There is a problem tonight. Because there is simply nothing. No messages, no phone calls from his personal phone, nor the phone that sits at the nurses' station. No message from Jack Abbot. It’s causing you to go stir crazy. Your mind is racing a mile a minute, and as much as you’d like to think the worst. There is something in you that stops, so you instead think of distracting yourself for the time being. 

You start in the living room, fixing the pillows that are only there for decorations, straightening the blanket that was already straight but wasn’t flat. The mug that had your half-drunk tea ends up in the sink, being thoroughly washed as if the tea will leave a stain in the cup, as it does with Robby's cups. Your phone's ringer is on, set to the highest setting, and sitting in the back pocket of your jeans. 

You migrate towards your bedroom, picking up the few random clothes that had been left behind on the floor of your closet. A few socks of Robby’s, a blanket that hadn’t been picked up and put back on the bed in the early morning. The towels in the bathroom could use a refresh. Your walk towards the laundry room is stopped by the howling noise of the wind outside, the way the wind drifts through the valleys of the buildings, screaming past the large windows in the bedroom and living room. 

All you can think about as you load up the washer is Robby, and the reasons for his lateness home. His food sits covered with a clear wrap in the microwave for when he returns, the light on the couch side table is still flicked on in case he comes home, and you aren’t sitting there anymore. A small part of you hates that you worry, but another part knows that no matter what, you have to get some sort of rest. Rest that will unfortunately be taken on the couch with the throw blanket over your lap. 

The Pitt is a never-ending cycle for Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Dr. Robby can handle the chaos, but today isn’t one of those days. Everything seems to be stacking up quicker than they can get through it. As always, the triage is filled. The injuries range from superficial wounds to broken bones, and the worst of the worst. 

It would be okay if the crashing weight of it all didn’t make his chest feel so fucking tight that every time he tried to take a deep breath to possibly calm himself down, he just couldn’t. His breathing comes in short bursts. Robby feels as if he’s run a ten-mile marathon, and still has another ten to go. 

The Pitt has kind of slowed down; the wind outside can be heard every time the slide doors open and close from the EMS bay. Robby finds himself walking not up but out of the hospital. Towards the bay doors and out into the windy night. For the first time in hours, Robby takes a deep breath of fresh air. No mixtures of robber gloves and cleaning supplies to muddle his senses. 

He’s run his hand over and through his face so many times today that he probably looks no better than a patient sitting in the PTMC triage. When Robby finally finds the brick wall of the opposite side of the bay doors, he lets his back fall into it. His hands bracing on his knees as he takes the next few minutes to try and calm himself down. 

He doesn’t try to think about the way work went. 

Or how it turned into an absolute shit show in a matter of a few hours. 

He just lets his mind wander about you. 

Thinks of you dressed in his old, worn-out shirts that are probably ready to disintegrate in the next wash, how you’ve probably been cooking and lounging around the house all day waiting for him to come back to you. 

He thinks about that little giggle of yours, that will quickly turn into a chuckle and then a full fit of head tossed back laughs. The type of laugh that makes him laugh is just being near you. Robby lets his mind think about how you feel pressed into his side when you’re both so tired, and the day has drained you both mentally and physically. 

Robby lets himself think about how your hand will reach out and guide him home, into the calmness of your apartment, and into your loving arms. He allows himself a few more seconds in the setting sun of Pittsburgh and heads back inside. Letting you be the driving force to get through the rest of the shift. 

You’re up before the door even has a second to make a sound, and the throw blanket is literally thrown off of your sleepy frame. You’re jumping up and running from the couch, your knees buckle from the sudden movement, but you make it to the door before Robby even has a chance to twist the doorknob open. 

Suddenly, you’re dragging him in; the way Robby stands and lets you drag his body gives it all away. His shoulders are slumped, and his backpack sits heavily on his shoulder. His eyes are cast down, but you can simply tell how tired the man is. His hair is thrown in a thousand different places, and the sudden heaviness in your chest comes along. Making your heart ache. 

