generous in that ecclesiastical way, as though some patron saint of girls who make bad decisions personally curated the wattage for visual absolution of unholy things flickering across expressions.

You are counting on that leniency now. Depending on it, actually. 

Because your expression, specifically, is behaving like it has slipped its leash and developed teeth. 

Lust drunk is the most polite interpretation, and you are choosing it because it implies a certain — well, not class, exactly, but at least the suggestion of class, the ghost of it, which is about all you can claim right now given that you are three tequila shots deep and standing close enough to Robby that personal space has become less of a real thing and more of a concept you learned about once and have since chosen to set aside.

Enthusiastically. Voluntarily.

You abandoned it somewhere around his second laugh, which was low and a little gruff and private-feeling, like it was meant for a room with fewer witnesses.

Which is where you wish you were right now.

And this all just seems to be a recurring symptom of Robby-adjacent proximity.

You have attempted, with heroic but ultimately ineffective confidence, to develop some kind of immunity.

The liquor is a complicating factor, obviously, it is doing its own loud and reckless lobbying.

But he’s had just as much, which feels significant, which feels like something, because tonight the usual careful building of whatever this is has gone slightly structurally unsound.

The looks don’t redirect themselves the way they’re supposed to. The almost-touches don’t quite resolve. The attention you give each other has a weird voltage that absolutely should not be readable to the public. 

It isn't, you tell yourself, and then immediately, honestly, append probably, because you are not a liar, you are just a person with a very generous relationship with optimism and a selective approach to awareness, which is different.

It can’t be visible to the public because Jack is two feet away.

Jack, your brother, your loving brother, who expresses that love primarily through a rotating repertoire of words he deploys when you have done something that has activated that eyebrow, words like inappropriate and optics and the classic, the evergreen, the one delivered with his whole exhausted face: what were you thinking.

Jack, who introduced you to a much older Robby at some point in the not-so-distant past with absolutely zero awareness of what he was setting in motion, who considers Robby a friend, a good friend, and who would have a complete and total conniption if he knew exactly what category Robby currently occupied in your life. 

Which is… a complicated one. A favorable one. One that has involved, on more than one occasion, considerably fewer clothes than this. 

Jack does not know that.

Jack is also, not here in any meaningful sense right now anyway, his attention fully, devotedly annexed by Samira, which means the universe has slid open a window just wide enough for one moment of consequence-free misbehavior.

You let yourself tilt forward over your drink, chin resting lightly against your knuckles, and offer Michael a smile that says, without saying, I have been behaving very well for nearly an hour and I deserve a reward.

“Hi,” you say. 

His brow arches, unhurried, as he lowers his cup, and for a moment you almost admire the commitment to the façade. 

The television has been his alibi all evening, throwing its restless blue-white flicker across the sharp planes of his face while he performs a very convincing portrait of a man with genuine and abiding investment in whatever sports ticker is currently crawling across the bottom of the screen.

He’s been trying very hard to be good tonight.

You appreciate it, you do.

You also appreciate, in a slightly different and considerably less virtuous way, the slow visible process of it not working.

“Hi,” he says back. Somehow the way he says it means about six other things, and you feel all six of them.

“So,” you say, with the air of someone about to make a very important point, and then you lose the point entirely somewhere between the intention and the execution and just look at him for a second with your drink halfway to your mouth. “Are you —” you start again. “Is the —” Another pause. You squint slightly. “Are you having fun?”

The corner of his mouth does something.

“That’s where you landed?” he asks.

“I had something better,” you tell him, very seriously, because this feels important to establish. “It was really good actually.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“You would have been impressed.” You point at him for emphasis. “That’s not me being — I’m not just saying that. You would have actually been impressed.”

“Devastated to have missed it,” he says, dry as a summer drought, and you laugh before you can stop yourself.

Your shoulders go with it. Your glass follows.

A thin line of whatever you’re drinking makes a break for it, cool and slow, slipping past your mouth and trailing down your chin, your throat, catching the orange light for one glittering second before vanishing into the neckline of your dress.

The same dress Robby had texted you about. Furiously. Several times.

The first had come through while you were still getting ready after you had explained what dress you had planned on: Wear something that won’t give Jack a heart attack.

