Work Text:
Heather wakes up close to one in the morning.
She stretches, grumbling and wiggling her fingers as she comes back into her body. She'd slept well, though that isn't much of a surprise after that shift, that day. She'd skipped the bath and the wine that Robby had suggested, but she had housed a sandwich and a seltzer from the back of her fridge, chased it with a hot shower, and crawled into bed. Phone off, lights out.
She's groggy. She rubs at her face, yawning and stretching, ignoring the twinge in her lower belly for now. She gropes for her phone on her nightstand, turning it on as she pads to the bathroom to pee. Only a little more spotting in her underwear, she notes, glancing down at her phone again.
It takes a second to flicker on, and she expects a text or two from Robby, maybe, checking on her—a small part of her, the part that never learns, is even excited at the prospect.
She blinks. He'd texted her more than a few times. Called her six. So had the hospital's number, seven times, and Dana, eight. Her stomach drops into her ass, and she scrolls up, opening her news app.
She reads the first headline once, then again, then stands up, forgetting she hasn't wiped yet.
“What the fuck?”
+
Robby's walk home is only fifteen minutes or so. He's always found it a nice, in-between kind of length. Long enough for a few songs, to decompress (or mentally prepare for the day), but not so long that it makes him late in the mornings or it feels impossible to drag his tired legs home.
Today is testing that, because his legs feel a little like if he stops long enough to give them a break they'll snap off and he won't be able to start again. That isn't even mentioning the pull in his lower back, like a hand is grabbing his tendons and twisting every time he shifts or moves slightly too much.
He keeps looping his song from this morning; it's nice, it's familiar, it's not going to make him shatter if he pays too much attention to the lyrics. There's a part of him tempted to dig his finger into the mental wound already, to prod at it, but he's afraid that if he starts he won't be able to stop. He's been on the verge of tears for the last three hours, a breeze could knock him back down at this point.
He gets inside, standing with his hands on his hips for a moment as he considers his options. He could eat, but his stomach turns at the thought of putting anything inside of it. He could pee, and he probably should, but the bathroom means he'll end up in the shower and that feels like an impossible task right now. He knows he needs it, knows he smells like a walking corpse, feels like one too. Still, he doesn't move. After a moment, he pulls his phone back out.
He could text Jake, nope, Janey, nope, Heather, nope, probably still asleep, Dana, nope, fuck. He mutes Langdon's number, which is still popping up new texts every ten minutes or so now, begging to talk, apologizing, wheedling. He tosses his phone to the side, pressing his palms into the sockets of his eyes, feeling the dull pain behind his eyes pulse. He sinks to sit on the couch, ignoring the stray thought that the last thing he wants on his couch is his bloodstained work pants.
He normally has a routine for these kinds of days, for getting home after hard shifts, and he'd been thinking about it the whole walk home: get home, eat, down his beer and then maybe something harder, shower, crawl into bed, pray that the one gift today can give him is an exhaustion thick enough to knock him out and keep him there. He has his mental list of records that cheer him up, or ones for wallowing. Movies, too, but the task of picking up his remote or a record right now would feel more like lifting a boulder. So would any of it. All of it.
He'll just sit for a little while longer while he decides.
Robby doesn't know how long he sits there, but he's startled out of it by his phone buzzing. He picks it up, squinting at the time and realizing that he's been sitting for at least thirty minutes. He doesn't care about that, though, because Heather is calling him, and he's answering before that thought has really even registered. He doesn't say anything, just presses his phone to his ear, exhales.
"Robby?"
He clears his throat. "Hi."
"Jesus fucking Christ, I'm so sorry I didn't come in, I just woke up, I swear to god, one day I leave early, I feel horrible—"
"Don't."
A huff. "I do. I know you do, too."
"Yeah, well."
"How are you? Are you okay? Are you home?"
"Got home..." He squints, rubbing at his eyes. "An hour ago, ish?"
Heather curses again. "Are you okay?" She repeats.
"...Physically, or...?"
"Mentally, asshole, but maybe I shouldn't even ask that—"
"Maybe you shouldn't." A beat passes. Long enough for Robby's guilt to creep back in. "Look, I'm sorry, just...long day. Longer than it's possible for a day to be, honestly. I just need..."
"Food? Shower? Sleep?"
"Ding-ding-ding."
"How far are you along that process?" There's something knowing in her voice, and Robby rolls his eyes even though she can't see it.
"Oh, I'm gettin' there."
"Mhm." Another beat. He can hear her hesitation in the silence. Finally: "Would...should I come over?"
He sighs. "You couldn't sound less like you want to."
"That's not true! I'm—you're worrying me, Robby, and I'd love some clarity on what I missed today, you'd be doing me a favor, if anything."
"I don't need you to pretend it’s a favor to you for you to come...corral me into bed, or whatever, honestly, I'm fine.”
"Oh, you're fine? Here I was thinking you sound the furthest thing from it—"
"Heather—"
"Robby—"
They don't need to be looking at each other for it to be a staredown. He feels a little weaker when he tries again: "Y'really don't have to. I'm not sure it'd help much, I just need...." He sniffs. "A break."
"Well...I already called Dana, she doesn't want me over, nobody else is texting me back—"
"You mean I wasn't your first call?"
"You're the one acting annoyed that I called in the first place!"
"Still. You tried to go to Dana's?"
"Do you want me to come over or not?"
"No—"
"Robby—"
"Yes! Fine! Fuck!"
He can picture the smug look on her face. He groans.
"Okay, I'll be there in twenty."
"Y'don't have to—"
"Do you want me to bring food?"
"...No. No."
"You sure?"
"Heather," He warns, "It's not gonna be pretty—"
"Pretty's the last thing I expect—"
"—I'm serious."
"I am too."
Robby relents, feeling his shoulders drop. "Fucking. Fine, God. Fine."
When Heather finally responds, her voice is soft. "See you in twenty."
+
Trinity chugs half of a redbull from the vending machine before they hit the parking lot.
"Seriously?" Dennis watches with distaste as she balances the can on the car roof, unlocking the door.
She just looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Yes, seriously. I'm, like, a twenty minute drive away. I don't wanna literally crash because I'm physically crashing." She throws her bag into the passenger seat.
Dennis sighs, but follows her into the car, handing her the redbull that she's already forgotten she left on the roof then moving her bag into the backseat with his own. "Then we'd have to call you crash."
That gets a small, tight smile out of Trinity. "Ha-ha. 'Cept I'm never gonna faint like Victoria did, nope."
Dennis just shakes his head. "She made up for it the rest of the day, wouldn’t you say?"
Trinity huffs. "Well, yeah, obviously. MCI kinda isn't fair, though, cancels out everybody's...." She flicks a hand. "...Shit."
"Y'mean shit like..." Dennis chances, "...fumbling a scalpel?"
Trinity's eyes narrow, and she turns the ignition with more force than necessary. "Not the same—"
He snorts. He's feeling a little braver now that he's seen a little more of her underbelly, now that he's gotten the sense that Trinity just communicates aggressively whether she's purposely seeking out conflict or not. "Fumbled the scalpel....fumbled...a good first impression with Dr. Garcia...."
At that, they jolt back abruptly as Trinity puts the car in drive. "Fumbled a baddie..." She mumbles, not seeming to expect a response until her eyes jump over again. "You think I did?"
Dennis senses something, an almost vulnerability there, and takes pity on her. "Nah, not once she hears about your REBOA...."
Her smile this time is more genuine. “Yeah, ‘cause it was fucking sick.”
Dennis tips his head. “...Kinda, yeah, I guess—”
“You guess, Huckleberry? When did you do something that cool?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “I—don’t need to be flashy, to—I saved a lot of lives today!”