Robby kicks the door shut with the back of his shoe and stands there waiting. It doesn’t take you long to get the notice, reaching up to press your slightly warmer fingers across both sides of his cheeks. His nose is a bit frosty from the wind outside, and his beard tickles your palms. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you can finally press your lips into his. 

You don’t ask questions, you never do. You know that Robby sometimes needs contact, and other times needs to sit in his grief and pain a little bit longer once he’s arrived home. You take the kiss and internalize it, understanding he’s home, and for now, that’s enough. When you let him go, you expect him to walk away from you and towards your bedroom. 

He doesn’t. Robby pulls you back in his arms and holds you tighter than he has in a very long time. He holds you like he’s afraid that when he finally lets you go, he might unwind like a ball of yarn. You can feel the slight tremble of Robby's body against your own. His breath is uneven against your shoulder and neck, where Robby had stuffed his head to hide. 

“Robby, I was worried about you.” You say, letting the words vibrate against his wide chest. Your arms are holding him close to your chest. You can feel his breath stutter, “I know, Motek.” He says quietly, his voice trembling a little, “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.” 

The minute Robby has you in his arms, it’s like he’s stepping out of the storm that the PTMC emergency room causes for him. For the first time since he left the apartment 12 hours ago, he feels like he can finally breathe. The tension doesn’t completely vanish, but it loosens just enough. Robby moves his head so he’s resting his head in your hair, and no longer in your neck.

He allows himself a minute to breathe you in. The smell of your shampoo. He closes his eyes and grounds himself in you and the moment. He breathes you in and reminds himself that he is, in fact, home. “You know I did’t think that I was gonna make it through this shift,” Robby admits quietly. His voice was low and gravely as replace the disaster that the day shift had lugged him through. “There were a few moments where it just really felt like absolute hell.” He continues. You hum and wrap your arms around him tighter, trying to take the stress of the day away from him. 

“You made it home anyway, so what kept you going?” You ask softly into his chest. He still smells like the hospital. A mixture of alcohol wipes, cleaning supplies, and something that you never really pinpoint. There isn’t hesitation in his voice as he pulls slightly from your hold and looks down at you. “You did, motek.” Robby’s words land heavily and dreadfully; they land heavily on your heart in a way that shows you just how much devotion the man has towards you. “You are my guiding light, the thing that brings me home every night.” 

The couch has lost some of the warmth from your sleep. You guide him over and throw the blanket over the top of the couch. You aren’t one to normally let him stay in his work clothes, but today seems like a day when you can let it pass. You settle together. Sure, Robby is a tactical person, needs to always be touching you, and tonight it shines through him. You get comfortable on the couch and drag him into your space. His head is resting on your chest. The sound of your beating heart is calming him more and more. His weight on top of you is a great reminder that he is infact, and nothing horrible happened to him. 

You let your hands wander over his back and up his neck until you're scratching softly at the base of his hairline. He hums in contentment at your soft touch. Your touch is slow and steady, welcoming him home into the soft and comforting space the two of you have created together. “You know, Robby, you don’t have to always carry everything alone.” You whisper.

“You can be strong for everyone else, but you don’t have to be strong with me. You can let go, and just be Michael.” He exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath since he left the apartment earlier in the morning. His voice is low and filled with a softness that is reserved for you and only you. “Sometimes it’s hard…” He whispers back, “It’s hard to forget that I don’t have to be anything but me when I’m with you.” He admits. You don’t say anything, you know that there is something more he’d like to say, and let him have the moment to configure his thoughts. 

“I know that all I have to do, no matter where I am, is think about you, and you save me.” You can feel your eye tingle. “You make me feel like I’m not drowning when in that ER, you make the day possible. Because all I have to do is think about you, think about coming home to you, think about being in your arms.” Your throat tightens, and the tears that you thought had pushed down come spilling down your cheeks. 

Finally, Robby lets himself rest. Using you as the most comfortable pillow in the world. Your fingers continue to comb through his hair, and he feels himself start to slip. His eyes feel heavy with the quietness of the house. Not the kind of quiet where he’s waiting for the other show to drop, or for the next emergency to roll through the door. 

