#tw sa

There’s a protocol for these things.

As the senior attending, Dr. Robby is always supposed to treat the victims and perpetrators in suspected violent crimes. It’s his job to make sure evidence is meticulously collected, testimony isn’t muddled, and medical care is adequately administered to the victim – and the perpetrator, no matter what they’ve done. He delegates. He makes the decisions. He gives the orders. Even Shen and Abbot aren’t supposed to involve themselves first; the protocol is to get Robby.

So he’s annoyed when it’s Whitaker, not Dana or even an EMT, who carefully taps him on the shoulder as he wraps up discharging a kid with a shattered ankle. “Doctor? Do you have a second?”

He snaps off his gloves and heads toward the charge station for his next patient and Dennis follows close behind. “Lead with the question, Bambi, not permission to ask it. It’s all about speed here.”

“I just- Well- The thing is-”

“Spit it out; I don’t have all night.”

“Dr. Langdon is triaging a rape. The victim and the suspect.”

Robby whips around at that. He’s already storming across the floor’s chaos, Whitaker scrambling to keep up with his long strides. “Did he send you to get me? Is his pager broken?”

At the ambulance bay, there are two rigs next to each other, two bodies on gurneys being unloaded, and one team of doctors hovering on the right side. Robby knows that has to be the victim; young doctors get too nervous to touch perps.

Whitaker finishes tying Robby’s yellow trauma gown and stammers, “Actually, um, he said not to call you.”

Robby heads to the command position, where Langdon’s barking orders at the junior doctors. “Frank, why the hell are you-”

The world slows to a crawl.

Robby's eyes move between one ambulance to the other, collecting information, adrenaline flooding his veins, his ears whooshing in time to his heartbeat.

To his left, there’s a huge white guy in black, cuffed, blood all over one side of his head and spreading rapidly through the blanket thrown over his legs. He’s thrashing around, straining against the cuffs, screaming to the police officer reluctantly watching over him, “The bitch bit me! Fucking bit me! I wanna press charges!”

“It’ll all go in the report,” the officer tells him tightly. “Wait for the doctors to do their work.”

On his right, the obvious reason Langdon didn’t call him.

It’s you.

He can’t even process all your injuries because his vision has gone white with rage.

All he knows is that you’ve been assaulted.

You.

Not a faceless victim who needs his attention, his advocacy, his expertise.

You.

His best friend. His rock.

You’ve only been his girlfriend formally a year now, if that, but it’s been the two of you for years. Since the first day you brought your baby niece into the Pitt with nothing more than a fever, too nervous to stay at home when it was your first time watching her by yourself. He’d fallen for you hard and fast – your smile, your eyes, your heart. Everything soft in you that smooths out his rough edges. Coming home to you gives him a reason to come home at all. There’s an engagement ring hidden in his locker here at the hospital. You’re it for him.

It occurs to him, randomly, that you must’ve been on your way to bring him ‘lunch’ at the hospital when you were attacked. He’d glanced at your cute-emoji-filled text an hour ago but got too caught up in work to wonder why you were taking so long.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been talking, giving out orders based on instinct and training combined, until you’re wheeled off to a private room while the rapist is taken the other way.

Langdon touching his arm is the first thing that snaps him from his stupor. “Robby, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d want to-”

Robby shoves a finger into the center of Langdon’s chest to cut him off. “You don’t get to think anything, Frank. You follow the protocol. No matter what. No matter who.”

“Look, I’m sorry.”

Robby nods tightly. “I know you are. You won’t do it again. Now go with the suspect; treat anything that’s going to kill him in the next hour and nothing else. Make sure everyone knows he’s in custody and limit staff access. Keeping a clear chain of custody is king. Preserve injuries. No cleaning. Minimal painkillers. I’ll be over to talk with the cops and get a more detailed exam when I can. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Then Robby turns to Whitaker, who still looks like he’s going to shit his pants in the corner waiting for one of them to speak. Robby clasps his shoulder and says. “You did the right thing by finding me. I want you to go get Dana, tell her to go in with the vic. Make sure she doesn’t drink or eat anything and nobody touches any non-vital injuries. We need to preserve the evidence. Good?”