The second, twenty minutes later: Actually. Don’t.

You’d sent back a photo. Not of the dress. Just your face, smiling, which you felt conveyed the necessary information more efficiently than measurements would have.

He’d replied: Keep everyone at arm's length tonight. I mean it.

You'd spent the entire drive turning that over, holding it up to the light, examining it from every possible angle, and had arrived at the bar flushed and conclusionless, having decided to file the whole thing under TBD and deal with it later.

Later, it turns out, has excellent timing.

His eyes follow the trail of liquid all the way down, not even pretending otherwise. When they come back up to yours there’s something in them that makes your skin feel twelve degrees hotter than the bar already does.

“Smooth,” he says. 

“A gentleman,” you say, already squeezing past him into the space between him and the bar, your ass finding his front with a precision that could not have been accidental and that you will maintain, if pressed, was entirely accidental, “would have helped.”

The hiss from him comes out quiet and immediate, bitten off almost the instant it exists, swallowed back like he could edit it out of the record if he was fast enough about it.

He is not fast enough about it.

You heard it.

“You didn’t really give me a chance, sweetheart.”

You straighten up slowly, turn around, press the napkin to your chin. 

He is close. Closer than strictly necessary, which would be a more compelling observation if you hadn’t personally manufactured this exact proximity half a minute ago with the specific intention of — well. 

You hadn’t thought past the intention, if you’re being honest.

You have to tilt your chin up to find his eyes properly. 

“You’re pretty fast though,” you say, like this is a compliment you’ve been sitting on, “when you want to be.”

He laughs at that. A real laugh, low and brief and little surprised out of him, and it does something catastrophic to his face. 

Crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way that makes them look warmer, deeper, pulls lines into his cheeks that you have absolutely no business noticing with the specificity that you are noticing them, that you are in fact analyzing them with the same eerie retention you give to everyone you care about except that right now your brain has zoomed in to a granularity that suggests care about might be doing some heavy lifting as a phrase. 

You could look at him like this for an unreasonable amount of time.

You're aware of that about yourself. You've been aware of it for longer than you've been willing to say out loud.

“At my age,” he says, recovering, something warm still sitting in his expression, “fast is relative.”

“You’re not that old,” you say, still looking at his face probably a beat too long.

“No?”

“No.” You tilt your head. “You’re like. Vintage.”

The laugh makes another bid for freedom. You watch it fight him, watch him actively, visibly, losing that fight somewhere in the lines around his mouth.

“Vintage,” he repeats.

“Distinguished,” you offer generously.

“Stop talking,” he says.

“Gladly,” you smile, easy and sweet, “give me something better to do with my mouth.”

The remnants of his laugh disappear. 

Something else entirely moves in to take up residence in their place. Something that has no business being in his expression in a place where people can see it, where Jack specifically could see it, a thought that has clearly occurred to him because his eyes move briefly, almost imperceptibly, over your shoulder.

Whatever he finds, or doesn't find, seems to satisfy him. 

His hand tightens around his glass. The other one drifts to your side, fingers finding the hem of your dress and dragging along the flesh it meets there.

“We’re in a bar,” he says.

“I know where we are.”

“Jack is four feet away.”

“I know where Jack is too.” You smile at him again. “I’m just saying. The option’s there.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. The breath is long and controlled and working very hard, doing the kind of invisible internal load-bearing that would probably be impressive if you weren't so busy watching his face arrive somewhere that looks a lot like a decision. 

He looks away. He looks back.

“What about me?”

Cold water. All at once. 

Jack arrives from your left. Drink in hand, extended in the loose generous direction of the both of you, a cheerful little toast to nothing, to everything, to the sheer good fortune of finding his favorite people side by side.

Robby’s hand falls from your thigh.

You open your mouth. Something reasonable needs to come out of it, something that sounds like the middle of a conversation and not the end of one, something light and throwaway and completely uninteresting to follow up on.

You have approximately one second to produce this thing. You are, famously, not always reliable under time pressure.

“Only good things,” you say. 

It’s followed with the smile of someone who hopes it reads as of course and is aware, in some small honest corner of yourself, that it must not read as please don't ask follow-up questions because you do not have follow-up answers, not any that you could deliver with your face behaving the way your face is currently behaving.