Your heartbeat is steady against his ear, and not only does it anchor him to the moment, but it’s also grounds him in you. Letting you take all the horrors of the day out on him. His eyes are closed, but he can still see the color of the muted TV passing through his lids. “Motek, I was scared today.” Robby finally lets himself admit it after a few moments. “Scared of what, honey?” You ask. 

“Scared that I might lose this, or you.” You move your head, letting it fall so you can press a gentle kiss to his temple. “You’d never lose me, honey. You always come home.” Robby tightens his arms around your middle and squeezes, reminding himself that he is, in fact, with you, safe with you. “Oh, motek, I will always come home, as long as I have to come back home to.” He admits. 

It’s an hour later when you feel his breathing evening out against your chest, and you know that the exhaustion of the day has finally pulled him under. You pull him closer to you. Holding him protectively from the world’s horrible ways. You love being the only one that bring the man from the depths, even when you aren’t close to him. 

The nightlife continues outside your windows, and the wind still howls between your apartment. But outside doesn’t matter when you’ve got your entire world in your arms, sleeping peacefully. Where everything feels warm and safe. The thing you know is that no matter how hard the days get for either one of you, you’ve still got each other, and that’s all that matters in the end. 

That he’ll always think of you, and you’ll always be the one he comes home to.

Arthur remembered the first time he saw her, clear as day. Fiery red hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders, piercing green eyes that seemed to have him figured out without uttering so much as a word, as sure as her brother yet with none of the bravado. If anything, Sean had been the only downside to her arrival, Arthur had mused at the time. She was older than Sean by four years, though at times she swore it felt like forty. In place of his swagger and slurred jokes, Margaret held a steady calm, one Arthur assumed was honed through years of trying to keep a leash on a boy who refused to be tamed.

Always courteous. Always kind.

Well… until that one night not too long after they’d taken up residence with the gang, when Sean had gotten himself into that barfight. Before Arthur could so much as scrape back his chair, Maggie had been off like a whirlwind, putting an end to what Sean’s mouth had no doubt started with a vicious right hook and a headbutt that broke a man’s nose. And just like that, she had returned to the table, dragging a bruised-jawed Sean along with her by the ear like a naughty schoolboy. She brushed down her skirts. She fixed her hair. And she finished her whiskey.

“Remind me not to get on your wrong side”, Arthur laughed, bright and impressed as he refilled her glass.

“Better be a good boy then, Mister Morgan”, she smiled back.

“He always like that?”, Arthur had asked once they got back to camp, Sean stumbling back to his tent to tend his wounded pride.

“He's a good lad. An eejit at times. A gobshite”, Maggie sighed. “But a good lad.”

Arthur hummed in agreement, shaking his head as he watched the tent flap fall shut. “You ain’t nothing alike. Sure you’re related?”

Maggie had laughed at that, and to this day Arthur could still remember the flutter it caused in his gut. “I got most of the brains.”

“Seems you got all of ’em”, Arthur murmured under his breath with a whiskey-warm smirk.

And with a soft dying of smiles and the awkwardness of the night creeping in, Maggie found herself fumbling with her hands, her eyes meeting Arthur's.

“Well, I suppose I should bid you goodnight, sir.”

“Sir?”, Arthur had scoffed. “Well, ain’t you a fancy one!”

With a sweet, toothy smile and an exaggerated eyeroll, Margaret nodded. “Mister Morgan.”

“Arthur’ll do just fine, Miss MacGuire. Just Arthur.”

“Arthur”, she repeated softly, as though testing the way his name fit in her mouth. Something about the way she said it caused that little flutter to resurge again - her accent melodic and sweet, caressing each letter of his name as it rolled over her tongue.

“Guess you should call me Maggie, then.”

Arthur gave a huff of a chuckle, the sound low and rumbling as it caught in his chest, stooping just a little to dip his hat.

“Good night, Miss MacGuire.”

“Good night”, she echoed. “Arthur.”

*

It had been six months before Arthur ended up with an opportunity to spend time with Maggie alone, something he’d spent longer than he wished to admit thinking about. Sean had decided he was off on a grand adventure – a couple weeks, maybe more – to scout out opportunities to prove his worth. A wanderer, that boy, Margaret would smile fondly as she walked with Arthur to the hitching post to bid her brother goodbye. It’s in his blood.