Whitaker nods rapidly. “I’m on it.”

Robby goes back out to the ambulance bay to collect a report on both of his patients, taking rapid notes and committing to memory. There are two EMTs; he doesn’t recognize either.

The male half of the duo starts: “The victim was accosted on a nearby walking trail. Perpetrator seemed to be intoxicated and aggressive. Looks like it was supposed to be a robbery, but her fighting back sent him into a rage, so it became a sexual assault.”

The woman says, “The details are a little fuzzy without the victim’s formal testimony, but the witness told us that he heard screaming and saw a significant ongoing struggle between a partially clothed man and woman, which led to him calling 911.” With a satisfied smirk, she informs him, “She fought back, doc. Hard.”

“Of course she did.” Robby shakes his head, trying to process all of it swimming around in his head. You’ve taken self defense courses and you’re fierce. It’s one of the things he loves about you. “What kind of injuries do they have?”

The man starts, “The perp has extensive scratching around the eyes and neck. At least three broken ribs. Abrasions full of gravel and debris.” He cringes and adds, “And, ah, she- Well, there’s one very distinctive injury.”

“What?” Robby looks between them both, trying to read between the lines. “What did she do?”

The female EMT rolls her eyes and steps in. “She bit it.”

Robby’s eyes widen. Despite the circumstances, he winces at the thought. “You mean…?”

“Yeah. She tried to bite it off.” The EMT clarifies, sounding almost proud, “His penis is almost entirely detached. It’s gnarly. That’s how she got him to stop.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“When she stops being loopy from the painkillers, you tell her I’ll buy her a beer any time. Absolutely badass.”

The man’s gone pale at the idea. “And disgusting.”

His partner insists, “What’s disgusting is what he was doing to her.” Then she gives Robby a pointed look, “The world would be a lot better off if his doctors decided his dick couldn’t be saved.”

Robby nods slowly. “Thanks for the report. Cops should be over to take a statement soon.”

You’re in a private room with an actual door within minutes of completing your imagine after arriving at PTMC. Dana, who you know pretty well by now, has been hovering, waiting for the cops to finish taking your statement before barging in. One of the officers – the woman, short and stout with dark hair and a proper no-nonsense expression – stays in the corner while Dana flips through your chart.

The first thing you say is, “I don’t want special treatment just because I’m Robby’s girlfriend. I’m sure there’s someone who needs a bed more than I do.”

She shrugs and says, “Tough luck. Attending gives the orders; we just follow them.” Then she gives you a sideways glance. “Sounds like the painkillers must be working pretty well if your first thought wasn’t ‘oh, god, my wrist has been shattered into a million pieces.’”

You look down at the arm, which has been stabilized in a temporary splint. It's huge. It's purple. It's wrecked. “Oh.”

 She shakes her head in disbelief. “Yeah. You’ll need a hard cast once all the statements and paperwork are done.”

“What else is wrong with me?”

“Extensive bruising and abrasions. Sprained ankle. Probable mild concussion,” she lists off. “No internal bleeding. Imagining looks pretty good. But, because of the protocol here, we haven’t taken a more thorough physical exam.”

“Right. The protocol.”

Dana gives you a sad little smile. “Yeah, we have some things to talk about. Would you like to have a provider perform a forensic sexual assault exam as part of the investigation?”

“You mean a rape kit?”

“Colloquially, yes.” At your panicky hesitation, she adds, “You can wait to decide if you want to, but, the sooner the exam is completed, the more accurate and valuable the results will be.”

You nod slowly. “Okay. What does that look like?”

“It’s a long process. It’ll just be you and the provider. You’ll be asked a lot of questions, some things you’ve already gone over with the police and some new. Photographs will be taken of every mark left during the attack, then there will be swabs of anywhere you were touched. Your clothes and things will be bagged if you decide to; you can choose what gets returned. You’ll give consent at every single step. You can take as many breaks as you need and you can revoke consent at any time. Anything you provide is good evidence.”

Your mind reels. So far, you’ve been- Well, you guess it’s called ‘shock’ for a reason. Numb, flat. But a rape kit. That feels real. Very real. Tears stinging your eyes for the first time, you whisper, “I want Michael to do it.”