Her eyes sneak off of the road again. “Not all of ‘em.”
“C’mon. Don't.”
At that, Trinity looks at least a little shamefaced. “Sooorrrry.”
“Even after everything, I'm still thinking about him—”
Trinity exhales through her nose, long and tired. “Yeah. I am, too. I mean, not your guy—”
“—Bennet—”
She continues on like she hadn’t heard him, “—but…some shit today…just…like...y’know the ladder fall guy?”
“...Is this about dropping the scalpel again?”
“No, no. Just… he was fucked up and fell because his wife was spiking him with progesterone. Thought he was molesting his daughter.”
Dennis doesn’t know quite what to say to that. “...Was he?”
Trinity’s expression darkens. “Think so.”
“God, that’s…did they report him?”
Trinity shrugs, fingers tight on the steering wheel. “Kiara ‘n Robby made it sound like it was out of their hands. I…I think that’s kind of fucking ridiculous, but, whatever, I tried to deal with it.”
“...Tried to deal with it…how…?”
She gives him a smile. “Don’t worry about it.” Her expression darkens further when she turns back to the road. “Just hope it fucking worked.”
“Those…those are the cases that’ll stick with you, I guess. There were a lot of those today.”
“Tell me about it.” She shakes her hair out of her face. “I’m tough and I kinda feel like a steaming pile of shit, so, can’t imagine how you’re doin’ over there.”
“...Not great.” Dennis answers. “You think every shift’ll be like that?”
“Iiif we’re lucky!” Trinity runs a red light, ignoring the way Dennis jumps at a loud honk from their right.
Eventually they pull up outside of Trinity’s place. It's an apartment building downtown, not too different from any of the other ones nearby. “Here we are, Huckleberry. Sorry it doesn't have a white-picket fence and a haystack like back on the farm.”
“Not in Kansas anymore.” He tries to joke back, a lame attempt.
“Hm?” Trinity seems distracted, digging in her bag for her keys. “Didn't you say you're from…uh, don't tell me. It was somewhere…” She gestures vaguely upwards.
Dennis waits for her to get it. “1…2….3…4…”
Her nose scrunches. “Nebraska?”
“Yes. Nebraska.” Dennis hoists his bag up on his shoulder, following her up the stairwell. “So, uh, why do you have a spare room, anyway?”
Trinity darkens a bit at that, yanking the door open and letting Dennis go first. She blows her bangs out of her face. “Was…just…an ex. Kinda.”
Dennis gets the sense that there's a story there. “Ex?”
“... Don't get any ideas, Huckleberry, ex-girlfriend.”
He's confused, at that. “Any ideas about what?”
She heaves a sigh, leading him inside. “Nothing. Just…y’know…wanted to emphasize the… they don't have lesbians in Nebraska?”
His eyebrows slowly knit together. “Yeah, they do. My cousin Delilah is, I'm pretty sure.”
Trinity quirks her lips, nodding. “Just thought you should know, in case you've, y’know, watched too much porn and think I'm gonna ask for you to pay rent another way, or something—”
Dennis is feeling increasingly out of his depth. “No! Uh, no, I, I’ll do whatever, y'know, uh, chores, but, the last thing I’d want is to make you uncomfortable. I love lesbians! Not in a weird way, just, I think, y'know, it's neat, and—” He awkwardly throws a fist up. “I support that.”
The floundering seems to cheer Trinity up, and she cracks. “Fuck—okay, you're alright, Huckleberry, Jesus.”
He looks around the apartment. “Sorry about the breakup, though. Did she break the lease?”
“Yup.” Trinity pops the ‘p.’ “But her loss is your gain, so…lucky you…”
“You…wanna talk about it?”
“No.” She leads him around, moving swiftly past the subject. “Take a look around, take it in, probably better than that spooky ass floor of the hospital, anyway.”
It's a pretty standard apartment, though it is obvious that somebody recently moved out, the kitchen and living room both half-decorated, half-sparse. There's a heap of blankets on the couch, a tv, piles of clothes everywhere, a yoga mat, some scattered plates with rice remnants. It's lived-in, even almost cozy.
Trinity fidgets. “Not like I knew I’d have a…fuckin’...stranger coming over, so it isn't the cleanest.”
“No, it's…it's perfect.” Dennis says, finding he really, really means it.
She gives him an odd look, but continues on a little tour. “Kitchen, there's a washer ‘n dryer behind that big white door, but they're kinda shitty, each bedroom has its own bathroom—”
She's still talking, but Dennis is so distracted by the thought of clean laundry that he misses it. She follows his gaze to the door, and walks over to open it. “You wanna do a load now?”
He nods, and she hastily unloads a mangle of clothes into a laundry basket nearby. “Okay. I'll know if you fuck with my laundry, so no….stealing…like, panties, or anything.”
Dennis winces. “I…do you want me to sign a document that says ‘I promise not to be a pervert—?'” He tries, giving a grimace-y little smile.
She considers it. “That's actually not a bad idea. But for now I'll have to take your word for it. Even though that's exactly what a pervert would say.”
He does laugh at that. “Besides, y'already warned me about the…guy you know? Krog magaw?”
Trinity snorts, then nudges him. “Lemme show you your room. Then y’can do a load while I order food.”
The room is mostly empty, save for a bed and dresser. There are hangers and some trash strewn on the floors, no sheets on the bed, but Dennis figures he'll be able to borrow some.
His own bed, one he doesn't have to be afraid he'll be dragged out of by some guard in the middle of the night. No ambulance sounds through the window all night, either. Clean clothes. Not having to lie to his family over the phone when he says he doesn't need to borrow money. He sits down on the mattress, a giddy feeling bubbling up in his chest. Fuck, today's been weird.
+
Mel ends up watching Elf.
She tries, she really does, but there isn't much fight in her left after today, and she eventually caves. It's almost worth it just for happy it makes Becca, and y'can't beat that.
When they were younger, Mel used to think Becca's happiness was hers, and vice versa. Sadness, distress, joy, they'd shared it all. Life itself, almost.
Thinking about those girls from today, Amber and Bella, Mel thinks it might still be true; sisters and life, life and sisters. Bella's voice, soft and assured: "She saved me." Utmost faith in her sister to save her, to be around to—
Mel shuts her eyes. Becca nudges her. "You're gonna miss it!"
Mel's eyes drift back open. Jovie's in the shower, singing, while Buddy listens and tries to join in. Becca's favorite part.
"Sorry, sorry. Just a little tired."
Becca doesn't respond to that until after the scene's over. "Tired? 'Cause of your shift?"
"Mhm."
"Mel?"
"Yeah?"
"How'd the people get hurt?
Mel thinks for a long moment. "Well...lots of things can happen at a place with that many people. Drugs, heat stroke, that kind of thing."
Becca wrinkles her nose. "It was all from drugs?"
Mel shakes her head. "No—well—no. It was mostly a man who....went there and...tried to hurt a lot of people."
Another break while Becca thinks about that, interrupted by another of her favorite scenes. Finally: "Why?"
Mel sighs, wishing she had an answer that would satisfy either of them. "I d'know."
"But you stopped him? And helped everyone?"
Mel considers quibbling with the idea that she stopped anything, but doesn't do more than just shrug. "Yeah. We all did. It was...a crazy first shift, they probably won't all be like that." She straightens. "...I hope."
Becca perks up a little at the word 'crazy.' "Too crazy to find someone to kiss, but there's always tomorrow.”
Mel snorts. "There is."
"And tomorrow and the next day and the next!" Becca pokes her, trying to make Mel laugh. She giggles, and Becca does too.