But instead of the giddy anticipation of a young man, they found Sean pacing, his hands restless and readjusting his pack for what Maggie knew must have been the sixth time.

Sean smiled when Maggie handed over the rolls of bread she’d made for his journey, unmovably insistent that Pearson should have no hand in their baking. But that toothy grin soon faded as he looked down to his boots, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat before catching her eye again and tilting his head.

“Sure you won’t come with me?”

Arthur leaned against the hitching post, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as a man of his stature could, feeling almost guilty for being there to witness this private moment.

“You gonna miss me or something?”

“No!”, he answered too quickly, his eyes flitting from Arthur to Margaret, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“You are!”, she grinned, her voice brimming with that tinkling laughter that curved the corner of Arthur’s lips. “You’re gonna miss me!”

“I just don’t like leavin’ you on your own. That’s all…”

“I’m not on my own”, Maggie smiled softly, taking his hands in hers. “This is home now. Our home. Besides, Arthur’ll look out for me. Won’t ya, Arthur?”

A beat passed before Arthur glanced up, caught off guard and finding find two pairs of emerald eyes staring at him, Maggie’s head tilted and an expression across her freckled cheeks that clearly read ‘back me up here!’.

“Uh…sure. Yeah. ’Course.”

“See!”, Maggie waved a hand in Arthur’s general direction. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But, Peg-”, Sean started, Arthur’s brows raising a fraction at the nickname.

“I’ll be fine, baby brother. Just… you be safe, alright? Come home.”

But Sean didn’t return her smile. Not really. She saw the tension in his face — the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth that never quite reached his eyes. The constellation of freckles drawn tight in unspoken worry. The face he used to wear as a boy when the storms rolled in fast over Donegal and he’d protest he didn’t hate the thunder as it split the sky.

With a tender hand, Maggie reached up and brushed Sean’s fringe back from his forehead, the memory of that frightened little boy resurging in the untamed copper locks. The memory cemented further still when he ducked defiantly and batted her hand away.

“Ach! Don’t fuss.”

“That’s my job”, she said, smirking at his grimace. “You forget how long I took care of you before we crossed the sea?”

Sean shifted his feet again, but didn’t protest as Maggie took a step closer, her hand wrapping around the back of his neck and leaning in to press their foreheads together. He didn’t grumble as his hat knocked askew, didn’t shrug away – he just let his eyes fall shut.

Arthur looked away, the gesture private enough that it felt sacred. But he heard those whispered words, spoken in a voice so soft it could only be meant for the space between kin.

“Go dtuga Dia slán thú, a dheartháirín leanbh.”

Sean nodded once, barely, waiting a breath before pulling away, the mask of bravado plastered back across his cheeks as Maggie grinned and slapped him lightly on the cheek.

 “Go on now before I get sick o’ the sight of ya.”

Sean snorted and shook his head, offering a playful shove of her shoulder in return before turning to mount his horse. “You’re a heartless old goat, I ever tell ya that?”

“And you’re a brat”, she replied through a beaming smile.

Arthur stayed with her by the hitching post, watching as his silhouette disappeared and the gentle hoofbeats faded, until the swirl of dust settled once again. He didn’t know why. Hell, he didn’t know why he’d followed her down here in the first place. There was just this pull about her, a need to know she was alright. But… that didn’t mean anything, right? He’d have done it for any of the women in camp…

The butterflies that refused to settle behind his ribs disagreed.

Who the hell you tryin’ to kid, Morgan?  

“You alright?”, he asked carefully as she leaned against the post beside him.

Maggie didn’t answer, just flashed a tight lipped smile and a shallow nod that told him everything he needed to know.

“He’ll be fine. I been riding with him a few times and… well, he’s dumb as rocks… but he can hold his own. He’ll be fine”, Arthur said quietly before licking his bottom lip, pausing for a moment and tilting his head, brows knitting for a moment. “Peg?”

Maggie scoffed a laugh and looked up at him, a hint of a smile playing on soft pink lips.

