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"Work wife?" you raised your eyebrow at smirking Parker, your tone so much different from your brother's.

You loved the sound of the nickname—how easy it rolled off your tongue, how natural and fitting it felt—and the half-joking implication that ensued. At that point the things between you and Walsh were getting more and more serious—you both took a day off next week to move all your stuff into her apartment and were already planning a shared vacation in a month. Though you both were very private about your relationship—no one knew of it except for Abbott—some colleagues had their suspicions, Ellis included. Parker saw right through your nonchalant 'it's just for kicks and giggles' bullshit.

So it stuck.

Shen picked it up immediately. Then the rest of the night shift. Then as you switched to the day shift for half a month the joke found it's way there as well.

Emery didn't mind the nickname. Although upon hearing it for the first time that same evening when you were telling her what Ellis called you, she chuckled, but deep down she actually found it endearing—especially so because you were so content about it which made her heart flatter—so of course she ran with it. But what ultimately sold it for her was watching your elder brother Abbott physically cringe when someone addressed you as the wives.

His annoyance was an undeniable and incessant source of pure joy for both of you.

"Walshy, we have a problem," you said, reaching her on the speaker phone from the trauma room. The patient was stabilized and sedated and now the surgical consult was necessary to decide upon further treatment.

"What's up, wifey?" picking up on the lack of urgency in your voice, Walsh indulged in a flirty tease. Then—knowing damn well that Abbott was in the room—she proceeded to ask, "The old man being cranky pants again?"

"I'm right here, Walsh," Jack said deadpan, arms still crossed over his chest.

"Good," was her answer, completely nonchalant, "I can repeat myself if you didn't hear me the first time," then she raised her voice, it was laced with mock concern and politness, "Can do it louder if necessary."

Jack just huffed, still too annoyed by the fact that she called you a 'wife' for a proper retort, and went straight to patient related questions.

The other day he lost you in-between your double shift and asked if anyone had seen you.

"She mumbled something that had words 'nap' and 'wife'," Shen informed him absent-mindedly, not looking up from the computer.

"So she’s napping in Gen Surg," Ellis concluded, taking a sip of her energy drink.

Jack put his hands on his hips, making sure to take a deep breath and count in his head before speaking, exasperated, his eyebrows knitted, "Why are you encouraging their marriage bit?"

"They call themselves that," Lena shrugged while sorting out her desk, putting all the pens in place.

"Why don’t you?" Shen raised an eyebrow at the attending, nonchalant as always, sipping his coffee with an orange straw, "You homophobic all of a sudden?"

Jack shook his head, simply stating, "No."

Ellis tilted her head, teasing, "You sound like it."

"The gay part is not the problem," Abbott explained with a sigh, "the Walsh part is."

Everyone exchanged amused glances, as Jack sat down with one more old man sigh, musing, "We have so many amazing women in this hospital, why she had to pick the meanest of them all?"

And some other time he walked into the trauma room, you already there, assessing a patient with Shen and Ellis. Taking in the injury and the stats, Abbott called, "Princess, please, get the general surgery consult down here."

Princess smiled, nodding at you, "Doc has already called Walsh the wife. Should be down in a minute."

Jack nodded in reply, gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath in, keeping a calm demeanor. However, all his stoic façade went to shit once a very smug looking Emery Walsh strolled into his Trauma room, saying a little too gleefully, "Hello, my lovely wife! What do we have today?"

Somewhere about a year later you sang, approaching the Hub, "Has anyone seen my wife?"

Jack who stood next to it didn't look up from a patient's chart. Fulfilling the younger sibling duties, you leaned your shoulder onto his shoulder, making him lose his balance a bit.

"Walsh just left," Lena shook her head.

Abbott lightly shoved you back, grumbling, "Do you have to put it in my face like that?"

"Breath, brother," you teased.

"I am so reporting you two to the HR," he squinted his eyes at you.

"A snitch?!" you raised your eyebrows at him, bringing a hand to your heart, mock offended, "Not acceptable in this family"

"Cry about it," he retorted with a huff, looking down at you. You knew he wasn’t actually annoyed because the corners of his mouth were twitching up.

"Good thing I’m marrying into a different one," you winked at him as you pulled out a chain on which a ring hung — an engagement one Abbott had no doubts.

"You two sure are committed," Shen nodded, appreciating what he assumed was pure theatrics. Parker however broke into the most shit-eating grin you'd ever seen and gave you a thumbs-up.

Before totally shocked Abbott could utter a single word, Lena called your name.

"Your wife called, sweety," she explained with a soft and understanding smile, "Asks you to email her the test results for Mr. Took-a-nasty-fall-from-a-ladder."

You shrugged, smiling at still baffled Jack and flopping down in the nearest chair, "Sorry, conjugal duty awaits."

"Spare me the details," he teased out of habit, his mind still processing that you were engaged now.

And unfortunately the nickname was to stay whether he liked it or not.

As you typed away, Jack sighed and got on his phone, ordering your favourite cake and flowers to your home address and then going down a rabbit hole of picking out a perfect wedding gift for his precious little sister and her menace of a wife until the next trauma pulled him away from it. But he would definitely get back to it later, because annoying as you were—you were still loved dearly by him—irritating nickname or not.

The TV was on, glowing softly in the living room, warmly and dimly lit by an assembly of floor and table lamps. Sleepy, you were practically melting into the couch and into the woman next to you.

Earlier this week, Emery was shocked upon learning that you had never seen 'Twin Peaks'. You weren’t really concerned with that, only rolled your eyes in response to her horror and disgust, which earned you the title ‘uncultured brat’ and, of course, the screening was scheduled at the earliest convenience.

So now you were cuddled up on the couch in her apartment, Emery was absentmindedly playing with your hair, still damp from the shower. Her attention was fixed on the screen and whatever was going on in Twin Peaks. You on the other hand were to tired to concentrate, so now you were just soaking up her soft affections, glancing up at her from time to time, and slowly drifting off.

You haven't even noticed that your phone was buzzing until she picked it up to offer it to you. But upon noticing the name of the caller, her movements slowed down, she frowned slightly and asked somewhat cautiously, "Who is that?"

You glanced away from the tv show. A caption on your phone screen read: "jackass"

You shrugged, "My brother," taking the phone from her and swiping to the right to accept the call, then putting the caller on speaker, "What's up?"

Jack sounded amused, "You are a menace, kid, you know that?"

You moved to sit up, buzzing with anticipation, suddenly remembering what you had done. Under you Walsh shifted a bit, tensing, recognising the voice immediately — she heard it just today and many days before that.

You suppressed the smug smile and tried to stay nonchalant, "Why, brother?"

The corners of your mouth betrayed you, lifting a bit, your tone laced with joy, a good mischief always brought.

He switched to FaceTime then flipped the camera to show his desk — every possible object in his area had a pair of googly eyes attached to it now. You bit down your tongue to stiffle a laugh, trying to escape you.

"I'm all eyes but I don't see it," you maintained a stone face, bringing the phone closer to your face, frowning, "What's wrong?"

He flipped the camera again, speechless, severely annoyed, his eyebrows raised. You couldn't suppress your grin anymore.

"Oh, there he is!" you cried softly, raising your eyebrows, "The apple of my eye." Then frowned at the man who was looking at you in slight disbelief, "Are you giving me the eye right now?"

He shook his head, turning off the camera, and said, "I'll make sure to tell Robby to keep an eye out for a certain resident who seems to be having way too much free time on her hands."

You gasped in mock horror, your next answer easily rolling off your tongue, "That will be an eye-opener! Go gentle on his old heart."

You decided not to disclose that Dr. Robinovitch himself stuck a few eyes here and there on Abbott’s desk, giggling like a maniac.

You heard Jack sigh, deafeted, "Bye, eyesore! Sleep tight."

"Make sure to eat, Jack," you rushed in a soft voice, "I left you something in the fridge." Then you bit down your lip, unable to stop with the wordplay, "It will catch your eye."

He chuckled and you heard him sigh loudly again. There was a smile and softness in his voice when he replied, "I'm gonna cry my eyes out if you carry this on."

His final comeback made you smile and you told him, "Was learning from the best."