“Honey, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m not saying he’s not qualified or anything, but sometimes having a man doing these exams can be retraumatizing.” Dana tells you softly, “I’m a SANE provider and so is Perlah; I promise one of us can-”

“Robby has the same training. I know he’s done them before. I won’t do it unless it’s him,” you say, firm this time, no room to be misinterpreted. “Nobody else is touching me like that. Taking those pictures. Nobody.”

“Okay,” she replies gently. “It’s your choice.” She sighs and stands. “I’ll get him. It’ll be a minute; he’s tending to something else.”

Your veins go cold. “Is he in with the attacker?”

“Last I saw, he was getting information from the EMTs.” Dana purses her lips and glances at the cop in the corner of the room, weighing how much she can share with you. She drops her voice and says, “Robby told his team to treat anything life threatening and then make the perpetrator wait. I think that man’s going to be alone and in pain for at least a few hours.”

You smirk and close your eyes contentedly. “That Dr. Robby can be a real asshole sometimes.”

Dana laughs hollowly. “Yes he can.”

There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later.

The cop opens it and Robby walks inside. Slow. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

His eyes are stormy and emotional, but his demeanor is strictly professional. Medical. This is Dr. Michael Robinavitch, a man you haven’t spent much time with since that first ER visit with your niece. He’s warm but still stiff as he says, “Dana says you’d like me to do your forensic exam.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s my job,” he replies, clear and fast. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll do it.” He nods at the officer and says, “I’ve got it from here; thank you for your help.”

When you’re alone together, he stands by your bed. Not touching you. Not doing anything. Not sure. You’re struggling to read his expression, so you say, “If you’re not comfortable doing the exam, it’s okay. Dana can do it.”

“I’m a doctor; I’m completely capable of-”

“I meant because you’re my boyfriend.”

“I know.”

He rolls his shoulders and you see a flash of your Michael. Your handsome, kind, protective boyfriend. There’s a simmering anger to his tone that makes your heart flutter. He says, low and slow, “I want this done right; I’m doing it myself.”

“Okay.” You sigh heavily. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you. Anything you want.” Robby settles on his stool and opens up your chart. “I need to take a relevant medical history first to ensure clear evidence when we hand this off to the precinct. Is it alright if we start there?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Robby fills out some of your information – name, height, weight – by himself. He’s come to all of your doctor’s appointments since you started dating, making sure every medical provider treats you with the utmost care. When he gets to the questions provided by the state, he has to speak. “Are you currently using any form of birth control?”

“I have an IUD. Mirena.”

“Have you had any recent consensual sexual activity which may appear on DNA evidence?”

You give him a pointed look. “My boyfriend and I had sex a few hours ago before he went to work.”

“What type of sexual activity was that? Oral, vaginal-”

“Don’t remember, grandpa?”

“Watch it, kid.” He rolls his eyes and tries to suppress a smile at hearing you making a joke right now. It’s probably a trauma response to be funny under the circumstances, he knows, but it still helps the discomfort. “I need a verbal response to everything for the official record.”

You give him a teasing glance. “He went down on me until I got off twice and then he fucked me.”

“Was a condom used?”

“No. Never.” Your attempt at bedroom eyes is only slightly undercut by the split in your eyebrow. “He came inside of me, if that’s your next question. He always does.”

“Sounds like you spoil him.”

“I try to.”

He reaches out to touch your cheek and then thinks better of it, keeping his head on straight. Then his little smile fades. “We’re going to do the forensic narrative now, alright? It’ll be more specific than the statement you gave the police with regards to the physical evidence. You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to and we can stop at any point.”

He has you explain what time you left your apartment (9:45PM, fifteen minutes before Robby’s lunch break), where you were when the guy grabbed you (a walking trail through Rossman Park, right as you went under the State Street Bridge), and the specifics of it. He listens carefully, takes notes carefully, reacts carefully. He’s Dr. Robby.

It’s when he transitions into clarifying questions, having gotten down all the details you give outright, that you start seeing Michael underneath. “Did he choke you, cover your mouth, or otherwise restrict your breathing?”