The rest of the movie isn't as bad after that. Especially once the pizza's done baking and they eat that. Becca gets mad at Mel for falling asleep close to the end, but Mel makes it through the rest of it. Becca wants to do Mrs. Doubtfire after that, but Mel's sleepy enough that they decide to save it for tomorrow.
"What was the weirdest case?" Becca asks, an old game they used to play back when Mel was studying, or during some of her other rotations. Usually Mel would look up weird ones just to keep Becca entertained, never anything too dark.
"Hm. Well...there was a guy with road rash who brought his dog with him."
"His dog?"
Mel smiles. She knew Becca would appreciate that. "Yeah. His name was Crosby. He was like, a..." She tries to remember the breed. "Pap—something? Like, small and soft, with silky ears."
Becca beams. "When are we gonna get one like that? Did it finally convince you?"
"Mm...." Mel tilts her head, pretending to think. "We'll see, we'll have to see...who would take care of it all day?"
"I would!"
Mel gives her a look. "You'd even pick up the poop?"
"I swear."
"What if it did it inside....in your bed? On your pillow?"
That gets more giggles out of her. "Even then! Even then."
Mel sighs. "You'd have to house-train it."
“I would, I promise!”
Mel yawns, slumping back against the couch. “We can look into it.”
The smile that gets out of Becca makes the whole day seem like maybe it wasn't so bad after all.
Later, in bed, Mel's mind keeps moving. Her original plan for getting home had been to do what she normally does, to sift through the things she wants to remember, the things that'll make her a better doctor, and work on letting go of the things she doesn't need. It's something she worked on in therapy a few years ago, trying not to get overwhelmed by everything her brain wants to hold on to.
After everything today, though, it doesn't feel like there's even any room to do any real sifting.
The earlier parts of the day, things that had felt so important at the time, are already hard to recall in full, and Mel understands now how long-term ER doctors do it. Everything after 7 pm is a haze of adrenaline and blood, something strangely pure and electric about how it had felt to move from body to body, from problem to problem, so quickly. There's also the horror and the guilt and the fear, buzzing under Mel's skin and threatening to stay there, but she thinks she'll feel better after she sleeps. It all comes out in the wash, except the parts that don't.
Her mind drifts to Trish and Morgan, the relief when they'd seen each other, and the uncertainty before. Mel lived with that uncertainty for a long time; her and Becca both did. When mom went it was slow, a lot of wondering if today would be the day right until Mel started to get her hope back, think maybe they'd squeak through...then. Then had been the day. Her and Becca, left behind.
Somebody always gets left behind.
This internship will be good for her. Tape over those hospital memories with the chaos of the ER's day-to-day. She thinks her brain'll stretch wider trying to accommodate all these memories, people, cases, protocols. It feels good. Mostly. There's still a pit somewhere deep in her stomach, a part of her worried that she can't hack it, had to take a break just 'cause two patients were yelling at each other, like that doesn't happen every fucking day, she's gonna have to get used to that kinda thing if she doesn't want everybody to think she isn't cut out for this field.
She brings herself back to earth, back to her bed, by reminding herself of Dr. Robby's words, of Dr. Langdon's. You were awesome. I’m really glad you’re with us, Dr. King.
You’re obviously really good at helping people. You’re crushing it with your patients, even taught me a couple of things. You’re making a great first impression.
You’re a sensitive person. This is a tough place for sensitive people. But we need them, badly.
When she thinks about learning more from Dr. Langdon, Mel’s stomach does an excited little flip. Drs. Robby and Mohan and Collins, too, but there’s something specific about Langdon today that had made her feel like he really sees her, values her. He’d learned from her, she reminds herself, a giddy feeling welling up inside her, fingers clenching and unclenching under her blanket. She’s always wanted to connect with a mentor, but through school she was too shy, too terrified of fucking up, to even go to office hours. Now, she thinks, maybe she can let herself trust her knowledge, her abilities, her approach. Maybe she can even trust these people.
Mel never did get a chance to tell Dr. Langdon about that labor after he left early. She can’t wait to see him again tomorrow.
+
Frank stares down at his phone. It’s a similar impulse to gambling, he thinks, that just-one-more-try instinct inside of him that makes him believe that maybe, just maybe, this’ll be the one. It’d be his fifth time calling Robby since getting home, his twelfth for the entire night. He hasn’t even gone inside yet, he’s been sitting in his car on the driveway for going on fifteen minutes. He hasn’t opened the garage yet, ‘cause when he does the kids’ll hear and come running outside to meet him like they always do, and he’s not sure he can handle that right now.
He swipes to his texts with Robby again, staring down at the sea of blue, unanswered texts. In for a penny, he figures, and types some more.
- I’m sitting here in my car waiting for you to respond. What am I supposed to go inside and tell Abby?
- You want me to tell her I got fired? Might face legal repercussions? Because I have a bad fucking back?
- You want us to have to explain that to the kids?
- You already came to your conclusion before I got any chance to actually explain myself. If you'd actually just sit with me, we could talk. I can buy you coffee or something tomorrow.
- I'd like to believe our friendship and the years we've worked together have shown you who I am, not a misunderstanding perpetuated by someone on their FIRST DAY
- I’m sorry for the things I've said and the way I've acted today, but you of all people should understand being pushed to the limit today. It was a bad one for both of us even before the shooting. Can't we talk after a breather? Tomorrow?
No response. No read receipts or even dots. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck he inhales, pushing his hair off his forehead, and looks at himself in the visor mirror. He looks a little sweaty, pale, but not horrible. Makes sense, given the shift. He feels a little nauseous, pain radiating from his spine, but it isn't too bad yet. He doesn’t wanna think about how it’ll feel tomorrow, but he shoves the thought aside for now. He won’t have to worry about it tomorrow, because he’ll drive to Robby’s house if he needs to. They’ll work it out.
Another part of his head is still spinning, wondering what he will do if Robby fucks him on this. He has enough Lorazepam in his stash at home that he should be functional the next few days, if not completely pain or craving free. He’d been tapering off anyway, this is just a faster timeline than he’d planned on. He’s more concerned about what he’ll do if he can’t practice medicine, wake up and go to work each day, for whatever foreseeable stretch of the future now yawns in front of him, a big black void of nothing nothing nothing.
He texts Dana a few more times while he’s at it. She isn’t answering either, at least not right now.
- I know today was shitty, but try to sleep on it. We all need you, especially Robby. You’re the only one who can get through to him when he has his mind set on something like this.
- I would hope everything we’ve been through together has shown you my character, not rumors. You know Robby was off all day today even before everything happened. Night nurse saw him in Pedes on the floor, crying + breaking down + talking to himself. So if anyone’s in trouble it’s him.
- Please call me when you can, maybe after we both get some sleep. But as soon as works for you. I’ll pick up whenever
Once that’s done, Frank smooths his hair down a second time, takes a long breath, and opens the garage door.
The kids meet him at the door, Tanner toddling over and trying to grab onto his leg while Avery sings songs about the pizza they’re having for dinner and about Noodle, who’s jumping up on Frank’s other leg and barking like a maniac until he knocks over Tanner. Tanner bursts into tears, which sets Avery off, and Abby rushes in to lift Tanner up and check him over before Frank can process any of it.
After another second he leans in to check Tanner too, but Abby shakes her head. “Avery.”
So Frank goes to Avery, lifting her up and holding her to his chest. “It’s okay, honey-bunny, we’re gonna have pizza.” He presses a kiss into her hair and ignores the ripple of pain down his spine that lifting her caused. She calms down pretty quickly, she just doesn’t like when her brother’s upset, angel that she is. Tanner’s calmed down within five minutes, and Abby sends them to wash their hands, pulling Frank into the kitchen with just a look. She looks tired but beautiful, like she usually does, and normally the sight of her might be a relief, but right now all Frank can muster is a dull dread in his stomach, the slow-motion implosion of this nice little life of his.