You heard some commotion over the phone, probably incoming trauma, you thought. And Jack, confirming your thoughts, rushed, "Kay. Sorry, kid, gotta go. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye!" you said before hanging up.

You tossed the phone to the corner of the couch, yawning sweetly and intending to lay back down. But Emery was sitting straight, unmoving. You looked at her with question in your eyes.

"That was Abbott," she said, tone flat.

"Right," you nodded.

She squinted her eyes, "And he is your brother?"

"Mhm," you nodded again.

"And not like in a spiritual way?"

"No."

"But like you have the same mother and father kinda way?"

"Yep."

"And the last name?"

"My mother's," you shrugged. "To keep the gossip at bay. To tell us apart easier."

She frowned, finally saying, her tone so grave you almost laughed, "Jack Abbott is your brother?"

"Yes, he is," you nodded.

Her eyebrows flew up, knitted in concern now, her tone mock concerned, "I'm so sorry."

You huffed, rolling your eyes, "I manage. Don't say it like my brother is a terminal illness." She opened her mouth, but you cut her off, lifting a finger, teasing, "Even if you think so."

Emery closed her mouth, sighing. Then she cupped you cheeks, pouting, "I knew there was going to be a catch. No one can be absolutely perfect, blondie. Not even you. But it's not your fault."

You looked at her, annoyed. She studied your face for a few moments, wondering how she could've missed it — the curve of your smile, the slope of your nose, the eyes — there was undeniably so much of Abbott in you, once you took a closer look.

She pondered for a few more moments, until teasing, "It actually explains why you’re the way you are so much."

"Are you trying to insult me?" you raised an eyebrow at her.

"Diagnose more so."

You raised your eyebrows.

"You poor thing," she mused again.

You tilted your head, "That’s your professional opinion?"

She took a deep breath, pulling you closer, then started planting soft kisses to your face in between her words, "The most wonderful beautiful woman in the world, cursed with a fundamentally unbearable brother, 'cause no one can have it all," then before kissing you on the mouth she said with a cheeky smile, "I still like you lots though."

As she pulled away, you asked, warm feeling growing in your chest, "Yeah?"

"Mhm," she hummed as you both settled back down, "can't wait to have family dinners."

You sighed, nuzzling her neck and closing your eyes, the sweet scent of her vanilla shampoo reaching your nose, "We'll not survive those."

Two years later on a lovely Monday you strolled into the Pitt, beaming with joy. Your eyes almost immediately landed on your brother and you walked up to the Hub, wanting to share your good news.

You stood above him for a few moments, waiting for him to notice you. But to no avail. His glasses on, his brows furrowed, he was totally engrossed in charting. So with a sigh you put your hand in front of him, dangling your fingers slightly, the silver ring on your finger, catching light beautifully.

He glanced up at you, "What’s that?"

You huffed, your brother definitely needed rest if he couldn't see an engagement ring for what it was, "I’m ge—"

The realisation flickered across his face, "No," he shook his head in desbelief, "Please, tell me you found someone nice and lovely over the weekend."

His face undeniably expressed horror. You crossed your arms over your chest, "Emery is plenty nice, Jack."

"To you," he pointed out, offended, then threw his head back, "She makes me miserable."

"First of, no, she doesn’t," you chuckled at the theatrics. "Secondly, it's good then that you are not the one marrying her."

He closed his eyes, brows knitted in distress, "Be honest you want me dead?" He put a hand to his heart, "I don't think my poor old heart can handle that."

You stayed silent, half amused, half counting your breaths internally.

He snapped his head back up and stood up next to you, his tone pleading, "Why you—the loveliest soul I know—would willingly condemn yourself to a life with Walsh?"

"'Cause I love her, Jack," you poked him in the chest and there was an undertone to your voice that made Jack snap out of it.

"Oh—" he widened his eyes, tone getting lower and softer, "And I’m being a dick about it?"

"Starting to," you agreed, not harshly, soft smile playing on your lips.

Suddenly he smiled back and enveloped you in a bear hug, "I’m sorry, kid," he mumbled, kissing the top of your head. He put his chin on your head and paused.

In vain you tried to wriggle out of his warm suffocating embrace, huffing, "What are you doing?"

"Mourning my sweet little sister," not letting go of you, he put his cheek on the crown of your head, staying like that for a few more moments.

"Fuck off," you whined, pushing him in the chest half-sincerely.

He finally pulled away a little, but still kept his arms around you, "You happy?"

"I can finally breath so that’s a yes," you joked, raising your eyebrows but there was something so genuine in his eyes—so much love and affection—you couldn't help but answer honestly, wearing a soft smile, so much similar to your brother's one, "Yes, I am."

"Then I’m happy for you," his smile widened as he hugged you again, rubbing your back. "Love you, kid"

"Love you too, brother," finally you wrapped your hands around him too, soaking up all the warmth of familiar presence—unwavering in his care for you—always steady, always there.

"You won't listen if she suggests sending me to a nursing home, will you?" he asked in a hushed voice, mock serious.

"She doesn't even suggest," you replied, not opening your eyes, "Told you she's plenty nice."

Moreover, you never really liked to cook, mostly because of having to do the dishes afterwards — the dirty pile of everything sitting in the sink repulsed you. However, you took great pleasure in preparing a meal for your close family — especially if your wife Emery or brother Jack would do the dishes afterwards.

On the days when your schedules didn’t align — with you being home — you would from time to time choose to cook something delicious and invite your brother over, so the three of you could enjoy a nice dinner — actually sitting down and eating something nutritious — the luxury your jobs rarely allowed for, especially yours and Jack’s in the ED. After that a movie night was usually held and Jack would stay over in a guest room afterwards.

Today was going to be a day like that — the first one in a while — they were working a rare day shift and you had a day off. You really loved these dinner occasions as you got to spend time with two of your most beloved people in the whole world.

You were a really late kid. Jack was twenty two when you were born. Usually for siblings that far apart in age it meant lack of close relationship, but Jack being Jack was the best big brother you could ever wish for. Maybe he realised early on that with elder parents you were missing out on the experiences that he got as a kid and he was trying his best to give you the childhood every kid deserved — bright and warm. He always made time for you, played with you when you were a kid, helped you with your homework and attended all your school events. Even when he was deployed, he managed to call you every chance he got — still being your reliable shoulder even being on a different continent. You were endlessly grateful for that, unaware that he needed to hear your voice just as much as you needed to hear his — if not more.

Your parents passed when you were still in high school, so Jack took you in until you left for university just a few months later. Jack's wife passed a little prior to that, so you two were the only things keeping each other afloat amidst that sea of grief.

You chose not to come back home and spend your third and fourth years of med school, working in an out-of-state hospital — never wanting anyone to attribute your success in medical field to the favouritism from your brother. He was supportive of your decisions since they were reasonable most of the time (despite that one time that you and your friends pierced your bellybuttons by yourself in college dorm and maybe a few other ones questionable enough that Jack didn't need to know about them at all). So he supported that decision fully, assisting you in every way he could — eventhough he would miss you dearly.

However, for your residency you couldn't help but wish to get into the PTMC — despite having obvious funding problems still one of the best places in the country to get practical Emergency medicine experience. So you applied, making Jack so happy and proud, he actually cried when he got your message.

And here you were now — your last year of residency, excelling at your job, happily married to the most incredible woman in the world and cooking pasta in your shared apartment, singing along to the record player she got you as a present last Valentine's day.

You got a little carried away with your Grammy-worthy perfomance, paying less attention to chopping the vegetables than you reasonably should have.

Then searing pain cut through your hand, making you yelp. Fuck.

The cutting board and the greens on it were getting redder with each second, Emery's favourite coriander was of no use anymore. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your palm to your eyes, studying it meticulously — your steady professionalism overcoming your pain and bits of panic.

It wasn't bad but you sure needed stitches. Shit.

You wish you were as cool as Abbott or Garcia and could patch yourself up — Emery kept a military surgical kit in the living room — but the very thought of it made you nauseous so that’s definitely not happening today. You sighed.

Can you go to a different hospital? No. The Pitt is the closest one. You weren't really good with losing your own blood, having a somewhat embarassing for a doctor history of fainting even after a finger prick exam.

You weighed your options, begrudgingly realising that you would have to go to your ED. Fuck.