Your fingers go up to where you know there has to be a mean bruise around your throat. “He choked me with his hands when I wouldn’t give him my purse. Then his belt.”

Robby cracks his neck. His eyes follow your hands and you can see two minds: The desire to care for you and the desire to storm across the hospital to give the attacker a bruise just like yours. “Did you lose consciousness due to that at any point?”

“No. He wasn’t strong enough.”

Robby scratches something down. He tries to keep his tone neutral as he asks, “During the sexual assault, was there any ejaculation that made contact with your body?”

Your voice is hoarse as you tell him the truth: “Yes.”

Robby’s brown eyes are more like embers, ready to catch into flame at the right spark. “Where?”

“In my mouth.” With your eyes meeting his, you add without an ounce of regret, “That’s when I bit his dick. I was biding my time until he was vulnerable.”

“Smart,” he praises, unable to come up with anything else. He's trying to push down the image and to honor it at the same time; this is new territory for him as a boyfriend. “And did you bite, scratch, or hit him otherwise?”

“Yes,” you say, steely, confident. “Anywhere I could get to. There might be a chunk of his eyeball under my fingernails.”

Robby lets out a harsh chuckle. “That’s my girl.”

It feels good to blush under his praise. Normal. “I wanted to make sure they got the fucker.”

He assures you, “There’s no wrong way to handle what happened to you, but you did amazing. I’ve gotta imagine it was pretty easy for the cops to pick up the guy missing a fistful of hair with his face covered in scratches and blood all over his pants.”

Trying not to sound meek, you offer, “Thanks.”

Robby nods and then sighs. You both know what’s next, but he tells you anyway, “We’re going to do the photographs and the specimen collections now. I’ll ask before every new step, okay?”

“You don’t have to. I trust you.”

“Trusting me isn’t the point.” He reaches into the kit he brought in with him and takes out a large black DSLR camera and scale card. “The point is that you’re in charge. You decide everything.”

Of course, Robby stays true to his word. Every photo comes with a pause, a check to see if you need anything, and permission for the next one. He only uncovers the part of you that needs to be visualized, alerting you before he moves your clothes or needs you to adjust your position. There are a few moments – when he photographs your neck, namely – when you spot tears in his eyes as he bites his tongue.

After the photographs, he picks up the medical evidence box, then, and fills in your information in black sharpie across the top. From the moment he opens it up and lays out his tools, Robby’s so fucking careful as he goes through everything. There isn’t a moment where you doubt that you’re in complete control.

When he’s finished cataloguing every inch touched by your attacker, sealing away swabs in their own sterile containers, he gives you a soft gaze and asks, “Do you want to submit your clothing into evidence?”

“Yes, but- I- I can’t-” Trying not to let your voice break at the thought of being naked all of a sudden, you tell him, “I don’t want to wear a hospital gown.”

“You only have to wear it long enough for me to patch you up,” he replies quietly. Assuring. He really, really wishes he could take you in his arms and never let go right about now. “I’ll get you a change of clothes from my locker before you go home. Would that work?”

When you nod, he does, too. He takes out one of the dusky green hospital gowns and hands it over, stepping back right away like he’s worried his presence is going to spook you. “Take your time; I’ll knock when-”

“You don’t have to leave.” Then, with stinging eyes and burning lungs, you softly amend, “Don’t leave, Michael. Please.”

So he doesn’t. Standing stiffly in the corner, he drops his eyes. The thought of seeing you like this doesn’t just make him uncomfortable; it makes him sick. It has nothing to do with the lacerations on your arms, the gravel embedded in your knees, or the mud knotted up in your hair. It has everything to do with the fact that he’s going to have to cross the ED and take care of the man who gave you those marks.

Robby bags your clothes, labeling them thoroughly, and adds them to the rest of your evidence kit. Then he takes out one more swab, maneuvers it around his own mouth as a comparison sample, and locks it all up together. He places the tamper seal and says, “I have to give this to the officer outside the door right away to avoid any chain of custody questions and then we can finally get those injuries taken care of.”