“Peggy”, she stated like it held all the answers, only to be met by bewilderment and deeper lines of confusion etching Arthur’s features. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, smiling up at the outlaw. “It’s short for Margaret.”

“Oh.”

“He only ever uses it when he’s trying to butter me up – change my mind about something. Peg, let me have that last pratie. Peg, don’t tell ma it was me broke the window. Peg, I swear I’ll be good if you take me with you to the fair.”

A hearty chuckle worked free from Arthur’s throat. “Sounds like he was a handful as a kid.”

“He was. Don’t tell him I told you that, but he was”, she grinned back at him. “Still is a bloody kid to me.”

“Peggy”, Arthur repeated, “Ain’t never knew that one before.”

“There's a lot of things you don't know”, Maggie smirked, “Just don’t let Sean catch you calling me that. That’s his.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

**

With the stinging heat of the campfire burning at his cheeks, Arthur turned his gaze once again to where Maggie sat. The others seemed not to have noticed – or at least didn’t mention it. They were all too caught up in the revelry of being able to breathe again, distancing themselves from the widow they had collected along the way and the maudlin woman who no longer knew where she fit.

But Arthur noticed.

Maggie hadn’t moved an inch. Too proud to retire to the tent she shared with the girls and knowing that if she closed her eyes in the quiet, she might just give in and sob her heart dry, Arthur had offered his cot for her to sit – far enough away from the noise that no one would drag her into inane conversation but close enough for the ruckus to ground her in its presence. If things had played out differently in Blackwater, she could have been sat beside Arthur now, her pale face highlighted with amber, her sharp and dry witted tongue matching her brother curse for curse. But instead, she sat in silence. Bruised around the edges.

Pushing himself up from the log and wandering over to the ever dwindling crate, Arthur grabbed himself another beer, taking a long glug before dropping down beside the fire again. As drunken warbling filled the night air, accompanied by the sweet tunes of Javier’s guitar, Arthur found himself grimacing and pondering memories of nights not long passed.

God, she could sing.

**

Arthur didn’t much care for sentimental things. He told himself he was flint and iron, more suited to brutality and hurting than poetry or softness. But something about Maggie MacGuire’s singing turned him still.

She sang sweeter that Sean. Not brash and lewd drinking songs like her brother, though she'd been known to partake when the whiskey took her, but songs so soft and slow they could break a man's heart.

It always happened late. Snoring echoed from where people dropped, the few left awake sunk heavily beside the low burning fire as the starlit sky softened at the edges, the moon dipping tenderly back towards the horizon. A pause in hushed, drunken murmurs left gap enough for Sean to nudge her shoulder gleefully.

“Go on, Peg,” he’d say, elbowing her gently. “Do the one about the widow. You know the one.”

She’d roll her eyes, shake her head. “Knock it off, would ya? No one wants to hear it.”

But Sean wouldn’t listen, rallying the last few drunkards until they were baying for a tune. Maggie would resist, a flush rising on her cheeks and not knowing where to set her gaze, until the jeering became loud enough to wake others. Only then would she flap a hand to calm the squawking.

“Alright. Alright. For Christ’s sake, if it’ll shut you up!”

With a roll of her eyes and a deep breath, Maggie would stare into the embers before closing her eyes, her hands twitching in her lap. The first lines were bashful, quiet as breath but steadily blooming like a spring bud once she gained her rhythm. Soft and sure, lilting melancholy spilled into the night like unravelling silk, soft and silver toned, as warm and bright as the golden sunrise threatening to crest. Conversations would fade. Laughter would die down. Every pair of eyes would fall upon her.

Arthur never knew how to sit when she sang.

The words were often foreign to them, all aside from Sean, but they captivated each drunken listener all the same. The aching pull of each syllable, slow and full of sorrow as they skittered across the night air, soft-edged and aching. Like the sea mourning the shore.

Cups lowered. Cigarettes burnt to knuckles.

And Arthur would always find himself leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees and his gaze never leaving her face. The firelight would flicker over her soft features, catching her lashes, dancing along the curve of her cheekbone. And just when the song started to hollow out something in his chest, she’d look across the fire to meet a set of eyes she knew were watching, and Maggie would look at him as though she were singing to him and him alone.