When you reached the hospital, you were already a little dizzy and pale from blood loss. Thankfully the bleeding stopped — the cloth covering the cut not even soaked through. However, your iron levels were low as they were and you couldn’t afford to lose much blood. You decided to use your employee privileges — if you even had them — and walked in through the ambulance bay. Everyone recognised you so you weren't stopped. You held your hurt hand close to your stomach, covering it with your healthy one, keeping you face relaxed — so no one even blinked an eye as you were making your way towards the hub. Simultaneously, you kept an eye out for your brother who would definitely fuss over the small cut and scold you for being so careless with knives — despite you being very much a grown woman.

As you almost reached the Hub, you wanted to call out to Dana, who stood with her back to you, when two concerned voices rang in unison behind your back, "Baby?!"

You turned around, silent, pondering how to procede. The two immediately noticed how pale you were and how you clutched your left hand. Walsh was frowning, full of concern. Abbott was wearing the same expression. The frowns on their faces deepened as they turned to each other, both snapping, "Don’t call her that!"

Then once again they spoke at the same time. Abbott tilted his head, "She’s my sister!" as Walsh raised her eyebrows, saying, "She’s my wife!"

Dana stared at the doctors slightly concerned, mostly amused, muttering a soft, "Hi, hon," to you.

You were amused too, pursing your lips, you left your question hanging in the sanitized hospital air, "And they both will let me bleed to death, won’t they?"

Dr. Ellis looked up from her charting in the farther corner of the Hub and walked up to you, attracted by the slight commotion.

"Unbelievable," Ellis shook her head at the two attendings, turning to you, "Can I see?"

The two other doctors said simultaneously, "I’ll take care of her."

You gave them both an annoyed look and turned fully to Ellis.

"Yes, please, Parker," you outstretched your arm towards her, letting her to gently unwrap the cloth, and shared your opinion, "I do need stitches but nothing too serious."

Your wife and brother both took a look as well — breathing a little deeper and slower, once realising the injury was minor.

"That’s nasty," Ellis hummed in agreement, "What were you doing?"

"A nice dinner for these two," you nodded at the two doctors, both standing with their arms crossed, brooding, almost comically so. "Thank god I didn’t finish it. Pasta doesn’t feel like a disownment," you pointed at Jack, then at your wife, your tone teasing, "and a divorce kinda dish."

Ellis chuckled at that, motioning you to follow her, "Come on, let’s patch you up."

"South eighteen’s open," Dana said, earning a grateful salute from Parker.

Before either of you made more than a few steps, Emery and Jack chimed in once again.

"I—"

"I—"

You cut them off, "No. I’m fine. Ellis can do this," waving them off, "You two go bicker somewhere else and while at it, please, fetch me a cookie from the vending machine. I’m starving."

They hesitated, but knew both that you were in great hands and that there was nothing that could change your mind once it was made up. Jack cleared his throat and asked, "Coconut one?"

Emery huffed, her arms still crossed over her chest, "No need to ask."

Jack tried to reason, irked, raising his eyebrows at Walsh, "She might want a different one."

"A different brother she needs that’s for sure," Emery cackled, her retort making Ellis chuckle and Dana shake her head with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Abbott frowned at Walsh, then turned to you, his tone tooth-achingly sweet, "I know a good divorce lawyer, honey."

Before anyone could reply, Ellis chimed in.

"The delay of care or whatever they say," Parker sang and, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, guided you towards the hospital bed.

Your wife and brother followed closely.

When you sat up on the bed, putting your still throbbing hand in your lap, Ellis prepared everything needed for suturing.

"Did you drive?" Abbott asked.

"Took an uber," you shrugged.

You nodded at his perplexed reaction, "It was awkward."

After a beat of silence Walsh and Abbott opened their mouths to say something else, but you cut them off again, your tone dry, exasperated but still kind, "Get out. And don’t be mean to each other. At least try to. I’m on my death bed for fucks sake."

They closed their mouths, looked at each other and stepped out of the curtained space. You let out a sigh. Ellis numbed your hand and was preparing a needle, "How do you do that? It’s like they never shut up."

You smiled, now pain-free and content, studying the ceiling not to see you hand being poked.

"Thankfully they don’t have to spend all their time together," you glanced down — first stitch was already done, neat, "Separately they are quite well-behaved."

Ellis gave you a smile and went for a second stitch, you turned away immediately.

"It’s funny how squeamish you are for a doctor," she chuckled as you felt the tug of a knot being tied.

"Oh, go to hell," you rolled your eyes, and continued your previous thought, your tone turning fondly, "Plus, I still cherish the memory of Emery's face when she found out Jack was my brother and Jack's face when I told him Walsh and I were getting married."

Ellis squinted at you, laughter behind her eyes, "Oh, right, I forgot that you were just as mean behind those doe eyes of yours," slapping her knees, she stood up, "All done, sweets."

You looked done at your hand, three perfect stitches adorning it now, "Thank you, Parker."

"You’re welcome," she nodded, then stopped for a moment turning her head to the hallway, then raising her eyebrows at you, "I can hear them a mile away."

You heard them too now — hushed voices in the distance, arguing non-stop — and fell back on the hospital bed, closing your eyes, "Tell them I’m dead."

"I don’t have a death wish, girl," Ellis shook her head, raising her hands in surrender.

"Traitor," you squinted at her, whispering.

"Every man for himself," Ellis pursed her lips, backing away, nodding at your injured hand, "You know the drill." Then she saluted you and disappeared, "See ya."

You had a few moments of calm before Emery and Jack stepped into the space. You stayed reclined, one of your legs bent under another.

Jack sat on the stool next to the bed, offering you your favourite cookie, while Emery perched on your bed, squeezing your good hand and then offering you a cup of something that smelled like hot cocoa.

After a bite and a sip, during which they remained silent, Emery took your hand again, asking you softly, "How are you?"

You squinted at them, glancing back and forth, teasing, "Suspicious of you being cooperative."

Walsh shrugged, rolling her eyes, her thumb running gentle circles on your hand, "A temporary truce with the grandpa."

"Very temporary," Jack snapped his eyes to Emery, "Very short-lived."

"Unlike you," she retorted with raised eyebrows.

"And the truce ends now," he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, "The war is declared."

You sighed, lolling your head to the side, "Do you mind being kinder to each other?" Then you brought an arm to your heart, "I literally was on the verge of death."

Abbott huffed, gesturing at you and looking at your wife, "See she wasn’t like that before. You spoiled my perfect little sister, Walsh." He threw his hands up, "Look at her now! All mean and dramatic."

"So just like her brother?" she questioned, yearning a slap on the wrist from you. "Trust me, it runs in your bloodline. Not my deed."

Before Jack could say anything else, you intervened, almost pleading, "Can you, please, stop. Please. I love you two dearly, but I need a moment of silence or I'll actually consider going no contact."

You saw they wanted to say something else, but thought better of it and remained silent. You squeezed your eyes shut, content, muttering, "Thank you."

"Our shifts are over," Jack said.

"You still up for a movie night?" you asked them without opening your eyes.

"Yep, was waiting for that all day long," your brother chuckled.

"Hon, maybe you should consider a geriatrics fellowship, huh?" Emery whispered, squeezing your hand, her tone warm. "So good with the elderly."

"If you haven't noticed, sister, you married a bully," your brother noted deadpan.

Your wife chuckled and asked softly, "Are you up for a movie night?"

You sighed, "Yes, but we’re ordering pizza and maybe booking a family therapy session."

The weather was incredible — soft and warm afternoon in the late spring. The sunlight streamed through the green tree leaves, dancing as the wind stirred them lightly. But despite the day's loveliness and the fact that you were ever the optimist, you were definitely exasperated, strolling along the pavement, headed to your workplace — the PTMC's Emergency Department.

You left it no more than six hours ago and did not plan to be here again for another eight. But "simple and predictable work schedule" didn’t really match with being an Emergency medicine doctor.

So you could do nothing but oblige, when Robby called you, asking you to come back, because the Pitt was going to be overwhelmed with the patients rerouted from the Westbridge hospital that shut down due to an internal disaster. The nature of said disaster was not named and you had no doubts there was alredy a betting pool in the ED — the only thought that made your early return bearable.