Out of nowhere – from Robby’s perspective, at least, as he gets to work opening up a cleaning set and suture kit – you whisper, “I’ll understand if you don’t want me after this. Just so you know. I just- If you would stay with me tonight, that would be nice. But I- I get it. You don’t have to feel bad about it.”

Robby’s hands go still over the medical instruments. He looks at you with genuine confusion written all over his worry lines. “What?”

“We haven’t been together that long.” You stare straight at your bare feet. The pedicure that Robby paid for you to get last weekend. “I understand if you don’t want to deal with all of this.” Your voice drops even quieter, if that were possible. Robby has to strain to hear it among the background whir that is the emergency department. “You’re already acting like you can’t even look at me anymore.”

He almost laughs; the idea is so ridiculous to him that it might as well be a standup routine. Now that your exam is done, he reaches across and takes your hand gingerly in his. “I’m acting like this because I don’t want you to be scared of me, sweetheart.”

This time it’s your turn to laugh, even if it hurts your ribs. “Why would I ever be scared of you?”

Robby goes quiet for a minute. He starts cleaning every injury he can find; you’re covered in scrapes, so he’s spoiled for choice. Still pumped with painkillers, you can only feel the vague sensation of cold as he washes and dabs.

Finally, his voice comes out dark and gravelly, a far cry from the sensitive, sarcastic lover who can turn your mood around with a single sentence: “Because if that man were in the room with me right now, I’d kill him with my bare hands for doing this to you.” His eyes flick up to yours as he lays out the suture kit. “Figure that’s not the sort of thing you want to hear after being the victim of a violent crime.”

“Michael,” you breathe, reaching out to catch his hand before he can start working on the laceration above your ear. “Stop and look at me, would you?”

When he does, the tenderness in his eyes cracks something important open inside of you. Those eyes are forever. “I could never be scared of you. I could never stop wanting you.”

He kisses your hand, not caring about the fine layer of grime all over you. “Then you’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me, baby.”

A tentative smile breaks your expression and Robby thanks whatever god might be out there for it. He starts on his suturing, making sure each one is placed perfectly to minimize scarring, and smiles, too. Then you give him a serious but almost teasing look, like you’re challenging him, and say, “Just promise me you won’t stay because you pity me. That would be way worse than if you left.”

“Pity you?” He scoffs and ties off the line of sutures, “You’re not going to catch me pitying anyone who did a DIY penile amputation with their teeth.”

You snicker and look at yourself in the handheld mirror Robby holds up. “Yeah, that was pretty badass, wasn’t it?”

He leans forward to examine his handiwork, judging himself for every less-than-perfect closure. “Sorry about the scar; plastics is on vacation.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m pretty sure my boyfriend will think it’s cool.”

“It’s badass,” he teases. He leans forward and kisses your forehead. Then he says fuck it to professionalism and pulls you into a hug so warm and so desperate you can’t imagine anything more comforting. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

You breathe in deep against his chest. For once, you don’t mind the distinct hospital smell you’re usually complaining about when he rolls into bed at the end of the day. The hug lingers. For a long time. You’re not letting go before he does and he can tell. He kisses the top of your head and then rests his chin on your hair. God, he’s so big and so strong and you feel so safe in his arms, even still.

“I love you, Michael.”

 He presses soft kisses over your face, avoiding the scrapes and bruises. “I love you. So much.” After pulling back a little, reluctantly, he sighs and says, “I just have one more thing to wrap up before I can get you home.”

“You don’t have to leave early over-”

“Please, baby,” he whispers. His voice is suddenly small and sweet and soft. “Let me take care of you, okay? I need to.”

It’s not like you to easily accept help, but it very much is like Robby to insist on giving it. He self-soothes by caring for others. You blink back tears and nod once. “Okay.”

“I’ll be done within an hour or two. Ortho’s going to come in and do your wrist cast in a minute here.” There’s a quick knock at the door and he sighs. “That’ll be Dana; I asked her to stay with you until I’m finished. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

You give his hand one more pulse with yours. “See you soon.”

Robby gives you a final look-over, satisfied with your bandages and pain level, and trades places with Dana, who steps in quietly with her arms full of things, announcing, “Care package delivery.”

“Hey, Dana. Take good care of my girl.”