“How are you? How bad was it?”
How bad was it? I got thrown out of work for stealing drugs then sat in the parking lot for an hour calling Robby and Dana until I heard enough sirens to know something was really fucking bad and went back in and dealt with the worst mass casualty I’ve ever seen then I said some more unforgivable shit to Robby and dug my hole deeper and deeper and deeper and I might not have a job now and I’ll probably have to go to rehab I don’t need and leave you alone with two toddlers and an untrained puppy and we shouldn’t have bought those Disneyland tickets for December please don’t divorce me—
“It was…well, it wasn’t great.” Frank settles on instead. Abby can tell something’s off, of course she can, but he can tell she’s just assuming it was the chaos of the day. “Are you okay? What can I do for you? Other than the pizza.”
You can convince Robby he’s making a ginormous fucking mistake or better yet drop something heavy on his head so he forgets the last twelve hours or go back in time and keep that little shit-stirrer from ever even considering an internship here—
“Just…need to shower and sleep. Don’t want the kids to worry.”
“Doubt they’ll be able to tell anything’s wrong. I tried to explain why you were late and they were more interested in if I’d let them feed Noodle pizza.” She’s trying to cheer him up, and he musters a small smile. “You should at least sit down and eat with them. If you’re up for it.”
He sits down, chews his way through pizza that tastes like cardboard in his mouth, and watches Tanner smear ranch dressing all over himself. Avery is tearing off pepperoni slices and feeding them to Noodle, ignoring Abby pleading for her to stop until she gets out her Mom Voice, shooting Frank a please-help-me-here look.
He gets Avery to stop without causing a tantrum, makes sundaes for the kids for dessert just ‘cause, and then he starts on the dishes.
Abby sidles up next to him. “Y’don’t gotta do these, not after today…”
“Makin’ it up to you.” He sets another plate in the washer.
“Making what up to me?”
“Being late. I was gonna make some salmon for dinner, so also for that, not that Ave or Tan mind the pizza.”
She bumps him with her hip. “I don’t care about salmon. Just want you to be okay.”
“Fine, then it’s to make up for Noodle.” He glances out the window where the dog is outside running around in the dark, working off only a tiny percentage of his remaining energy for the night.
Abby snorts. “I’m warming up to him.”
He scrubs extra hard at a spot on the plate. “I’m fine, though. Really.”
“...Will you tell me more about today once we put them to bed? Please?” He sees the obvious concern in her eyes.
He nods, accepting her squeeze of his arm as she goes to start the bedtime process.
Frank joins her after his own shower, reading separate stories for Tanner then Avery, who won’t go to bed without him. He sits next to her, feeling her little puffs of air against his face as she complains that he isn’t doing enough funny voices, so he ups the ante. When she finally falls asleep he sits next to her for a long time, watching her delicate eyelashes, her little hands clutching her stuffed brown dog. He takes a picture on his phone to have, just in case, and sits on her floor, checking his texts. Nothing. He sends a few more to Robby, then, ignoring the way his hands start to shake, he opens google and tries to piece together the quickest possible timeline he could have for getting back to work if he did everything Robby asked him to.
When he can’t get anything under six months, he curses again, flicking his phone off and putting his head in his arms. Abby finds him like that and drags him to bed. “Come to bed so you don’t fall asleep on the floor again.” She chides, but he can still sense the worry that she can’t quite hide. When he crawls into bed she’s still awake, though he can tell she doesn’t want to be; the kids usually run her ragged before it’s even dark out.
“Y’want a back rub? Foot rub?”
Abby lays silently in the dark for a long moment before turning over to look at him. “You’re freaking me out.”
“What? Why?”
“...Why’re you being so nice?”
“What? I’m always nice—”
“No, you’re always amazing, just…I want you to be able to talk to me about it if your shift made you feel fucked up, y’know? You called earlier to talk to Tanner, too, just…if it was a hard day…”
“Of course it was a hard fuckin’ day. What if the thing that makes me feel better is coming home and taking care of you guys?”
Abby blinks, looking a bit taken aback at the irritation in his tone. “...I know, Frank. It just felt…kinda…put on tonight, okay? I just wanted to check in.”
“Put on.” He grumbles, rolling over onto his back and wincing at the pain, punching his pillow. “Maybe I saw enough dead fucking kids today and wanted to spoil my own, huh?”
He feels bad about it when she flinches at the punch. “Jesus, honey. I’m sorry.” Abby whispers. The uncertain look on her face makes Frank feel even worse.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just—last chance for the back rub, okay?”
“Why do you think right now I want a bac—”
“—I said I wanted to make it up to you.” He cuts in, still firm enough for his voice to sound harsh in the quiet of their room.
“There’s nothing to make up.”
“I know there isn’t.” Frank catches the defensive thread in his voice and tries to smooth it into something softer. “I’m sorry. I’m tired.”
“It’s okay. Is there anything else?”
“What, to make up?”
“...No. Anything else bothering you. But…” He feels Abby’s eyes studying him, and he knows if he looks over at her she’ll have that worried, furrowed-brow look on her face. “Is there? To make up?”
He swallows. “Just being late. And the salmon. And Noodle.”
He can tell she’s deciding if she wants to prod or not, and she settles for a soft one. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
They lay in silence for another long stretch before he speaks again. “Just…I worry about you guys. There was—we thought the shooter might come to the hospital for a minute, right? And I worry about what you guys would do without me.” It’s the only kind of half-truth he can muster right now.
“...I don’t know if you want me to say we’d miss you to death or be fine without you.” Abby finally responds. “But it’d be both. Nothing like that did happen to you today, though, so…try not to think like that, okay?”
“But what if it did? What if I got…hurt, or…incapacitated or…let you down somehow, and I had to…be…away?”
Abby’s eyes narrow, glinting in the light slatting through the window. “Be away? Just…I d’know, we’d figure it out, I guess. Dig into the savings, lean on my parents, whatever. We’d miss you, but, y’know…in this hypothetical scenario we’d…visit until you’re better. It’d be okay.”
Frank stares up at the ceiling, voice cracking when he finally does respond. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’m getting too in my head. Hah.”
“Just…don’t get incapacitated, and it’ll be fine. You’ve made it this far.” She kisses his cheek. “And I’m never worried about you letting us down, okay? Try to sleep.”
“Okay.”
She rolls over. “Love you.”
Five minutes later, Frank is still staring at her back. He inhales quietly and clenches his fists under the duvet. “Abby?”
“...Mm?”
“Can I tell you something?”
She makes a snuffly sound, the kind she makes when she’s already half asleep. He waits for more from her, but doesn’t get it. Another few minutes and she’s out entirely.
With nowhere else to go, Frank’s thoughts turn right back to the day. The fan is still and unmoving above his eyes. Robby’s never gonna believe him. Or even forgive him. Dana’s probably gonna get the fuck out and never come back, and all he did was probably cement that decision for good. Santos is gonna run around and tell everyone she got him fired, destroy his reputation, and even if he could make it back nobody would ever trust or believe in him ever again, they’d always be looking at him like a—
Like a fucking—
His brain doesn’t even want to creep near the word addict. He’d know. He’s not a fucking idiot, nor is he a fucking addict, but the possibility of getting all of this straightened out is feeling further and further away. He thinks about Mel, the strange way she’d touched him today, not something he’d been expecting from a random intern on a random first day, but she’d knocked it out of the park. She’d also seemed so eager to learn from him, so happy to feel like there was anything at all to teach him in turn. The thought of her wondering where he is then hearing about what happened through secondhand gossip kinda makes him want to slam his head into the wall. Something about that feels especially horrible.