When you walked in, the Emergency department was quieter than usual — the calm before the storm.

"The fuck's wrong with this world?" you questioned Robby and Dana as you reached the Hub.

Robby looked up from the tablet in his hands and took in your blowout, bright lipstick, lovely sundress and kitten heels. Then chuckled softly, looking you in the eye and asking, his voice filled with sympathy, "Ruined a date?"

You leaned on the Hub's counter, sighing theatrically, "Yeah, and it was promising!"

Since you fell out with Emery Walsh, there has been an endless string of dates, resulting in one-night stands or flings that lasted no more than a few days. You were like this before you met her and enjoyed your time greatly. But now it was different.

Now you compared everyone you met to her. How they never made you laugh quite as hard as Emery did. How their kisses while good never made your head spin they way Emery’s used to. How easily you got bored talking to them, no one quite catching up with your quick wit the way she used to. How they could never cook pasta as simple and delicious as she used to make it. How the warmth of their bodies barely made you cosy, while Emery's embrace felt like home.

Robby and Dana never asked, they just knew you broke up with Walsh — one day everything was fine, the next you came to work looking so distressed in a degree neither of them had ever seen you in before. They understood what happened, when you interacted with Walsh that day, your words cold and clipped — none of the usual radiant warmth and unceasing banter left.

The attending and the charge nurse tried to talk to you about what happened between you and the surgeon, but you only laughed it off, making jokes instead of having genuine conversations. So they started offering their support in little but consistent ways that you would accept — your favourite snack here and there, a steaming cup of coffee when you were almost crashing out from overworking yourself to avoid your emotions, a gentle squeeze of your shoulders or a side hug and kind words of praise after a job well-done.

Dr. Emery Walsh was here too right now, which you couldn't help but notice. She was talking to Dr. Ellis Parker just a few feet away, their faces deep in thought, probably discussing a case. Both the surgeon's presence and the fact that you noticed it — pissed you off. Obviously, you did your best to avoid looking at her, oblivious to the fact that she tried to do the same.

Chewing her granola bar, Dana squeezed your hand in support and nodded at Robby, "Don't pick up your phone next time he calls. It has been too long since I've been to a wedding, darling, you gotta fix that."

Robby huffed and shook his head at Dana, then squeezed your shoulders and pulled you in for a bear hug, "Thanks for coming under such short notice. Glad you’re here, kid."

"Sure," you smiled softly at him, quitting the theatrics.

"Personally apologise for PTMC fucking with your personal life," he pursed his lips, putting a hand to his heart.

"Seems like the only 'fucking' I get these days," you sighed, making a joke, laying your upper half down on the counter as if in complete defeat.

"TMI, kid," Dana spat in mock horror, frowning and walking away from the Hub with a tablet in her hands.

"I'll be in five," smiling, you nodded to your attending and, fixing the strap of your bag, moved in the direction of the lockers to change into your scrubs.

As you were making your way through the department, smiling at and greeting your colleagues, Trinity upon seeing you mused with a sigh, shaking her head, "All of that wasted on a man."

You huffed, "Who said anything about men, Dr. Santos?"

The younger resident perked up with one of most genuine smiles you ever saw from her, clasping her hands, "Fucking knew it." Then, still wearing that shit-eating grin, turned her attention to Whitaker, "You owe me five bucks, Huckleberry."

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest and eyeing your two colleagues, "You two bet on me being gay?"

"No—" rushed Whitaker, paling, "Sorry, it is highly inappropriate—"

You chuckled, "No, 's fine, I'm just insulted that you had doubts."

After some more back and forth all in good humor, you walked down the hallway to the lockers, unaware that a certain surgeon’s eyes were following you all this time, not leaving you for a moment, taking in the way you smirked and laughed — unaware how that surgeon’s heart ached for you.

Then — as it always did — the job swallowed you up, patient after patient, chart after chart, trauma after trauma, leaving no room for your personal problems.

You had an acute understanding of 'violence against the healthcare workers' problem. Over the years of working in a hospital, you were insulted, threatened, harassed, yelled at, grabbed and pushed as well as witnessed your colleagues deal with the same atrocities — last one happening ten months ago when a patient hit Dana.

But you always avoided the worst, somehow escaping it at the last moment — until you didn't, until you ran out of luck, you guessed. We never really think something bad will happen to us until it actually does, knocking all the wind out.

You sat on the hospital bed, internally recalling what happened in the last fifteen minutes, your mind still a little hazy. A few hours into the shift you and Langdon were picking up a patient from the triage, that somehow was more overcrowded than usual, and another patient got really upset about it, grabbed you by the wrist, started an argument. Then — before anyone could intervene — he hit you. The blow landing somewhere on your mouth and jaw.

You fell to the ground from the sheer force of it — patients too shocked, Frank too far to catch you. You lost your consciousness for a moment. Then you came round, counting ceiling lights over your head as Frank was carrying you through the ER — yelling something, his voice muffled in your ears as if he was a distance away from you.

So now everyone was fussing over you, running all kinds of needed tests, tending to your bleeding brow, lips and chin — doing their job really but with an anxious undertone to it — you were one of them.

You never liked that amount of attention but nobody listened to your objections. Yolanda Garcia, that was here on the case that was finished moments before you were rushed in through the triage doors, stuck around, immediately rushing to your side with those who were in the nearest vicinity. She now stepped to you with a flashlight to check your pupils. You grambled, squirming away from her hands, "I'm fine, Garcia."

She was an utterly unbothered professional, continuing her job, "How do you spell the word "path"?"

You glared at her, "F-u-c-k-y-o-u."

"She is intact," Yolanda smiled a little, putting a flashlight back in her pocket. "And a bitch."

When wound care was over and the room cleared, only Robby staying behind. He rubbed his hands, taking a deep breath, then looked up at you, his face creased with worry.

You knew what he was going to say so you interrupted him, "Robby, please, don't send me home. I was cleared. Let me finish the day."

You knew you would lose your mind if you went home right now, restless and anxious. Your thoughts would eat you up. He knew that too.

"And then you'll take two days off," he negotiated softly, looking at you.

You forced yourself to say, "Okay."

He sighed, "Take your report to the HR and come back then."

"Thanks," you nodded, slipping on your feet from the bed.

"If you at some point feel like going home today, please, do," he rubbed the back of his neck, voice a little unsure, treading the water, "Kid, you gotta take care of yourself."

You huffed, gettting a little defensive, "Look who's talking!"

"Do I look content to you?" he crossed his arms over his chest, his voice somewhat strained.

You bit your lip, regretting your joke upon seeing hurt on your attending’s face, "I'm sorry."

If only you knew he was hurting because you were hurt. All of his staff was in constant danger and there was nothing he could to to change that once and for all.

"It's fine," Robby rubbed his forehead, sighing, tired. "It has been a long day for all of us. Go."

You nodded, then hurried to grab the paperwork from the Hub and made a beeline towards the elevator. You needed the twelfth floor — that's where the administration was with an HR office tucked away in the end of one of the hallways.

The elevator stopped on the third floor — ICU. When the doors opened, you groaned internally.

Emery Walsh was standing in front of you.

Some deep-seated part of you had the impulse to put your arms around the painfully familiar woman, hide your face in the crook of her neck, so that she could hug you back, hold you firmly and tell you that everything was going to be okay. Well, that’s not an option, so you just coughed awkwardly and looked down at your gray sneakers.

She stared at you though.

At your eyebrow. Then at your chin. You remembered about the shallow laceration on your brow bone, still red and pulsing, and the bruise, forming on the lower side of your face.

Her face was unreadable, a crease was setting between her dark eyebrows. You could see she wanted to ask you what happened but held back, thinking better of it, biting her lip down.

You both were down and over with each other, weren't you? Right?

When she stepped into the elevator, you shifted away a little, closer to the wall. That painfully resonated in your chest, the movement so against your instincts.

She pressed the button. Fourth floor — Surgical Center.

Doors closed, you were moving up in heavy silence that was hurting you both.

But the elevator didn't make it one floor up. It started shaking, then came to an abrupt stop, its walls vibrating for a few more moments before going still.