“Always.” After she’s taken his place, Dana says, “Robby paged me his locker combo. I’ve got some goodies.”

She hands you a stack of Robby’s clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bottle of Gatorade, and trail mix. Before you can even ask, she turns around so you can hastily shrug on the baggy clothes. Robby must’ve been planning on hitting the gym in the morning after his shift before he came home; you’ve got a pair of his basketball shorts and a crew neck to shrug on. The shorts are more like capris on you and you can curl your fingers around the sweatshirt like mittens, but you’re a thousand times more comfortable.

After that, you go straight for the toiletries. Brushing your teeth in an exam room’s metal sink isn’t glamorous, but it’s better than the disgusting mix of bitterness and iron and salt you’ve been swishing around with nothing but spit for the last few hours. You brush three times in a row, scrubbing your tongue and lips and the roof of your mouth and gums, until you finally decide there’s nothing left to taste.

Once you’re pounding fistfuls of trail mix into your stomach, Dana informs you, “Robby decided to admit you for observation, which I’m pretty sure means he just wants to be the one to drive you home.”

“Don’t you dare let him leave early.”

“Like anyone could stop him from doing something when it comes to you.”

Langdon’s outside of the perp’s room, waiting for Dr. Robby as the man in question storms over. He stops his boss with a hand at the middle of his chest, eyes intense. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in there.”

Robby shuts him down outright: “Luckily I didn’t ask for your input. Go find a bowel to disimpact or something, alright?”

Then he’s pushing the door open. Nothing could possibly stop Robby from being the person to handle this.

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch.” He rattles off the necessary speech without thinking as he gloves up and prepares his tool kits: “Now that your forensic samples have been taken by the precinct, you should be aware of a couple things before we get started. Firstly, this conversation is privileged, but under Pennsylvania law, the court may require my testimony or your records if it deems them relevant to the case, so the Miranda rules still apply. Records are almost always requested.”

The guy grimaces out a ‘got it.’

“Secondly, the Emergency Medical Treatment & Labor Act protects you from bias during your treatment. You’re entitled to request a different doctor or hospital if you feel you’re receiving unfair or inadequate care.” He lowers his gaze to meet the perpetrator’s. “That being said, I’m the senior attending in the trauma department, so you’re not getting any better than me.”

He gives a self-satisfied smirk. “VIP treatment, huh?”

Robby grimaces. “That’s right.”

“Well, I’ve been here for fucking hours; can I get some more painkillers or something?”

“You’re currently at a dosage consistent with your injuries,” Robby informs him curtly. “No reason to overdo it.”

“Dude, seriously? My fucking dick is busted. I need more.”

“I’ve read the file.” Robby repeats, scratching ‘drug-seeking behavior and aggression’ into his notes as he resists losing control at the word ‘dude,’ “You’re at an appropriate dosage based on our protocol.”

Of course, there’s no need to inform him that it’s the absolute minimum dose that could possibly be considered ethical. Watching his constant wincing and squirming from the pain doesn’t exactly make Robby feel bad in this particular case, just like making him wait in agony didn’t either

“I’ll start with the laceration on your forehead.” Without waiting, Robby manipulates the tissue around, ostensibly examining it while using meaner hands than necessary. “Let’s get that closed up.”

The guy flinches away from his touch. “The other doctor said it probably wouldn’t need stitches, just glue or something. 

“Head wounds bleed a lot at first; it can be hard to get proper visualization, especially for someone with less training.” Robby grabs gauze and antiseptic. Instead of dabbing gently, he practically scrubs, rough, until the guy grunts with tears stinging at his eyes. He keeps his voice flat and professional. “Because of the tissue thickness and movement in the area, I’d recommend staples over sutures.”

The guy tenses up as he sees Robby go for the white plastic staple gun. “Aren’t you gonna numb it or something?”

Robby tightens his jaw. “We can use a lidocaine injection or a topical cream.”

“A needle in my scalp?” The guy shivers at the idea; Robby hates him for it. The idea of a man like that wanting to avoid pain when he’s so willing to inflict it makes Robby rub the nape of his neck to try to work out the frustration in his muscles. “Let’s go with the cream.”