He goes to the bathroom after an hour of laying there, caving and taking a sleeping pill (he can’t sleep without a fucking lorazepam but he’d rather save those for the days to come), and lays back down. He pulls out his phone, blearily scrolling through his texts with Robby again.
Feeling sleep finally start to tug at his eyelids, he types one more message:
- Hope you’re sleeping okay. I know I’m not. You know me man. Please don’t do this.
He thinks he’s imagining the three dots, but they’re real, and he sits up in bed, watching Robby type for ten, twenty seconds before they disappear. Nothing comes through. He waits ten minutes, staring at the unchanging screen.
Nothing.
Frank blinks back what feels suspiciously like tears, sets his phone on his bedside table, and shuts his eyes.
+
Donnie leaves first. Then Princess. Victoria seems like she'll stick around as long as Mateo does, and he offers to give her a ride home shortly after she makes it most of the way through her beer, belches loudly, blushes, apologizes, and glances around like she needs an escape. Samira doesn't even realize she's been hoping they'd leave until they both say their goodbyes, heading back towards the parking lot. That leaves her with Abbot, who doesn't seem like he's in a hurry to get anywhere, his prosthetic still sitting neatly on the ground next to their little bench.
Samira looks at him quietly. “Thanks again, for the, y'know…with the help with that intracardiac air embolism. And with Walsh.”
Abbot cracks a one-sided smile, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “I knew you could do it. No big deal.”
The praise makes her stomach flutter softly, so soft Samira almost doesn't notice. It's a slightly different feeling than when Robby or Collins or someone else she really looks up to commends her, but she can't put her finger on it. Maybe because Abbot has this quiet intensity about him, this easy command. He's exactly who she'd want in the fray on a night like tonight. She tilts her head, still looking at him. “Thank you. Means a lot coming from you.”
Abbot’s eyes sneak over to hers again. “I wouldn't have trusted just anyone to pull that off, y’know. Not in those constraints after that shift. Plus Walsh, y’know…Walshing all over the room.”
She laughs softly. “Yeah. She's one of the only people I'm actually intimidated by.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “She's all bark, no bite. I don't think you should be intimidated by anyone, anyway. You've more than proven yourself. Way before today.”
Samira feels a weird kind of urge, wanting to be honest with him, thinking maybe he'll understand, after today. “...Still feel like I have to try harder than I should, I guess.” She laughs awkwardly, trying to sound more casual, but she feels like maybe that just makes it worse.
The look Abbot gives her is more perceptive than Samira woud like. “That's because you really give a shit. It's a good thing, y’just gotta…trust yourself. Reframe that way of thinking as something like ‘I try hard because I'm smart and kickass, and I really care about this patient.’” He takes a long sip of his beer. Samira can tell it's almost empty, and the thought makes her feel strangely bereft.
“I mean…I know I'm smart and kickass, just—” She mumbles, tipping her head back and forth. He cuts her off, looking at her with that intense gaze of his.
“Nah, c’mon, say it like you mean it.”
She laughs, not thinking he's serious, but he just looks at her expectantly. She gives him a skeptical look, but eventually falters. “I’m smart and kickass.”
“That was never in dispute.” Abbot smiles. “I heard about the Burr hole.”
She wonders vaguely why that makes her want to blush. “That was honestly incredible. It happened so fast, too!”
“That's the thing I love about emergency medicine.” Abbot agrees. “Instant gratification. Proving hunches. Improvising.”
Samira huffs. “Like jazz.”
That gets a surprising little bark of a laugh out of him. “Yeah. Like jazz.”
They fall into a little lull, and Samira looks back in the direction Robby had walked home, through the park. “Y’think Robby’s okay? I've never seen him like that.”
Abbot breathes slowly, staring in the same direction. “I think he will be. Might be slow, that one…” He shakes his head. “After today I worry he'll give himself an MI before he ends up in therapy of his own volition.”
Samira sighs. “...Yeah. I do too.” A pause, then she eyes him. “Are you in therapy?”
He nods, taking an easy sip of his beer. “Why, yes I am. Are you?”
Part of Samira is surprised by that, but part of her isn't. “I…was. For a long time, as a teenager. But not recently. Been wanting to start again, but, y’know…” She looks at him a little sheepishly. “Work.”
“I know. Work.” His eyes find hers again. “But that's exactly why you oughta be in it, y'know. Work.”
She sighs, tipping her head back to look at the stars. “I know, I know.” A beat. “I know.”
More silence. “How was it for you back then? As a teenager?” Abbot attempts a little joke. “Did it make it any less painful?”
She gives a small little smile. “Nah. I didn't spend that much time talking about…adolescent crap, anyway, just…” She looks carefully away, then back again. “I started after my dad died.”
Samira sees something flicker in Abbot’s expression, a register of some kind of feeling, though she doesn't know what beyond the basic sympathy. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Long time ago. Sucks, still, obviously, but…long time ago.”
“I started because of grieving too.” He contributes. “Time does help, but it's good to stick with it. Consistently.”
Samira studies his face. She thinks he's talking about his late wife, but she doesn't know much about that, and she's not sure she should ask. “...How long ago?”
“Comin’ on three years.”
She nods, looking down at her fingers, drumming them on her knees. “I’m sorry that happened too.”
For a moment Abbot doesn't respond, but he does give her a small, genuine smile. “Yeah. My guy’s pretty good, if you ever need someone to talk to.”
Feeling a bit brave, Samira lets herself look at him again. “We're talking now, aren't we?”
Something pained passes over Abbot’s face at that, and Samira feels a surge of regret, like maybe that was weird to say, so she jumps in to fill the silence: “Anyway, now I'm using what happened with my dad to help me with my research, so…I have that.” She feels like she's affirming it for herself as much as she is for him. “I have that.”
This feels like the longest conversation they've had that's veered into more personal territory. Certainly the longest one they've had outside of work. It's a bit scary, but Samira can't say she doesn't like it. She does—kind of a lot. There's something comforting about Abbot, this sense that he gets her, which is a sense Samira has had very few times in her life, with very few people. She could probably count it on one hand. Yet here he is, sitting next to her with his beer, occasionally breaking into silence to listen to the sirens, and she feels like he's really, really listening.
“Your research. It's…the disparities thing, yeah?”
She nods, flattered he remembered. “Yes. I’m still doing so much compiling and sifting in broader sweeps, but I'm really starting to narrow in on a few specific concentrations to focus on. We had a sickle cell patient today, actually, and it completely lined up with what I've been digging into for that recently—”
They talk for at least thirty more minutes, though it feels much shorter. The time passes quickly, but it also feels like the kind of long, meandering conversation that Samira hasn't had in a long time. The kind where everything you say is heard, and you're completely invested in everything the other person has to say. Looking at Jack in this light, she feels a little less guilty for noticing the sharp cut of his jaw and cheeks, the gritty layer of grey and white stubble poking through, like snow on cement. It's almost glinting in the orange light of the streetlamps, and he's kind of scary when it comes to eye contact, something that feels like an easy intensity when they're in the thick of it at work, but is a little scary when the backdrop is the darkness and stillness of this park, this bench.
When another lull finally does come, Abbot sighs, reaching down and rubbing at his leg again. Samira knows about his prosthetic already, but she's never seen him with it off. She wonders if he often takes it off like this after a shift, maybe lingers outside in this spot or somewhere else. He seems like the type.
He catches her eye. “I need to go in for a new socket soon. ‘s been giving me trouble lately.”
She nods, looking down at his leg with interest. “From…weight changes, or overuse, or something else?”
“Both. Been overdoing it for the last year, I’d say. More hiking, walks, as recommended by my therapist.” Abbot says it slightly ruefully. “Lost a little weight, so it's a little looser than I'd like.”