You looked down at your right hand. Your fingers were tightly intertwined with Emery's. She was looking too. Then you both jerked your hands away, awkward, turning your heads around as if searching for something.

You both cursed under your breath and stepped to the buttons simultaneously, hence bumping into each other. Emery stepped back immediately, gesturing towards the buttons with mock gallantry, uttering, "Milady."

You scoffed before pressing the emergency call button. No one was picking up so you tried a few more times until the button that said "Help is on the way" lit up.

"Let's hope that's true," you sighed and sat down on the floor, pulling your knees to your chest, exhaustion creeping up on you.

You hated this day, you thought to yourself as you took your phone only to get assured that elevator’s in this modern day and age still had no cell service.

A dull headache was setting in your skull, throbbing with a consistent rhythm that annoyed you greatly. Add to that the fact that you were confined in a tiny metal box with your ex. Jesus Christ, you really should've never answered Robby’s call today.

"Well, I craved a nap," Walsh took a sit opposite of you, stretching her legs out. "Guess, God finally stopped sending me to voicemail."

Her dark eyes never left yours, not for a moment. A month ago you would laugh at her joke, now you only felt bitter, filled with sadness too heavy to bear.

"The cruelty of his — getting you stuck in here with an ex," you joked, your tone fairly light, but there was some tints of bitterness underneath. Your head lolled to one side, "He must hate you."

"That's who we are?" she questioned harshly, squinting her eyes. "Glad, you are unaffected, blondie. Who the full glam was for today? Or have you decided to make your way through the hospital stuff like your attending? Great things he's teaching you."

"Fuck," before Walsh could say anything else, you huffed, squeezing your eyes shut, realising that you have just opened the door for a conversation that might just push a hundred more daggers into your heart. "Out of everyone I could've stuck here with—"

"Guess, I'm not the only one not being God's favourite today," she taunted in mock pity. "Wanna cry about it, princess?"

"Fuck you, Walsh," you muttered, actually feeling tears pricking you eyes, hiding your face in your knees as if severly annoyed not shattered to pieces.

"Oh, I know, you wish, blondie," was her response, her tone cold.

You felt tears dropping on your scrub pants and you tried to regulate your breathing — now was not the time or the place for a mental breakdown.

Once again you were taken back to the night when everything fell apart. It was a stupid argument that left both of you too hurt — and you both were too proud to begin with — to be the first one to apologise.

There was a beat of silence.

"What happened to your face?" as if she couldn't hold it anymore Walsh asked in a different voice, so obviously laced with concern that stung you. "No bar jokes."

You looked at her again, looking for a big revelation written on her face.

Why was she worried about you still?

Then you said, deadpan, "New countouring technique is a better one?"

Emery sighed and absentmindedly lifted her hand to examine your face, but jerked it away quickly, remembering the terms you were on. And it killed you how bad you wanted to feel her warm and gentle touch on your cheek. You took a shaky breath.

"I'm sorry," Walsh said, looking down at the hands she kept in her lap.

"Not your fault some men are assholes," you shrugged, waiting for her to look up, needing her to. This day was wearing you out, and there was only so much you could to hold yourself together.

You noticed how she was chewing the inside of her cheek, clear sign that she was deciding on something. Then she said, still fidgeting with her hands in her lap, "It is my fault that I was an asshole to you, though."

She finally looked up, her eyes raw and honest, "I'm sorry—" Then she rushed her words a little as though they have been trapped in her throat for a while now, and needed to be out, "I don't know why we broke up. Never wanted that." She shook her head a little. The confession took your breath away, you just stared at Emery for a moment, not knowing how to speak.

"I miss you," you whispered, feeling hot tears staining your cheeks, "I was an idiot too. I'm so sorry."

You moved in unison, crashing together in a tight hug. No words needed to convey how much love you had for each other despite all the pain that you inflicted upon one another. You sniffled, you face hidden in the crook of her neck, making her chuckle.

"Want to have some pasta tonight?" she whispered over your shoulder.

Giving her one last squeeze, you pulled away. She cupped your cheeks, making sure to avoid your injuries, your eyes were red-rimmed.

You teased, "Can I tell bar jokes?"

Emery smiled, kissing you on the nose.

"Only the horrible ones."

Sunlight streamed into the room through a crack in the otherwise tightly drawn curtains, illuminating the dancing specks of dust. Emery woke up to an empty bad. Confused, she stared at the space beside her that should have been taken. The last warmth of the setting sun was soaking the bed sheets. With a groan Walsh checked her alarm clock.

Half past eight p.m.

The space beside her should've definitely been occupied by this time. To her own surprise the mixture of worry and annoyance was rising in her chest.

You told Emery you’d come over after your double shift.

Why didn’t you then? You practically lived in Walsh’s apartment anyway. And you always stuck to your word.

You have been something semi constant to each other for the past three months and have been an erratic something for two more months before that. You didn't label your relationship as anything but have been exclusive and honest and kind of committed.

Emery's head was buzzing with questions. Groggy with sleep, she walked out of her bedroom to get a glass of water, frowning. As she was pulling out her phone to text you — or hopefully to find an explanatory message from you already delivered to her — Emery saw exactly why you were not in bed with her.

You were sitting in a hallway on a bench, fast asleep. Still in your coat, still in your shoes. With your back leaning against the wall, legs outstretched in front of you somewhat comfortably. Emery chuckled at the sight, taking a picture. She smiled softly — an expression no one at work would believe Walsh was capable of — and walked up to you.

Despite having somewhat dramatic dark undereyes, you seemed quite peaceful in your sleep. Emery gently stroked your hair, whispering your name. Usually a heavy sleeper, you woke up immediately, almost with a start as you batted your eyelashes, confused about your whereabouts.

"Shit," you muttered in a raspy voice, finally comprehending the situation, then looked up at Walsh, smiling softly, "Hi, babe."

Emery felt warmth, blossoming in her heart at your little smile. Her eyebrows shot up, Walsh chuckled, "Do I look like a ‘babe’ to you?"

"Well you do have a very sweet smile right now," you explained slowly and rubbed your eyes.

"Do I, blondie?" Emery mused as she started pulling your coat off, earning a displeased huff from you as you had to straighten up and stop leaning on the wall. As soon as she succeded and stepped aside to hang the coat, you returned to your previous pose, your body practically melting into the wall.

"Mhm," you confirmed. Emery stood in front of you, her arms crossed, soft smile playing on her lips as she saw you back in your sprawled position. No closer to bed then you were a minute ago. She was surprised to find herself being not even in the slightest annoyed by the situation.

She squated down and started untying your snickers and you continued, slow and sluring a little from exhaustion, "Be careful, if you keep smiling like that someone may actually think you are sweet on me."

Emery flicked her dark eyes to you, amused, taking one of your shoes off. Usually you spoke really fast, quickly jumping from one thought to the next one. And this way of speaking was new. And lovely all the same to her.

You yawned and finished your thought, "And you've got a reputation to uphold."

Walsh chuckled, taking of your second shoe and standing up.

"Thanks for taking care of my public image, baby, very thoughtful of you," she kissed your hairline and you closed your eyes peaceful, "Don't fall back asleep."

"Thank you for taking care of me," you mumbled, half asleep anyway.

Emery shrugged, corners of her mouths curling up, taking your hand, "Whatever I have to do to see you naked faster, hon."

"Knew it," without opening your eyes, you sighed as if crushed, as she pulled you up to your feet with her hand.

Seeing your lack of cooperation, Walsh rolled her eyes, putting on of your arms over her shoulders and tightly hugging your waist, then headed to the bedroom.

When you settled down on the bed, you still hadn't opened your eyes, your whole body felt leaden from working long hours. Emery put a comforter over your frame, making sure you were tucked in neatly as you were always freezing — probably needed your iron-levels checked. The last rays of sun glazed your cheek, highliting your eyelushes, and she admired you for a moment. Then sun went down completely and room fastly cooled down to soft purple darkness. Walsh layed down next to you, scooting closer, pulling a comforter over herself.

"Come here," she beckoned, whispering. Using the last of your strength, you put an arm over here and hid your face in the crook of her neck.

As you enjoyed the warmth and softness of a familiar body, you pondered, your words dulled a little, "Don't you have to leave for work?"