Robby spreads a scant amount of numbing around the forehead gash. As little as he can justify to himself. His mind races in a way it never has before when practicing medicine. He’s never crossed a line, never strayed from his oath, never ever debated it.

But he’s never had you.

And looking at this man – tall, broad, tattooed, all around handsome if not for the forehead injury – Robby’s imagining you. The fear you felt in your chest, in your gut, in your shaking thighs, as he forced you to your knees. The dissociation of him taking your mouth by force. The rage of your retaliation and escape.

The way you looked at Robby when you were scared he wouldn’t want you anymore because of him.

So he makes a choice. A split second decision so fast he’s only vaguely aware that he’s doing it. He stretches the skin. Staples. Pinches it. Staples. It’s battleground work, not ‘twenty years in a hospital’ work. The line he creates is jagged and mean.

Noticeable.

An identifying mark if someone needed to pull him out of a lineup or describe him to law enforcement. It’s the only way someone in Robby’s position can help keep people safe or get them justice in the future. It’s small, but it’s a gift for you.

Of course, the guy isn’t pleased when he catches a glimpse of himself in the silvered glass separating him from the hospital. “That’s crooked as fuck, doc.”

Putting the stapler away for disinfecting, Robby doesn’t even make eye contact as he replies, “Plastic surgeon’s on vacation. I’ll put you on a waitlist for a correction.” Robby stands, removes his gloves, and washes his hands before putting on another pair. Like he can’t create enough of a barrier between him and the perp. “Is it alright if I go ahead with the penile exam?”

Gruff and uncomfortable, the guy agrees to it. Robby gingerly lifts away the draping left by the nurse and assesses. No matter his emotions, the sight is enough to make any man wince. Under any other circumstances, this would’ve been a first-tier injury, getting pushed straight back to surgery to be taken care of to preserve the form and function. But the law requires Robby to provide sufficient medical care to suspects in crimes, not the kindest or most sympathetic.

And he’s having an awfully hard time mustering any kindness or sympathy for your attacker.

After a brief exam of the mottled and shredded member, he announces, “We’re not going to be able to save the majority of the tissue; I can already see infection and necrosis setting in.” Robby stands up and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I’m going to page for a surgical consult and recommend a partial penectomy.”

“Wait, what?” The guy stiffens up and winces as he tries to move toward Robby, stopped by the cuffs attaching him to the hospital furniture. “You- You want them to cut my dick off?”

Robby rolls his shoulders, meets the guy’s eyes, and says, perfectly professional, ice cold, “It’s the ideal treatment for your condition.”

You’ve been in the bath with Robby for almost an hour, the water lukewarm now and both of you well past pruned, the bag around your blue wrist cast foggy from the humidity, when you venture, “What if I never want to have sex again?”

He shrugs, wraps his arms closer around you, and rests his chin on your shoulder. The fact that the first thing you wanted after getting home was to be held by him steadied him. Reassured him. “Then we never have sex again.”

Blinking because he’s so serious, you offer up the only protest your brain can conjure, “But we want kids.”

“There’s always IVF. Surrogacy if you don’t want to carry; I’m sure your sister would. We could foster; love lots of kids and help families reunify.” He nibbles your earlobe and teases, his lightness as soothing as anything else, “We could always go for the good ole turkey baster method, too. Very romantic, I think.”

You sigh and turn around in the tub, water sloshing around both of your bodies. “You’re really not worried?”

“Right now,” he says, taking your hands in his, “I’m mainly worried about the two of us getting hypothermia or trench foot from this bath. But I’ll go through it for you if I have to.”

You roll your eyes, give him a splash, and slowly creak to your feet. You’re aching and exhausted, but you’re safe. You’re home. Robby pulls the stopper on the tub, stretches upward, and grabs a towel to wrap around you. He dries himself off and tugs on a pair of gray sweats as you do your skincare routine.

As he starts on his own bedtime skincare, a routine you’ve built for him since you’ve been together, he reminds you, “Don’t get anything on those stitches. Clean and dry.”

“Yes, doctor,” you chuckle. “Nice to have my own follow-up visits right here at home.”