Samira nods, interested, eyes flicking quickly over his body. He doesn't look like he's lost much weight. He's still…pretty built, for his age, or just in general. His arms, especially. She wonders if that's an odd thing to think about, or just objective. He makes it harder for her to parse that line. “How long have you had it?”
“The injury or this socket?”
Samira'd been asking about the socket, but she'd honestly love to hear more about both. She shrugs. “Both, if you'll tell me.”
He answers easily. “The amputation about…seventeen years? And this socket, a few. So it's due for a replacement soon, anyway.”
Samira nods, still interested. “Y'know, that reminds me of a case study I was reading the other day, it was about racial disparities in prosthesis abandonment and mobility outcomes for vets. Published last year.”
“Yeah?”
That gets them talking for another twenty.
Abbot eventually slips his prosthetic back on with a grunt after Samira’s second or third yawn of the past ten minutes or so. “Alright. If either of us wanna get any sleep, we should probably at least try ‘n make it home before coming back in.”
Samira sighs, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Yeah. I thought I'd be able to make it longer, work a double, but…had to tap out eventually.”
He regards her with an idle smile. “You say that like it's a moral failing. What time did you start again, seven AM?”
She tips her head in acknowledgement. “Yeah. Seven AM.”
He leans a little closer to her on the bench, neck bending so his eyes meet hers head-on. “Go home, Dr. Mohan.”
“...You first, Dr. Abbot.”
There's an odd, charged little moment, and she gets a little thrill when he's the one who looks down first. He stands with a grunt. “I'm wired to work nights, not sure I'll even be able to sleep. I’m not the one who did fifteen hours straight…”
Samira shrugs. “I like working either, but days are…I like the people more, I guess. And I like getting to walk here with the sunrise and home with the sunset, at least in the summer.”
“Mm. I get that. I like getting here right when it's getting dark.”
Samira pulls her bag onto her shoulders. “Sometimes it's just starting to set when I leave, and then right when I get home is right when it sinks out of sight ‘n gets dark. I've always liked that, it's like I'm walking towards the night.” She realized that sounds a little silly and makes a face, but Abbot just nods, eyes steady on her face like they always are.
“It'd be nice to have you around for more nights. Gotta come to the dark side.”
“...It'd be nice to have you around for more days.” Samira counters, feeling that twisty feeling in her stomach again, unable to resist the urge to meet him halfway. “...Gotta join the light.”
“Terminator line.” Abbot smiles.
She furrows her eyebrows, but he doesn't elaborate. “I thought we were doing Star Wars?”
That gets a long laugh out of him. “No, no…that's the term for the line that moves with the Earth, separating the dark side from the light side. Day and night. Terminator line, like a twilight zone.”
“Oh! Oh. Cool.” Samira nods, a little embarrassed she didn't catch his meaning. “Cool. That is what it's like! Not the movie.”
He looks almost fond as he smiles at her. “Not the movie, no. Actually, I don't think anyone in the movies even ever actually says ‘Join the dark side,’ technically. It's something like ‘join me and we'll rule.’ I think.”
She bites down on the smile that Abbot's mild nerdiness inspires. “Oh, something like that?”
He laughs, head barely bobbing like he's resisting the urge to duck it. “Yes. Don't act like you're too good for that reference.”
Samira grimaces. “Cut me some slack, it's been a hard day.”
“That it has.” Abbot holds out a fist. “You killed it. Try to get home ‘n take care of yourself so it doesn’t all crash down at once.”
“Already kinda did crash down.” She admits, pulling out her headphones. “But I will. You too.”
He nods. “I will.”
They linger for a moment, both not seeming sure where to end it, or maybe not wanting to. Finally, Samira takes a step back. “Well…I’m goin’ this way.”
“I'll…do you need someone to walk you?” He tries, suddenly seeming a little uncertain.
She huffs softly. “No, it's not far.”
“Yeah, but…it's late. It's dark. There was a shooting today…It'd be no trouble for me to drive you.”
Samira hesitates. “I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know that, Dr. Mohan.”
Why does the way he said that make her want to giggle? She tamps down on the urge. She really does need to sleep. “It’s, like, fifteen minutes.”
“So…four minute drive?”
She sighs, relenting. “Oh my god, fine, nobody’s gonna shoot me on the way home.”
“Not if you’re in my car they aren’t.”
Samira glares. “Fine. Can I look through your go-bag on the way?”
Abbot’s expression grows even fonder. “You can do whatever you want.”
+
Cassie has a single, unfailing rule that has gotten her through every shitty shift, and day, of her entire life: it’s gotta end. No matter what, no matter how shitty, the day’s gonna end at some point, even if it takes its sweet fucking time getting there. Today sure as shit did.
She gets to her parent’s and finds Harrison and her dad halfway through Planet of the Apes. Contrary to being scared, Harrison seems bored, if anything, right back on his IPad. She reaches down and scratches at his hair. “Hey, enough of that for today. Y’won’t be able to sleep.”
He looks up at her, leaning into her side for a half-hug while her dad pauses the movie. “You took forever to get home.”
“Believe me, it felt even longer than that. This all you’ve been up to?”
“Pretty much. We saved some food for you.”
Cassie looks at her dad, and he nods. “In the fridge. I’ll heat it up for you.” His knees creak as he gets to his feet.
“Dad, y’don’t have to—”
“Oh, yes, I do.” He’s already halfway to the kitchen. Cassie sits next to Harrison on the couch while she eats (and he keeps trying to steal bites with his grubby little hands until she sends him to the kitchen for seconds).
Her dad reaches out to shake her wrist. “You okay there, slick?”
She lets her head drop to the back of the couch. “Mm. Wanna sleep for fifteen years, but I gotta go to the station before work to deal with this.” She flops her ankle out. “So I’ll settle for, like, six hours.”
“Deal with it how?”
She looks at him, shaking her bangs out of her face. “...I drilled through it during the mass casualty because it was going off again. Then they tried to arrest me for it because they didn’t have anything better to be fucking doing, I guess.”
Cassie’s dad just looks at her, a look she’s grown very familiar with over the years, the look that tells her he can’t decide whether to scold her or laugh at her. “...But it’s okay?”
“It’s okay. Prolly. They might fine me, I d’know. I’m just hoping it doesn’t fuck up the custody shit.”
“It’d be ridiculous if it did. We’d fight that.”
She leans her head on his shoulder for a minute. “I know.”
He gives her a squeeze. “I’ll have a pot brewing for you when you wake up.”
She snorts. “You say that now, but I don’t believe you’ll wanna drag yourself out of bed.”
“...Well, at least I can say I’ll try.”
Harrison falls asleep before the movie’s over, and Cassie jostles him, getting him up to go to bed. He’s too old for stories or anything like that, but sometimes he’ll let her half-tuck him in, if he’s tired enough. He looks up at her. “What was going on today?”
“Grandpa didn’t tell you?”
“Not really…he said I should wait for you to talk to me about it.”
“Dad didn’t say anything?”
“He said the same thing.”
Cassie sighs, then motions for him to budge over so she can sit next to him. “What all did you see?”
“Just…a lot of people out the window moving around…a lot of blood.”
Cassie knocks her shoulder into his. “Did it scare you?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
“You sure?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure. It’s not like I’ve never been there before.”
“I know, but…today was a little different. There was a shooting at Pittfest.” She thinks it’s best to be straightforward about it. It’s not like he isn’t used to talk of this kind of thing at school.
“Oh, really?” Harrison sits up a little. “How many people died?”
“Well…as of right now, around six. But over a hundred were hurt.”
“Did they catch the guy?”
“...He took his own life, too.”