Songs in English or foreign tongue. Of lost lovers and heartbreak. Of green cliffs and distant shores. Of lullabies and desperate hopes and broken promises and dashed dreams. Each one stuck in his gut, settling in the hollow behind his ribs.

That voice would linger long after the fire died out, replaying in poor mimicry in Arthur’s head as he lay in his bedroll and stared at the dimming stars.

But Margaret hadn’t sang since Blackwater.

*

The last of the men had fallen asleep when Arthur hesitantly picked his way over to his cot bed. As he neared, Maggie’s head snapped up, already making to stand.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sit here so long. I’ll go-“

Arthur raised a slow and steady hand. “Stay as long as you need.”

Hesitantly, Maggie settled back again. “You sure? It’s your bed.. I mean…”

“I don’t sleep much”, Arthur shrugged, taking off his hat and setting it on the crate-come-nightstand before settling hesitantly beside her on the edge of the cot, the mattress dipping a little under his weight.

Maggie nodded absently and stared down at the stuffed bear in her hands, bitter regret mingling with the grief stinging at her insides. She’d scarcely been this close to Arthur since they’d had to flee, but back then – back in Blackwater – there had been moments.  Nights peppered with stars and woven with the thick humid heat of summer. Pressing just a little closer to him as they talked. Twilight excuses made to lay by the river, entangled in eachothers limbs.

A whisper of something was on the cusp of blossoming.

And then massacre happened.

And then everything burned.

“How you holdin’ up?”, Arthur asked.

Maggie didn’t answer right away. Just gave a shrug that barely moved her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the bear in her hands. It was ragged – bald in places and missing an eye.

Arthur followed her gaze. “What’s that?”

Maggie took a breath. “Bog”, she murmured.

“My ma made it for Sean. Wouldn’t go anywhere without it when he was a babe”

Arthur looked at her, then at the bear, its belly stuffing compacted over the years, an ear hanging from tenuous thread.

“He’d kill me if he knew I kept it. Reckon he thinks we left it back home. Left one of my dresses behind just to bring him”, she chuckled, but it was hollow. The crack around the edges of her quivering voice twisting something in Arthur’s chest. “Couldn’t leave Bog.”

Arthur closed his eyes, his gut churning as he remembered dragging her to the wagon as they left blackwater.

“Where’s Sean? Where is he?!”

“I… I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?

“We have to go, Maggie.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

An arm yanked free from his hold, turning back to look over at the town.

“We need to go now!”

“I won’t leave him!”

With trembling hands, he grabbed her face. “He’s gone. Sean is gone.”

Gunshots echoed along the ridge below. Dutch yelled. People scrambled.

“He’s gone, Peg.”

Arthur would never forget the way she’d looked at him. Emerald eyes wide in panic and piercing ferocity as he’d grabbed her by the arm with bruising force and near dragged her to the nearest wagon, hauling her onto the bed and slamming the tailboard shut.

He would never forget the way he yanked his forearm free of her clawing grip, slamming his fist against the wooden slats three times to signal Hosea to move off.

“He’s not dead”, Maggie said softly.

“Maggie-“

“Not my Sean”, she nodded, flashing him a watery smile, her copper hair falling in soft curls from the rushed bun she’d pinned it in. “I’d know. I’d feel it.”

“He’s not dead”, she repeated, harsher now, shallowing against a tense jaw. “I know my baby brother. Gift of the gab, that one. Could talk legs off a table and still have it standing.”

Arthur chewed his lip, sliding an arm tenderly around her shoulders and pulling her gently against him. Maggie’s head tipped toward him, the side of her face resting lightly against his chest allowing the solid weight of Arthur’s warmth to seep into her skin.  

“He’s too stubborn to die without saying goodbye”, she murmured at the night air. Arthur’s other arm curled around her to draw her into a full embrace, a broad calloused hand cradling the back of her head as his chin rested upon her crown, his throat tight and choked with promises he knew he couldn’t keep.