Remember. No poker face.

Jack looks at Robby over your head.

Robby meets it without flinching, without shifting, without a single thing in his face that could be reasonably gathered, framed, and presented as evidence of anything. He is extraordinarily good at this. You have always known he was good at this.

Opposites attract or something like that.

 “She was asking about your birthday.”

The rope hits the water right in front of you and you grab it with both hands.

You nod with too much conviction.

“Your birthday,” you confirm. “Coming up.”

Jack blinks. “My birthday is in December.”

Shit.

“I like to plan ahead.”

The silence that opens after that is three seconds long, give or take, and it is some of the most occupied silence you have ever sat inside — thick with things that are present and not being named, furnished wall to wall with everything that has happened in the last ten minutes and everything that hasn't happened yet and the very specific realization of your brother standing in the middle of it, looking at you.

Jack looks at you. He looks at Robby. He looks at his drink, like it might offer something useful, like the bottom of a glass has ever told anyone anything they actually wanted to know.

You watch him find something in the middle distance of this little triptych, watch something cross his face that is almost a question, almost a shape, almost legible… and then he folds it.

The fold of a man who has known Robby for years, who has looked at Robby's face in worse conditions than this, who knows, somewhere in the part of him that reads people the way you read people, that something is in the room. Who has decided, for reasons of his own, that tonight is not the night.

“Okay,” he says finally.

He turns, clapping Robby once on the shoulder in the way that men do when they're saying something they won't say out loud.

The clap of a long friendship, of a complicated trust, of I don't know what this is but I know who you are, maybe, or something in that neighborhood, and then he's gone, swallowed back into the noise, and it's just you and Robby again.

“He knows,” you say, mostly to yourself

“He doesn’t know.”

“He looked at you like he knew.”

“He looked at me like he was thinking about it. There’s a gap between thinking about something and knowing it.”

“How big of a gap?”

He considers this. “Big enough.”

“...okay,” you say again, grudgingly.

“Okay,” he repeats, and there is the almost-smile, small and private and just for you. “Feel better?”

“Marginally.”

“Marginally,” he repeats. “What would it take to get you fully better?”

“Hm,” you say. “Interesting question.”

“I have a suggestion,” he says, “if you’re open to it.”

“I’m famously open to things.”

“I know.” He reaches out, straightens the strap of your bag on your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbone. “I’m parked out front.”

Your heart does something that doesn’t have a dignified name. “Are you?”

“I seem to remember a suggestion you made earlier… about keeping your mouth busy.”

You open your mouth. Close it. The irony is not lost on either of you.

“Lead the way.” you say.

He does.

he’s kissing down your neck, biting and sucking deep purple spots that you know you’ll have to lie to your dad about in the morning.

“want your uncle robby to take care of you? treat you like the little princess you are, hmm?” he strokes the side of your face, his large hand covering it entirely and you melt into it—nuzzling against his palm.

“yes, please, uncle robby” your voice already so breathy, your eyes half-lidded as you bat your pretty lashes at him—you always did know exactly how to get what you wanted from him.

“mmm, my sweet girl, so pretty” he kisses your nose and your eyes flutter closed as he settles himself between your legs, being careful of your ankle as he parts your thighs with his body.

he’s on his knees now, gently he hooks your uninjured leg around his waist to lift you. he drags his heavy cock through your soaked folds, tapping his head against your clit a few times—your back arches off the bed and he bends down to kiss your stomach.

“m’gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart” he kisses the valley between your breasts as his tip notches at your entrance.

“don’t have to worry about a thing, uncle robby’s here”

uncle!robby you have me in a chokehold i fear. apologies this is so short, back in my blurb era for a little bit until i have some time off work🤍

gonna need everyone to lock in and send me more uncle!robby thoughts 🙂‍↕️

🏷️ @imfinnabeinthepitt-2025 @robinaabb0t @mapping-out-skies @diilfluvrr @cerealov3r @sasha-37 @popecodysgirl @sunny-1-3 @strangemar @unicvnthlle @mrs-depp @moonlitblossomsofthesun

“No, I don’t even know why you would want that.”