"In my bed and want me to leave that much, huh, blondie?" she teased, leaving soft kisses on your hair.

"No," you breathed out softly without a second thought, honest, no energy or desire to be sarcastic. Walsh smiled, melting at that, and kissed your hair again.

"Not yet," she said. "Not for two more hours."

"That's nice," your grip on her waist tightened as you were drifting off.

"Yeah, it is," Emery smiled at your sweet and simple words, then pecked you on the corner of your mouth as you untuck yourself from her a little, "Go back to sleep, small-talker."

"You love me yap," you frowned a little, defensive.

Brushing loose strands away from your face, Walsh hummed in agreement.

"I love you," Emery whispered without giving it a second thought, actually feeling this way, scaring herself by that and by what your possible reaction could be, but you were already asleep, your lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.

Before Walsh left for work, she gently kissed your forehead and made sure the curtains were tightly drawn so the love of her life could get a much deserved proper rest.

The night shift was a little busy at the moment. Between a variety of absurd trauma cases — most of which were results of shenanigans drunk students' were getting up to — there were not enough time to even take a sip of coffee or finish a sentence in a patient's chart.

As the flow of patients decreased and you finally were able to sit down for a moment of peace, you wondered if the end of May was always like that in the ED? Nights filled with fixing stupid things stupid young people had done at a party. But before you could ask either Ellis or Shen this question, another ambulance arrived at the bay.

Male, 28, took a nasty fall from the roof trying to surprise his girlfriend on their anniversary. BP 70/45. Oxygen level's dropping. Drifting in and out of consciousness.

Oh, it was bad. Really bad. Surgery consulting was called in almost immediately by Abbott. A minute later Emery Walsh walked into the Trauma Room, confident as usual, her calm professionalism dulling the unusual spike of panic in your chest. Out of habit she threw an obligatory witty remark at her ED colleagues and got to work.

Multiple sets of hands were working in unison to stabilize the patient. After a few minutes of commotion it started to seem like the man was going to pull through this after all. Everyone in the room breathed a little easier, their movements slowing down a little.

Still, this patient's collapsed lung and lacerated liver needed immediate medical attention. Usually, the lung would've been treated firstly, but the laceration was so bad — they had to change the protocol in this case.

“What’s wrong, flower child?” Walsh mused, noticing the furrow in your brows and your unusual quietness.

“Your nicknaming mostly, Walshy,” you raised your eyebrows, not diverting any of your attention from suturing, your stitches precise as usual.

“Catch up, princess,” replied Walsh, holding up a pair of suture scissors, ready to cut, “It’s called word play.”

“Up your game then,” you immediately replied in the same mocking tone.

In the back, with his arms folded, Abbott, who was supervising the procedure, stopped frowning, the corners of his mouth twitched up. Once again he thought proudly that you were going to pull through your residency just fine with that sharp tongue of yours which you never failed to use.

From your very first night shift you handled Walsh’s remarks with grace — returning her the same level of sarcasm and bitterness. On your first night you almost flipped the tray with instruments on an accident and the surgeon dropped some demeaning remark that went something like ‘you know what they say about blonds’ in an off-hand manner, mostly to tread the water not to insult you. You huffed and without missing a beat retorted in the same tone, saying something like ‘you know what they say about surgeons’, earning a smirk from Walsh.

In hindsight that was probably the moment when mutual respect began.

And despite the fact the Walsh would never admit it out loud — Abbott and Shen and just pretty much anyone, who bothered to pay attention, knew she liked the new colleague — could see it in the way the corners of her lips would twitch up in a little smirk when she would come down to the ED from Surgery and see your last name written on the staff board for the night and then how lively the banter and the bickering would be between you two.

When suturing was finished, Emery asked, “Ever done a pleurodesis?”

You shook your head. You knew how to perform it in theory. Watched it in a teaching video in class once too.

Walsh smirked, “Well, buttercup, there is a first time for everything.”

She then turned to the ED attending who was already listening in on the conversation.

“Abbott, I’m borrowing your kid. We’re understaffed today. And those present are morons — and that’s me being nice.”

Dr. Abbott sighed, rubbing his chin, considering the decision, then said, “Well, try not to be mean to my resident, Walsh, and make sure to return her when the daycare is over.”

You had zero energy to participate in this conversation — to even be ever so slightly offended by being discussed in third person in your presence.

Satisfied with his response, Walsh was already making her way out of the Trauma Room, “If she doesn’t fuck up and I don’t exile her earlier, then she’ll be back in an hour.”

She didn't even look back at you, assuming you'd follow. And annoyingly enough — you did. Had no choice, really.

“‘Kay,” Abbott mumbled with a nod, hoping the ED wouldn't get overflown with patients in the nearest time.

As you were leaving your department, you turned to look at your attending — Dr. Abbott winked, giving you a thumbs up and an encouraging smile that put your mind at ease.

A funny thought ran through your head, but you voiced it only when you both got into the elevator. You teased Walsh, trying to suppress a smug grin, “So what you just basically said is that I’m not a moron?”

She huffed, pressing a button, “Don’t be fooled. It’s just if you make a mistake, it’s Abbott's responsibility not mine.”

“Glad you’re safe then,” you squinted at her, wondering how truthful her words were.

The surgery was successful and not as long or as complicated as you anticipated. You were doing it yourself for the most part, Walsh guiding you through it with steady voice, dropping a joke occasionally. You were surprised to find yourself absolutely comfortable in her presence without anyone from your department there. For some reason you thought the lack of familiar ED staff would make it weird between the two of you.

“Good job, Doc,” Walsh told you in mock triumph, when you were done and over, “You didn’t kill him! Congrats.”

She raised her bloodied glove for a high five.

“Not that I tried to do so, Dr. Walsh,” you pressed your palm into hers, rolling your eyes, and then asked, amused, “Is it praise I hear?”

“Why?” she asks nonchalant, tossing the gloves and opening a patient’s chart in the system, “Got a kink?”

“Nah, just didn’t think you could ever say anything even remotely nice,” you shrugged, slipping of your bloody gloves and tossing them in the waste bin as well.

“Don’t get used to it,” sang Dr. Walsh, busy with documenting the treatment.

“Won’t,” you shook your head without even looking at her. Using her badge, Walsh signed out of the medical system.

“Good girl,” she said evenly, though with obvious mischief in her eyes.

Your breath caught at that, but you merely rolled your eyes, pretending to be mildly annoyed not utterly flustered. You felt something warm rising in your chest and hoped and prayed it didn't show on your face.

When you walked out of the Operating Room, you expected to be send back to the ED immediately, marking the end of your field trip for today, but Walsh casually said, “Want a Red Bull?”

Oh, you were dying for an unhealthy amount of sugar and caffeine, so you nodded, “Mhm.”

The surgeon led you to the break room. It was exactly like the one down at the ED, with just a slight difference in minutiae and apparent lack of whimsy details — no random googly eyes or a dressed up CPR dummy in a chair. It was like a parallel universe — funny feeling.

Walsh was already offering you a can of energy drink from the fridge. You took it with a ‘thank you’. Emery leaned on the counter and you stood next to her, you both enjoying the moment of peace after working non-stop for a stretch of time. It was a rare moment of silence between the two of you — maybe even the first one ever. Once again you found yourself loosening up un her presence, feeling comfortable, your shoulders becoming less tense.

Finally Walsh asked, “Happy you picked ED with its incessant noise?”

“Mhm,” you hummed in response, closing your eyes — no energy to even nod.

Walsh chuckled, “Me too.”

You opened your eyes and looked at the woman, studying her countenance. She seemed relaxed, her posture soft, though her dark eyes seemed somewhat challenging per usual. You took a sip of your drink, then squinted your eyes and asked, taunting, “Do you really find me as annoying as you say you do? You asked me to come here. You could’ve asked anyone. You could’ve asked Ellis. She was right there but you asked me.”

“Ellis is a senior resident,” taking a sip, Walsh shrugged nonchalant, then pointed at you and said, “You’re the one still in training.”

“Well, don’t hold it against me,” frowning, you raised your arms, jokingly defensive. Then pondered what's been bugging you for the last hour, “It’s so calm in here. Like—”

Walsh hissed, slapping your wrist, “You, ED idiot, don’t jinx this place! I actually like it the way it is.”