“Why’d he do it?”
Cassie leans into him. “I…don’t know. But…we did what we could to help everyone that we could. It was…hectic. One of the most hectic shifts I’ve ever worked, even without worrying about you being there.”
“I get why you wouldn’t let me go pee.” Harrison finally mumbles.
Cassie smiles. “Yeah. Pretty good reason, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“How do you feel?”
He shrugs. “They talk about it a lot at school, and we do the drills and stuff, so…it’s just one of those things that happens.”
“Wish it never happened anywhere. It shouldn’t be something that’s normal to you, y’know? It should be…unthinkable.”
“...Do you think they’ll cancel school on Monday?”
Cassie scoffs. “That’s all you care about?”
Harrison squirms under his covers, getting more comfy. “No! But…y’know…might as well get something out of it.”
She huffs, shaking her head, but can’t help laughing at least a little at that. “No, no. It’s just one of those horrible things.” Cassie looks at Harrison, her sweet boy, and wonders if he’ll stay that way forever. Against her better judgement, she opens her mouth again. “I…we had a patient today. An eighteen-year-old boy named David.”
“...Okay…?”
“He…his mom asked us for help, because she found a list he made of girls at school he wanted to hurt.” Part of Cassie worries this’ll just put ideas into Harrison’s head, but she wants to talk to him about it, she knows it’ll eat at her if she doesn’t.
Harrison doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, blinking quietly at her in the dim light of his Minecraft lamp.
“I bring it up because…there’s a lot of…bad stuff out there influencing young boys. It can make them think that’s the right way to do things, that they should blame women. I don’t…believe me, I think you have a…heart of gold. I don’t worry about you hurting anybody. But I don’t want you to ever see anything that makes you think that kind of thinking is normal, okay?”
“I…don’t…”
“I know, honey. But if you ever have friends that are talking like that I don’t want you to think it’s cool, okay? I’d want you to know you can talk to me about it, or if you’re ever feeling feelings like that, you can always come to me, or grandpa, or even dad, as long as you tell someone.”
The way Harrison usually does during talks like this, the same way he did during her attempt at a puberty talk, he just squirms around restlessly and nods. “Okay, okay, I know, Mom.”
She sighs. “Okay. Love you.”
“You too.”
Cassie smiles and leans in to kiss his hair. “You still haven’t had a bath?”
He rolls his eyes. “You could use one too, Mom…”
“Hey!” She leans down to smell herself, wincing. “Yeah, true. But the difference is I’m about to go take one. You promise to take one tomorrow?”
“I promise.”
She leaves him to sleep, finding her dad still in the den. He stands, pulling her into a hug. “Proud of you. I know today wasn’t easy.”
“Is any day?” Cassie inhales the familiar, soapy smell of her dad’s shoulder.
“Nope. y’know what I always say.”
“Day’s gotta end sometime?”
“Day’s gotta end sometime. Get some sleep, kiddo.”
+
Victoria is praying to every higher power there is that Mateo doesn't ask her how she got here today, because having to say with my mom would feel equivalent to telling him her mommy let her come to work for the day. She’d been planning on driving herself—insistent on it, despite her mother’s own insistence on carpooling—until she got in a fender bender a few days before and she had to take it in to get fixed up. It’s still in the shop. Victoria supposes she’s kind of grateful, since it means she gets to go home with Mateo tonight. Not—go home go home, just—get a ride with him. A ride to her home, where he will then leave her and go to his own home. Separately. At least it’s a chance to spend some more time together, maybe establish more of a connection.
Victoria follows Mateo to his car, trying not to feel like a puppy, replaying over and over again the moment where the beer made her burp. It’s not her fault she’s barely eaten today and has some acid reflux, that’s literally normal. Why do people even like beer so much, when it tastes like wet bread and makes you burp? It’s not like it even has enough alcohol to really relax you unless you have more than two or three, so why is it what they’d choose after a shift as hard as today? Oh, God, if she wants to keep hanging out with Mateo is she just gonna have to get used to it? Will she have to end every shift with a beer? Or just the occasional one? How often do they even do this? If it becomes a routine, one that she’s a part of, will he want to go for drinks once she’s twenty-one but he’ll still expect her to order beer because she pretended to like it? Or will he not want to hang out with her somewhere like that and just keep it as an after work thing with other people?
Victoria can feel him looking over at her, and she blinks at him, trying to look a little bit less like she’s overthinking things to a degree that would probably earn her a psych eval if she voiced literally any of it.
“I can hear you thinking all the way over here.”
“Ah, not really—just—today was crazy.” She sighs. “You can?”
“Mhm. Can smell it too.”
She narrows her eyes, unsure where he’s going with this. “What does it smell like?”
He smiles crookedly, a dimple peeking out of his cheek. “Burnt rubber. You’re spinning yourself out.”
She snorts. “Maybe a little. Wouldn’t you, if this was your first day?”
He concedes, nodding and furling his lips as he considers it. “...Yeah. Not that my first day was great, I was getting started in the post-COVID boom, but…”
Victoria winces. “I can’t imagine.”
“Yeah…” He shakes his head. “I was at Hershey then, in Philly. Made it even worse.”
“...How was that?”
“There’s a reason I don’t even live in Philadelphia anymore.”
“...Right. You, uh… from there?”
Mateo shakes his head. “Nope. Nevada. Moved out here when I was nineteen.”
“Oh, why?”
He gives her a mischievous look. “Followed a girl.”
Before she can ask anything else about that they’re at his car and the moment is lost. She’d feel awkward bringing it back up now, after that disastrous attempt at asking him out earlier. She thinks they’re on better ground now, but it still feels fragile, and she doesn’t wanna be too eager and scare him off. If he moved here for a girl, are they still together? But he’d started in Philadelphia, it sounds like, so maybe he’d still be there if they were still together. Unless she also wanted to come to Pittsburgh. Shit. She clambers into his passenger seat and gives her address.
Mateo whistles. “Nice neighborhood. I have a friend who grew up over there. Sammy Cliff, y’know her?”
“Um…she went to my high school, I think.” Victoria searches her mind and a vague image of a small girl with dark spiky hair comes to mind. She’d been cool. Another spike of jealousy makes itself known in the pit of her stomach.
“Yeah, she’s dating my roomie. Probably doesn’t live near you anymore ‘cause she’s over all the damn time—”
The explanation and the irritation in his voice makes Victoria feel a little better. “Oh, yeah?”
He heaves a sigh. “I’m moving out soon so they can move in together, and I think I wanna be alone for once. Never really been able to afford it, but I found a studio close to work I’m kinda stoked on. Y’still live at home?”
Victoria wonders if it’s a kind of trick question, but answers honestly, with a sheepish little cringe. “Yeah…”
He turns onto the street. “Ain’t a bad thing. Free food, no rent…enjoy it while you got it.”
“Mhm, the only catch is my mother.” Victoria jokes.
It seems like Mateo senses the kernel of truth there, but he gives her an amused little smile regardless. “Yeah, I bet there’s a lotta pressure there. Can’t really come home ‘n decompress from work when y’have a mom like that.”
Victoria leans her head back, staring up at the grey ceiling of the car instead of Mateo’s profile as he drives, his jawline, his hands on the wheel. “No you cannot.”
“Y’kicked ass in front of her today, at least, right? Y’gonna get any brownie points for that at home?”
Victoria tilts her head back and forth, thinking it over. “...Probably some. But I’m already mentally prepping for all of the buts and ifs that are gonna be tacked onto it. I noticed with one patient that you missed this, or could’ve done that. That kinda thing.” She blushes, realizing she’s doing the exact thing she didn’t want to do, which is rambling about her mom. “Sorry.”