“I wanna prove to him that I’ve moved on, I know you still have his number,” Trinity had introduced you to your ex, and ever since you’d split up she’d been texting him non-stop abuse. Her way of apologising to you, you figured.

“You clearly haven’t moved on.”

“I have, I swear.”

“Ugh, fine.”

There was a pause as she sent over your ex-boyfriend’s number. You delete the message and rewrite the message about a hundred times before you read it back and sent it off to him.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you but I’m so over you. I’m finally moving on, haven’t cried over you in like two months.”

About five minutes later, you’d received his reply, “uh, good for you I guess but who is this?”

You scoff as your thumbs furiously move over the keys, “seriously, Nick? You were the one who cheated, not me.”

“I’m real sorry but this isn’t Nick.”

Your eyes widened as you checked the number again, it was the same one that Trinity had sent over. Had she got it wrong? You obviously hadn’t memorised his number before blocking and deleting it.

“Who is this?”

“Who are you?”

“I asked first.”

“Hey, you were the one who messaged me.”

You huff, rubbing your forehead, this person was insufferable, “let’s just say I’m a mysterious stranger.”

“huh, that’s my name too, that made you snicker, the second text came through a moment later, “Nick sounds like a real dick.”

“Yeah, he was. Sorry I messaged you by accident.”

“No worries.”

You weren’t sure how it happened, you knew that you should have blocked and deleted the unknown number, they could be a serial killer for all you knew. But, you couldn’t stop, it was nice to speak to someone who absolutely did not care about what you were going through. You didn’t even tell Trinity.

It got to the point where you were sending them random photographs of your food and they replied back with photographs of coffee shops they frequented, none of which you recognised. In one of the photos you saw their shadow, average height with a mess of curls on top of their head.

He was a man. You figured that it was safe to tell him your gender, you were kinda glad he was a guy, he was really sweet. He could still be a serial killer though.

“so, do I get to know your name?”

“uh, still not convinced that you’re not a serial killer. But, my dad calls me sunshine, guess you could call me that,” you were embarrassed by the childish nickname but he had to call you something.

“that’s cute, where I work, everyone just calls me huckleberry. I guess you won’t tell me where you work huh?”

You thought for a second, before you came up with the most outlandish job you could think of, “I’m an astronaut.”

“oh yeah? Cool, cool, and I’m a spy.”

On Friday, you brought your dad a packed lunch, just like you always did, “thanks, sunshine,” he grins as he pulls you into his side.

“The kids are really excited to hear you talk on Monday,” the colour drained from your dad’s face as he runs a hand through his hair, “dad, please don’t tell me that you forgot that you were coming to speak to my class.”

“Sorry, sunshine, er,” he looked around the hospital and spotted Robby walking with a cute younger doctor, “hey, Whitaker! Get over here.”

The young man’s head whipped snapped up, eyes wide as he points at his chest in a questioning manner before he walks over, “Dennis, this is Y/N, Y/N, this is Dennis,” you smiled at him as he nodded at you, your dad slapped him on the shoulder, “how do you fancy speaking to a room full of fifth graders for career day on Monday?”

“Um,” Dennis stutters as he looks between you and Jack, “yeah I uh, I think I can do that.”

“There you go!” your dad grins at you like he’d solved all the world’s problems.

“Dad!” you hiss as he walks away before you turn back round to look at Dennis, a flush on your cheeks, “sorry about that, really, you don’t need to come on Monday. I’ll just guilt trip my dad into coming.”

Dennis laughs as he looks down at his feet before looking back up at you, “really, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Okay then, my dad will give you all the details,” you wave at him as you leave the hospital.

That night, you ordered a pizza and had a bottle of wine as you text huckleberry, “so, how was your day?”

“well, I got roped into doing a talk but I don’t mind because the girl who I’m doing it for is quite literally the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Jealousy burned in the pit of your stomach as you took a swallow of wine. You didn’t even know why you were jealous. Huckleberry could be a huge loser for all you knew.

“how was yours?”

“had a pretty good day, met the cutest doctor at the hospital, he had these puppy dog eyes, y’know?”

“why were you at the hospital, you okay?”

“yeah, I’m all good, I was just visiting someone.”