You down your painkillers and prophylactics with the rest of your meds in a big gulp and then head to the closet. Once you’re in your comfiest pajamas (also known as Robby’s old tee), you make yourself cozy in bed and scroll through the TV. Robby climbs in next to you shortly after with whatever thick book he’s been reading lately.

He’s engrossed in the book right away, but you’re stewing silently. Nothing keeps your attention on the TV, you don’t want to check your phone because you know it’ll be full of way too many nosy notifications, and all you want is attention. You’re only able to resist a few minutes before you finally ask, “You meant that, didn’t you?”

Robby barely glances up from the page. “Hm?”

“The thing you said about never having sex again.”

“Of course I meant it.”

“Why?” Your cheeks are hot and pink as you press, “Why would you be okay with that? How?””

Robby dog-ears his page and sets the book aside. His big brown eyes are warm and kind and easy. He's got his glasses on now, and you've always thought that was particularly adorable. “Why are you torturing yourself over this, sweetheart?”

You try to sum up everything you’re feeling. Shame and fear and insecurity and ugliness alongside love and need and confusion. Ultimately, you end up with: “Because you deserve better than that.”

A real, actual laugh bursts from Robby’s throat. He gives you a goofy, shocked look. “Better than the love of my life? Better than my best friend? Better than the one person on the planet who makes me feel like the best version of myself every damn day?”

You try, “But sex is-”

“Look, baby,” he sighs, trying to put his serious doctor face on to reassure you however you need, “I’ve done enough research in this area to know that the vast majority of sexual assault survivors return to healthy sex lives with supportive partners eventually. Some people have hypersexuality as a response, some people have no drive ever again. Most people end up somewhere in the middle. It’s all fine with me.”

Huffing and blushing and overwhelmed, you reply, “But I want to have sex with you.”

“Well, damn, let me grab a protein bar; it’s been a long night, but I’m sure I can rally.”

You roll your eyes, then, and nestle into his chest. He raises his arm to draw you closer. “C’mon, Michael. I just…Tell me how you’re so calm about this.”

“Because I’ve got you.” He shrugs and runs his fingers through your damp hair. “We’ll go to therapy separately and together. It’ll take the time it takes. We’ll do the things you want and not do the things you don’t want. We’ll try new things and old things. It’ll be like we’re virgins again.”

You laugh, “That sounds terrible.”

He snickers as he leans against the headboard, maneuvering you so that you’re in his lap, resting against him. “I meant moreso the ‘fun of discovering each other’ part, not so much the ‘premature ejaculation and insufficient lubrication’ part.”

You kiss the side of his mouth and giggle, “Making you cum in your pants can still be fun.”

“You do have a devastatingly good track record of making that happen, you little minx.” His laugh tastes so good when you kiss it off his mouth. Earnest and pointed, he goes on, “Sex isn’t our relationship. It’s a part of our relationship – admittedly a favorite part – but it’s not who we are. Our relationship is you laughing at my terrible jokes. It’s me watching romantic comedies and pretending it’s only because you like them. It’s cooking dinner and washing dishes together even when we’ve both had hellacious days.” He wipes the sudden tears from your cheeks and kisses where they’ve fallen. “It’s us, baby. And being with you has never been complicated to me.”

Hugging him close, not caring that it makes your ribs hurt, all you can whimper out is, “Michael. Michael.”

He’s not finished, though. Not with making you feel loved. Never. “You being my wife is just easy for me, sweetheart. It’s always made sense to me, honestly more than anything else I’ve- What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

You get choked up trying to speak. The tears are flowing properly now and there’s no stopping them, but they feel different than any from earlier tonight. You kiss him with whispering lips. “You just called me your wife.”

“And you were talking about the two of us having kids a little while ago,” he reminds you softly as he grabs you a tissue from his bedside table. “It’s not exactly news that you’re my family, baby.”

The sun’s rising outside your bedroom window and it feels like that inside your chest, too. “Everything’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes it will be,” he says as he tugs the covers up around you both, tiredness overtaking your features. You take his glasses off and set them on the table like you always do. “Sometimes it'll be terrible. But it'll always be us."

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