“Hey! My apologies,” setting the can on the counter, you rubbed the wounded hand, “It just feels like a nursing home after ED.”

“This is what an adequate pace of work looks like, blondie,” Walsh huffed, rolling her eyes, gesturing with her free hand, “Take it in, enjoy the scenery.”

You chuckled at that, picking your drink back up and replying without missing a beat, “Ew, can I set it to 2x speed?”

Emery squinted in desbelief, shaking her head, “You, ADHD people, unbelievable.”

“Don’t rule yourself out,” you frowned in mock concern, squezzing Emery's hand for a brief moment, “You might just have it too. You fit in the ED just fine.”

The late realization of physical contact sent a shock wave through you. Of course in the past few months you've done a bunch of surgeries side by side with her, bumping hips and elbows — foreheads, occasionally — her hands shadowed yours — teaching and guiding. And this touch was by far not the most intimate you've shared with her.

But somehow it was different.

Not in an Operating or a Trauma Room, no surgical gown or gloves. Just skin — bare and warm, a little rough from sanitizer exposure. And in that brief touch there was a deep-lying intention you would never admit to out loud.

Something in Emery shifted as well, she tilted her head. She stepped just a little closer which made you aware of how close you already were — right on the verge of being inappropriate in a work setting.

You fit in the ED just fine.

“Do I now, huh?” she challenged you, raising her eyebrows, “Should I change my specialty?”

You smirked, feeling the warmth radiating off her, “From General Surgery to Something actually cool? Yeah.”

“Christ, get out,” she frowned, but smiled nonetheless, “Abbott’s probably already missing his pain in the ass resident.”

“Actually, I kinda like annoying you,” taunting, you tilted your head, “Enjoying the scenery as you suggested.”

She squinted again, her eyes darkening, “Are you trying to rile me up?”

When did your voices get down to a whisper?

“Why?” you chuckled, repeating the earlier joke, “Got a kink?”

She breathed out, smirking, and you felt her sweet breath on your lips, “Seriously, get out.”

Oh, when did you get this close — your faces merely inches away from each other?

“You’re in my way, Walsh,” you huffed, biting your lip.

“Am I?” she quirked an eyebrow, surprised, hands now firm on the counter on either side of you, quite literally blocking you from leaving.

You smirked, “Yeah, right in—” But you didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Your lips crashed together. It was a hungry, exasperated kind of kiss, tasting of sweet energy drink and longing. It was a kiss between people desperate to resolve all the things that have built up in the past two months of their acquaintance. The taunts and jabs and unspoken complex feelings — all poured into this one messy moment.

You parted for a moment to take a shaky breath. Then kissed again — softly this time. Then you stared each other in the eye, both perplexed by the situation. As if sensing that someone was close, Walsh sneaked a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth and took a step back, regaining the socially acceptable distance for colleagues. And just as she did that a nurse walked in, a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

You stared at the floor, still processing the situation. Did you as a resident just make a move on an attending surgeon? Or did she make a move on you? It was more like a meet in the middle kind of situation. Either way. Fuck. What happened to your work ethics?!

You made it back to the elevator with dignity though on the inside you were burning up with embarrassment. Walsh was escorting you, seemingly nonchalant, a little smug smile playing on her lips.

When you entered the elevator and turned to look at her, she asked, “Hey, you want to come over tonight to finish the discussion?”

You smirked, putting your hands in your scrubs pockets, “Yeah, I feel like some things were left undiscussed.”

She smiled at that, “I'll pick you up then.”

“Make sure to reconsider your career choices beforehand, so we could pick up where we left off,” you taunted with a smirk just before the elevator’s door shut. The last thing you saw was Emery rolling her eyes and flipping you off.

You smiled to yourself all the way down to the Pitt, humming your favourite song. The emergency department was fairly quite when you got there. Ellis and Abbott were both at the Hub, catching up on charting.

As you reached them, Dr. Abbott looked up and quirked an eyebrow, “Never thought someone can look so happy after spending time with Walsh.” Theatrically, he checked your temperature, putting the back of his palm to your forehead, “She drugged you, kid?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms flat on the counter and laying your head on top of them.

“Learn much?” he chuckled to himself, forcing you to hum in response.

Ellis was watching you the entire time, she smiled slyly, teasing, “Oh, I know what kind of high she's on—” You snapped your eyes toward her as she continued, “Liked doing pleurodesis much? Or were you too distracted by your hot mean surgeon?”

“Hot mean surgeon?” Abbott sounded personally offended, mumbling, “If it's Walsh, we're talking 'bout, it's more like 'evil surgeon'.”

Ellis was enjoying the white-hot embarrassment she was evoking in you — so evident in the displeased stare you were giving her — and kept inquiring in a teasing manner, “Did she bully the shit out of you?”

You felt annoyed and rushed to pick a patient to go check on. Yes, she did.

“Did you like it?”

Oh, yes, you did. And all you wanted is more.

March, 2025

It was around ten p.m. on a Friday evening when Dr. Abbott handed you a new case — a woman who arrived just as the day shift was finishing off. So the patient got all the needed tests taken by them and was now waiting for diagnosis and treatment from the night shift doctors.

Female, 31, acute right arm and chest pain from falling down the stairs. As you were walking towards the Room 2, chugging your iced coffee and studying the patient's chart as well as her CT results, you came to a halt. The name of the patient was painfully familiar.

Shit.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Humerus fissure. Ribs bruised but not broken. No head trauma.

“Hey,” opening the curtain, you entered the space with a soft smile, stuffing down your real emotions and introducing yourself.

A flicker of recognition passed across young woman's face. She clutched her hands for a moment, which didn't escape your notice.

“I'm going to be your doctor from now since the day shift is over and my colleague handed over the case,” you took a seat next to the bed. “Hope that's okay.”

The patient nodded, fidgeting with her pale hands that she kept in her lap. Then out of nowhere a man appeared, forcing you to take a deep breath to remain calm and professional. You remembered him as well — hard to forget a person who has done so much physical damage to another human being and perfectly got away with it multiple times.

“Hey, you a doctor?” he said, suspicious, “We had a different one.”

You nodded, “That's right but he's of duty now. So—”

The man cut you off, impatient, jiggling his car keys, “So you are filling his shoes? Whatever. Just let's get it over with. She okay, can we go home?”

You fought herself to stay calm and keep that stupid polite smile on your face. You turned to the woman.

“Good news from your CT,” you pursed your lips sympathetically, keeping a friendly tone, while scanning the woman's countenance, hoping to see the sign that she had changed her mind, “Nothing is broken, but there is a crack in your upper arm bone, which means we'll have to put a splint on it.”

“A splint?!” the husband sounded almost offended. “Won't she be fine without it?”

“No,” you shook your head, your eyes turning cold when looking at this pure excuse of a man. “A splint is necesary for the bone to heal properly. You can go and fetch discharge papers from the Head nurse while I put a splint on your wife's arm. It will speed things up.”

He nodded, clearly displeased. When he left, you quickly retrieved a splint from the nearest storeroom. And as you helped the woman into it, you rushed to speak in a low voice so you wouldn't be overheard, “Lauren, we had this conversation already. Multiple times. And I remember what you told us. I know its hard and scary to ask for help. But please have enough courage to do so. We will never stop offering, but you need to accept it at some point.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” the woman smiled crookedly, keeping her palms flat on her thighs.

“Lauren, next time you are not going to arrive at PTMC. You are going to be in a body bag, heading straight to the morgue,” it was a harsh truth, a bitter pill to swallow, but a necessary one, because no matter how hard you tried — kind words were not working. “I fell,” the woman insisted, her voice trembling. “We both know that’s not what happened,” you had a gut feeling that if she wouldn't agree now it would be over. “We have all the resources to help you. Please—”

The husband pulled back the curtain, interrupting the hushed conversation. You pretended to be inspecting the splint to ensure everything was nice and tight. The man didn't notice anything, “So we clear to go home yet or what, doc? I hate hospitals.”

They left. Again. That woman returned back to her trap, the deadly one — and the timer was set. It was a question of 'when' not 'if'. You leaned on the Hub's counter, putting a hand over your eyes, taking deep breathes.