While you were setting up the classroom on Monday, there was a quiet knock at your door, “come in!” you call out.

The poster that you had been trying to put up for about five minutes kept on falling down so you wanted to press it to the wall for as long as you could to give it a fighting chance.

“Hi, Y/N. Let me help,” Dennis put the coffee on the desk and helped you by tacking the bottom half of the poster to the wall.

“Whew, thanks,” you grin as you step off the chair. He looked good, it looked like he’d done something different with his hair. His curls were messier and more bedraggled, it was a good look on him.

“Uh, I got you a coffee,” he gestured to the two cups on your desk, “wasn’t sure what you liked so I just got you a regular.”

“That’s great, thanks!” you smile, leaning against your desk, “I’m really sorry that my dad dragged you into this.”

“I really don’t mind, it’s a nice change of pace from getting puked on.”

“Ew,” you giggle.

From the minute the kids sat down it was clear that Dennis was amazing with them. He must have come from a big family. The kids looked fascinated as he showed them his medical supplies, even letting them use the stethoscope to listen to each other’s hearts. Things got heated and competitive when the game of operation came out and the kids were split into teams. You’d never seen a group of fifth graders be so cutthroat just to get a bar of chocolate.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, he was so gorgeous with the way he spoke with his hands when he was deep into explaining something and how patient he was when the kids asked him questions. Huckleberry was quickly pushed to the back of your mind.

“Have you ever seen someone die?”

And, just like that, the easy smile on Dennis’ lips faltered just slightly but enough for you to notice, “Miguel,” there’s a warning tone in your voice but Dennis shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he looks back at Miguel, “I have seen someone die, we do everything we can to make people better but sometimes we can’t.”

“Does that make you sad?” Mandy piped up from the back of the class.

“Very sad,” you couldn’t miss the waver in his voice.

Dennis was on the night shift that evening so he hung out with you for the rest of the day, you felt awful for depriving him of his day off. He helped you pack your car and you gave him a ride to the hospital, you wanted to see your dad anyway.

“Hi sunshine,” you didn’t notice Dennis freeze next to you, “how was career day?”

“He did great,” you grin at Dennis who offers you a weak smile.

Trinity walks up to the station to do some charts, glancing up between you and Dennis, “I see you met huckleberry, then?”

It was like someone had dumped cold water over you. With wide eyes you stared at Dennis and his expression mirrored your own so you knew you were right. The both of you started speaking at the same time.

“I’m the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen?”

“You think I’m cute?” Dennis chuckles as he rubbed the back of his neck, “you wanna get dinner sometime?”

“Sure, you have my number. Wait, hang on,” you turn to Trinity, “did you give me a wrong number on purpose?”

“Mikey.”

He lifts his head with his puppy eyes staring down at you. You tilt your head.

“Don’t give me that look!”

You say as you cover his eyes to stop his pleading look. Before removing them to run your fingers through his soft brown hair.

“The Chief has pulled me already for being late. And it’s always your fault!”

That makes him laugh as he hides his face in your neck, placing one more kiss to it as he releases you.

“Actually one time it was yours, sweetheart! You slept through your alarm!”

He says as he leaves the bedroom to make you some toast before you leave. You hop in the shower and put on your Pittsburg Fire top on and you sling your bag over your shoulder.

Stepping into the kitchens plate sits on the island with a cup of coffee, your husband opposite you giving you a warm smile. You thank him as you eat the toast.

“You working a double tonight?”

He nods as he takes your empty plate and gives it a wash in the sink.

“With my favourite Abbot!”

He says with a smirk before getting a smack with the kitchen towel.

“Ayy I knew it! My dear sister I guess I won!”

Your brother, Jack, emerges from his bedroom, with his messy pepper curls. You roll your eyes at both of them before kissing Robby goodbye and then a kiss to the cheek to Jack, as well as messing up his hair even more.

“Bye, my dears! Don’t have too much fun without me!”

You say as a chore of be safe follows you out of the door.

-

You arrive at the station, 20 minutes before you start. You’re greeting with multiple hello lieutenant, when you reach the locker room. You shove your bag in locker as you smile at the picture of you, Robby and Jack at your wedding, followed by a picture of Jack and you, when he had graduated med school. You closed your locker and went to the common room to see the rest of your department.