Ellis leaned on the counter next to you, smiling softly, “What’s up?” “Obvious DV case,” you grumbled. “She comes here for the fourth time this year. And it’s getting worse with each time. Kiara tried, but she refuses any help.” “We can’t help those who refuse our help, sunshine,” Shen pursed his lips, sympathy written all over his face. “I know,” you said flatly. “Just like I know that this man is going to kill her eventually.” “You need a breather?” Abbott chimed in. You shook your head, “No—” Then felt a lump in your throat and let out a shaky breath, rubbing your forehead, “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be back in ten, if that's okay?” “Sure. No jumping off the roof, though, please,” Abbott noted in a deadpan voice, typing in some patients chart on a computer, his glasses already on. “Okay, sir,” You nodded. “Will hang myself in the bathroom—”

That response received a stare with a raised eyebrow from the attending. So you added, tilting your head, “Of another department.” With a small smile Abbott nodded and returned to charting, “Atta girl.” Before you could take off, Ellis called you. “What?” you looked at your colleague with a tiny exasperated smile and sad-sad eyes. Parker bit her lip, slightly concerned, “You need someone to talk to?” “No, I’ll just write my last words down,” you said. Shen replied to that, tone light but he too was concerned for the youngest resident, “Make sure to say something nice about us.” “Will do,” you nodded, “You'll sob.” You turned on your heels to finally walk away but were abruptly stopped by Parker softly calling out your nickname again. “I’m okay,” you held up your arms, "I mean it. I’ll be back in ten with snacks.” Ellis and Shen exchanged worried looks behind your back. “She'll be fine, go back to work,” Abbott however was calm, which consequentaly calmed the two doctors, who knew very well how versed their attending was at picking up on an actual danger. It was almost eerie how well he could read people's mood, so they called it his “old man's hunch.” You were indeed back in ten with snacks. And in your opinion it was nobody’s business that you spent exactly five minutes in the ambulance bay, smoking a ciggarette, your hands shaking slightly, having to bite down on your knuckle to prevent a sob from escaping your throat, silent tears leaving a few mascara streaks on your cheeks. Then two minutes were spent in the bathroom — fixing youtself up so no one would notice anything was out of the ordinary — and the last three minutes were spent on buying everyone a treat and walking to and from cafeteria respectively. After that you stuffed a chocolate bar down your throat and got back to work.

Because what else was there to do?

June, 2025

The doctors just gathered around the Hub in a moment of quiet, all busying themselves with something to take their minds off the case. You stared down at your hands, eyes glassy.

Abbott was trying to reach someone via hospital phone. He put it down when he noticed a familiar figure approaching in a hurry.

Dr. Walsh frowned when she reached the Hub, “Where's the emergency? Apart from your haircut, Abbott.”

Unlike himself Jack ignored her pass, his mind occupied with the most recent patient death and the toll it took on his youngest resident. “Sorry for calling you here, Walsh. Didn't have the time to call you off,” said Abbott, "She’s gone.”

“Really?” muttered Walsh, clearly displeased, that she had to leave her own department and promenade through the hospital, "Shit, it’s like you think I miss you and your basement, shitfaces.”

You just looked at her, face blank.

“Straight insult, no comeback?” Walsh raised an eyebrow, too careless from exhaustion to read the room as good as she usually does.

“Walsh,” Abbott warned, giving her a stern look.

But you already huffed, looking at the surgeon and shaking your head a little as if in disbelief, then walked away from the hub.

Walsh crossed her arms over her chest, leaning on the counter and raising an eyebrow, “What’s with the lily flower?”

Abbott replied, organising the desk in front of him, “That woman was her patient a few times before.” He breathed out heavily, throwing away used bright post-its in a trash can, “Long DV case.”

Shen added, pursing his lips, “String of ED visits that ended in a murder.”

“Kid did everything she could to help, but to no avail,” Abbott started to type something on a computer, frowning in concentration.

Walsh internally cringed, muttering, “Shit.”

“Yep,” nodded Abbott, tiredly. Walsh didn't let on, but she was scolding herself for being so insensitive, “You, guys, should have put up a sign that princess was upset.”

Then, chewing on the inside of her cheek a little — nervous habit, she pushed herself off the counter and walked away, her dark eyes set firmly on the door, behind which your familiar frame disappeared just a few moments ago. Ellis asked with a slight frown, “Is Walsh following her?” “She most certainly is,” Abbott confirmed, glancing up then going back to charting.

“Should we be worried?”

“If only for Walsh,” Abbott stated matter-of-factly, leaning closer to his monitor.

Shen and Ellis exchanged slightly concerned looks, nodding to each other in silent agreement to check on you if you don't come back in twenty — eventhough their attending was convinced that it was going to be okay. And he was never wrong.

You heard footsteps behind and knew who it was without even having to look. “What?” Your voice was ringing with poison in the fresh air, “Got one more mean one-liner to spare?”

You turned around to look at Walsh, who stood just a few steps away. Her face unreadable — none of the usual expressions. No sneer or smirk or frown, but only a crease between her eyebrows that usually indicates sympathy in people. You wondered if Emery was—

Sorry?

Walsh's dark eyes studied your face, seeing hurt written all over it. That made Emery hurt as well — way more than it should have, way more than if she didn't care for you at all. Something to ponder on later. “I've got a bunch,” Emery said, her tone usual, though somehow softer, “But not for now.”

You crossed your arms, raising your eyebrow. Your face twitched for a moment as if you might cry. You drew in a shaky breath to suppress it.

Walsh swallowed, “I'm sorry.”

You felt like these words knocked the air out of you. You were ready for sarcasm not sincerity.

“What?” you asked, a little lost.

Walsh continued in a steady tone, taking a place next to you, “I'm sorry about your patient. It happens. You can't save everyone.” She shook her head, “No matter how good you are at this job. You can't control everything. People are stupid. People are cruel. World sucks.”

You hated to admit but the surgeon's words were somewhat grounding. Of course, it was an obvious truth but sometimes even the truths should be repeated in order to be believed. That's what people around you are for.

“Thanks for cheering me up, sunshine,” you scoffed, “Might take that leap right now.”

“Don't,” Walsh stated simply.

You tilted your head, “Aren't you the one who would encourage this kind of behaviour?”

“If you jump, you'll land too close to the exit,” she huffed, pointing down at the concrete, “Don't wanna see the nasty gooey remnants of you when I go home today.”

“I wouldn't want to ruin your day like that,” you put a hand on your heart in mock sympathy, “I'll stick to another side of the roof then.”

Walsh rolled her eyes, tiny smirk on her lips, “Jeez, just pick a whole other place so I wouldn't have to see it or think about it at work.”

You opened her mouth for a witty comeback, that was already on the tip of your tongue, but instead choked out a violent sob. Tears overflowed your eyes, and you couldn't stop them. Somewhere in this moment adrenaline wore off completely, and you were fully hit with the reality of situation, the devastating emptiness that followed with complete silence after your ears stopped ringing and your head stopped buzzing.

You squeezed your eyes shut, everything inside you was crumbling. You felt like you were falling into the abyss. But the fall was stopped abruptly by warm steady hands, enveloping you, keeping you upright, making sure all the pieces stay together.

“It's okay,” Walsh gently stroked your back, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It's going to be okay.”

After a minute you calmed down, stepping away from Emery's arms and quickly brushing away your tears, embarassed by the fact that your meltdown had a witness and the witness was none other than the meanest surgeon in the hospital. The one with whom there was only ever a heated banter and never before something so real — so raw and so aching.

You sat down on the roof again, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin on top of your hands. You looked at the pink sunset, baffled once again how peacefully beauty and ugliness coexisted in this world. Walsh took a seat next to you, silent. You stayed like that for a little — just until the sky's edges tinged slightly with dark blue.

“Fuck this world, Walsh,” you huffed, staring ahead at the downtown buildings coloured in the soft pink hue of sunset.

Glancing at you, Emery nodded, breathing out a tired, “Yeah, fuck it.”

There were more hours to work, more people to help. So you stood up and took a step towards the door, that led back to the hospital stairwell, and Walsh followed in your steps.

Because what else was there to do?