You plop yourself on the coach, as Gabby, one of the paramedics, lays her head on your thigh.

“Hey girl. How’s your vacation been?

“Hey yourself. So good!”

She goes off on a ramble about it as you laugh at some of the stories she’s telling you about her fiancée. It’s cut short when the first report comes in and your squad is set out for a rescue.

-

A cat stuck in a tree, how ironic is that. You sent Miles, your new candidate up the ladder. It’s been the only call that’s come in today, not like you were complaining since it ment more time raiding the fridge with Mouch, half man, half couch.

You guys were playing UNO, when Miles leans back in his chair and says,

“It’s quiet today.”

You all freeze, looking at him as if he just committed the biggest war crime. He kinda did tho, never say the Q-word on call.

Thats when a call comes through the speakers, you gather your truck as Captain Casey gathers his. You both rush off to get geared up and the two trucks set off out the station.

You look at Miles in the rear view mirror.

“You never say the Q-word, got it kid?”

You see him nod, as you get a nudge from your driver Joe Cruz.

“Relax, Sunshine! Being angry doesn’t suit you!”

Sunshine was a nickname you got as soon as you got here. You were a little too happy for the boys liking, they tried to push you to your limits but you never broke, always a smile plastered on your pretty face as they would say.

You roll your eyes.

“Eyes on the road, Cruz. Don’t want another incident, do we?”

“Ouch you wound me, Lieutenant!”

“That was low, Sunshine.”

Stella says chuckling, before you’re all distracted by the fire blazing in the multi-story building.

“Okay guys! Looks like a tough one!”

Once you arrive at scene, you instruct one of them to head up and ventilate the roof. Stella, Miles and you entered the building oxygen masks secured on your faces as you lead them up the stairs when your battalion Chief instructed to go. Destroying each door, shouting fire department call out into every smoky apartment, instructing people to take the stairs and get out.

You reach a door kicking it open getting Miles to search the bathroom then meet you back in the living room. Stella checked the kids bedroom, finding a kid and picking him up, whilst calling out to you both. You told her to head out that you’ve both got it here, that was just before the floor in the living room caved underneath you and Miles. Before everything went dark, you heard a scream of your name and remember grabbing Miles to pull him towards you.

Stella rushes back to the loud crashing noise, after telling the kid to go down and leave the building. She enters the apartment again, seeing a gapping whole underneath her feet.

“Firefighters down!”

She shouts your names down the radio no response. She runs down the flights of the stairs to where she estimates you guys falling to. She calls Kelly for back up with his squad team, when she’s met with the sight of Miles crushing your body with flames and debris surrounding you both.

“Miles! What hurts?”

Stella screams at him looking at his bloody face, as she pulls him off you. Just like yours, his oxygen mask shattered. He coughs and gasps for air.

“Everything!”

She turns back to you, giving you a shake.

“—can you hear me? You gotta wake up?!”

Stella turns to see rapid footsteps, Kelly followed by his team. He tells the others to get Miles, whilst he crouches beside your unconscious body.

“How’s she doing?”

He leans over you to check your breathing himself, placing his oxygen mask over your bruised face. He rips off a glove with his teeth, pressing his fingers just above your open wound from the oxygen mask straps.

“She’s got a weak pulse and shallow breathing! Gotta get her out now!”

He throws you over his shoulder as he makes Stella go infront of him. They finally reach the fresh air, ripping off their masks and he places you on the gurney.

Gabby and Brett take over quickly, unfastening your bomber jacket, to get an IV going and a c-collar on you. Once you’re stable enough, you’re placed in the ambulance.

-

“Bullet wound straight in the chest-“

The paramedic pushed a gurney into The Pitt as Robby took charge assigning Langdon to the patient as he observed.

The night shift was a night shift. Loads of drunks, head injuries like the guy that showed up an arrow in his head. It’s always crazy.

Jack was busy with a pregnant lady who had gotten into a car crash, whilst Robby was on the other side of the Pitt dealing with a seizure.

An ambulances arrives, paramedics announced, “23-year-old-male, fallen 20 feet, right distal radius fracture, left rib fractures, concussion, smoke inhalation, 104/64, GCS: 14. And another ambo on its way, it’s worse.”

McKay nods at the paramedic takes this firefighter, as they push him into North 2. She tells Dana to get Jack to take the next one as Robby joins her.

“Can you tell me your name?”

She asks as she shines a light checking the pupils.

“Miles.. wh- where’s Sunshine?”

“Sunshine?”

She looks up at Robby, as they strip him out of his bunker coat. He pauses for a second before looking at the young man’s face again, realisation hitting him.

“My Lieutenant!”

“Kid, what’s your firehouse?”

Robby asks with a slight worry in his voice, as he glances at the bunker caught which confirms his suspicion. Miles whimpers in pain as the doors slam open with another gurney being rushed into the emergency room. Robby’s head shoots up, as he sees Jack marching over to the paramedic.

“34-year-old female, hypotensive, O₂ levels dropping, 82/48, internal bleeding, second-degree burns on the neck and back, GCS: 8.”

“Fuck!”

McKay looks at Robby confused just as she was about to ask he sprints towards the gurney.

“What happened?”

He questions the familiar paramedic. Abby? Was it?

“Floor gave way, they fell 20 feet she took the most of it.”

He froze for a second staring at your pale, bruised face which has dried blood across the left side. His hand reach for your face but was pulled away by Dana.

“Robby you can’t-”

“The fuck I can’t. Let go of me, Dana.”

Robby pushes past her as he follows them into bay now filled with Langdon and Mohan with Jack coordinating his own little sister’s bed.

“Abbot, what you need?”

“Michael, get out!”

“Could say the say to you brother, what do you need?”

Robby says through his teeth, Jack sighs realising Robby won’t back down. He instructs him to intubate so Robby grabs laryngoscope, pushing in the endotracheal tube inside the your throat.

“Fuck, I can’t see shit. Get me some suction.”

Suction arrives, sweat gathers on his forehead as the tube slides in as he pulls out the cuff inflating tube.

“I’m in”

An ambu bag is attached, he presses it taking over from the nurse. The screen lights up yellow, he continues the rhythm as he strokes you matted with blood hair away from your forehead.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Langdon looks across at Mohan, as Jack inserts a chest tube to re-expand your collapsed left lung. Robby speaks up.

“I want a CT-”

He gets cut off when you seize.

“Secure the airway!”

Jack shouts as they hold you down, Robby at your head speaking to you softly, ensuring you don’t aspirate on the tube. Jack instructs to push in Lorazepam.

Your seizure subdues as neuro is being called, you’re getting taken to emergency surgery.

Robby watches as they push you away hands raised with blood covered gloves as Jack stands next to him. Sweat over both their bodies, tears swelling up in their red eyes.

Robby rips off his gown with his gloves following storming towards the waiting room filled with concerned firefighters.

“Fuck! Robby, stop! Dana, need your help!”

Jack hastily strips out of your blood, as he and Dana run after Robby, who’s already up in your Battalion Chief’s face. Each of them grab his arm as Jack slots himself inbetween their bodies.

“Robby, step the fuck out!”

“No, move Abbot! How could you let them in an unstable building?”

Jack gives Robby a harsh shove towards the door.

“Out Michael! I’ll sort this.”

Robby glares at him, holding eye contact before cracking and leaving the room. Jack mutters a fuck under his breath running his hands through his pepper curls. Nodding to Dana to go after Robby as he turns back around to the firefighters from your firehouse.

“I apologise for him.”

He looks up at your Chief, Boden, who doesn’t seem angry at all. Taking a breath as everyone listens in to what he has to say.

“How is she and Miles?”

Boden recognises Jack, you’ve brought him along to the barbecues with the firehouse. You also speak about him and Robby all the time, so everyone knows who they are to you.

“She’s been taking to emergency surgery. We don’t know the full extent of her injuries yet, I’ll be back if I know anything else. I don’t know about Miles, kinda busy saving my sisters life”

Jack chuckles, if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll crack, not really wanting to infront of all the firefighters. Boden places his large hand on Jack’s shoulder, who squeezes his eyes shut to keep the tears at bay.