He waves a hand. “Nah, don’t be. I get the sense she doesn’t always know how to read a room.” He shoots another playful look her way before returning to the road.
Victoria just feels the blush worsen, but the look on his face makes her heart flutter. “I mean, she wasn't!”
“No, she was not.” He makes a little tsk sound, shaking his head. “Surgeons.”
“...Yeah. Surgeons."
Things Victoria notices about Mateo as he drives are:
-
He doesn't bring up her fainting that morning, almost like everybody actually has already forgotten it. Or like he's just being nice. She hopes it's the former.
-
He doesn't press too much about her mom, sensing her resistance to talk about it, but is still attentive to what's bothering her.
-
He skirts politely around any of her attempts at flirting or asking about his love life or extracurricular activities.
-
He's good at driving. And talking. And everything.
Victoria wishes she lived further away when they do pull up in front of her house. The lights inside are on, and she knows her mom probably got home an hour or so ago and will want to talk about the day. The thought makes the exhaustion come right back, temporarily abated by Mateo's presence like a half-filled helium balloon, up and down depending on whoever’s holding it. It must show on her face, because he gives her a sympathetic look. “Dr. Shamsi gonna complain about…ET tubes ‘n urine bags over the dinner table?”
She snickers into her hand, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “Probably, probably. Shit.”
When she opens them again he's right there, looking at her, and she feels a nervous tingle zip right through her. “Well, after what you handled today, I think y’can take her just fine, y’know?”
She nods, and he keeps talking. “And Robby was right when he said he can pretty much guarantee the next one won't be as bad.”
“God, he better have been.” Victoria sits for a long moment, feeling the exhaustion weigh even heavier on her. She could sleep right here. She wishes she could, just press her face to the glass and sleep while Mateo drives around. She pushes the thought away. “He seem okay to you, at the end?”
Mateo seems to measure his response to that more than he usually would, eyes scrunching. “I …I mean, I haven't ever seen him exactly like that.”
“Like…crying, and stuff?”
“...Yeah, but, like, it was moreso the way he was crying. Like it was all about to come pouring out.”
“I hope he takes care of himself.” Victoria finally says. “I respect him so much already, I’m excited to learn from him. It’s just…scary that even ER vets can be that…affected?”
“Today wasn’t like other days.” Mateo sighs, shifting to look at her directly, the porch light illuminating his features, his curls. “‘N he’s not from our generation, y’know? Not like we’re not used to thinking about shootings pretty often.”
She starts to pull her legs up before remembering there’s probably blood on her sneakers. “Sorry.” She puts them back down. “Do they know why he did it yet?”
“Maybe. Haven’t checked. Not sure I care whatever beef he had with whatever minority. Or all of ‘em.” Mateo rubs at his eyes, a tenseness to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Fucking hell.”
After a moment of deliberation, Victoria hesitantly reaches out, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He allows it, but looks at her after a moment, a hand laying on top of hers as he guides her hand back down to her lap. “Y’remember what I said earlier?”
Heat crawls down her throat, up her cheeks. She hopes he didn’t feel how clammy her hand was. “Uh—when?”
“Victoria.”
“—Uh, yeah?”
“It still stands, okay? I think you’re really cool. And badass. I’m excited for us to be friends. Cool?”
Victoria tries not to swallow her tongue. “Y-yeah. Cool.” She wills her voice to sound less strangled. “Honestly, I know I’m kinda—awkward with people my age sometimes, hah. So—yes. I wanna be friends. And if there are any more…beer nights, or whatever, I’d love to partak–to hang out.”
He grins. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty more. You newbies seem like you’re gonna shake things up around here.”
“...Just might.”
The smile he gives her is warm, reaching his eyes and radiating outward, despite how tired they both are. “Alright. Go get some sleep, slugger. See y’tomorrow?”
She exhales not-at-all-shakily. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Bright ‘n early.” The thought makes her shut her eyes for another long moment.
“You’ll survive. Night, Victoria.”
She fumbles for the door handle. “Night. Mateo.” She grabs her bag, exiting the car not unlike a baby deer. “Night.”
+
The thought’s been niggling in Dana’s head all day, but she’s been resolutely ignoring it: she’s in for it when she gets home. Benji's gonna take one look at her eye and try to summon a calvary he doesn’t even have to hunt that Doug asshole down, never mind the fact that the cops already got to him. The thought exhausts her before she's even stepped in the door. Him doting over her, asking if she's okay over and over. She hates that shit. She needs a shower. She needs more coffee. She needs a different job. She needs another fucking cigarette.
She wishes either of her daughters were home, but she'd also hate to bother either of them. Ellie just started her senior year at Pitt and Kath’s in Chicago with her family, and she talked to both of them on the phone on her drive home. She convinced Ellie not to drive home tonight to see her and to wait until tomorrow, and she told Kath that she’ll talk to her for longer tomorrow when she can muster more than grunts. All she really wants right now is dead silence, whether she sleeps or not. She’s afraid if she tells anyone else about her decision about work that they’ll try to convince her to stay, not unlike the texts she’s currently getting (and ignoring) from Frank. If she wasn’t sure about whatever led Robby to think Frank’s an addict, she’s pretty fucking sure she has a good idea now, and that the word misunderstanding has nothing to do with it. She’s barely skimming most of them, but one of them does grab her. You know Robby was off all day today even before everything happened. Night nurse saw him in Pedes on the floor, crying + breaking down + talking to himself. So if anyone’s in trouble it’s him.
Dana knows to take everything Frank says with a grain of salt, but her mind immediately fills in the blanks, Robby asking her if she’d heard any rumors about him that night.
She avoids Benji’s eyes when she gets in, tilting her head and letting her hair fall, but he’s on her immediately. “What the fuck?”
She sighs. “Unhappy patient. ‘S fine.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” He echoes flatly, tilting her head. “Y’need me to kill him?”
“How y’gonna do that?” She waves him off. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just need to take it easy a few weeks ‘n it should be okay.”
“Did they catch him? Or do I need to—”
“They caught him, they caught him. Now make yourself actually useful ‘n make dinner.”
“There’s ziti in the oven ready to go.”
“Wow, y’must’ve really been worried if you sprang for the ziti.”
Benji softens. “I was. I am. I was worried before you showed up here looking like a battered wife—”
“We don’t really say ‘battered wife’ anymore.” Dana corrects, shrugging her coat off. “And everyone’s gonna assume you’re the one doing the battering.”
“Other way around, if anything.” Benji takes her coat and hangs it up, then her bag. “Will ya at least sit? Please?”
“I may never stand up again.” Dana warns, sinking into his armchair. She knows it’s bad because he brings her a tv dinner tray, the kind that reminds her of when the girls were little and they’d eat in front of the TV while he was still at work. He brings her a plate and she eats dutifully, body tired but her mind wired from the coffee and the day. Benji knows enough about her bad days by now not to poke the bear, silent next to her. He does bring her a beer, and she snorts and rolls her eyes but takes a long sip anyway. “Need something a lot stronger than this.”
“It is a friday…”
“Maybe my last one.” She grumbles.
It’s annoying that Benji doesn’t react with much more than a cocked eyebrow. “Yeah? You’ve said that before, y’know. If I had a nickel…”
“Today takes the fucking cake.” She says, wiping the beer from her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s twenty years younger. “It takes the fucking chef who baked the fucking cake.”
“Takes the chicken that laid the eggs that the chef used to make the fucking cake?” He offers, trying to make her laugh. It doesn’t work.
Dana glowers. “If y’go back far enough it all just comes back to God.”
“Uh oh, it’s one of those nights?”
“Oh, it’s one of those nights, alright. I think I mean it this time.”
“That’s what you said last year after the guy with the gerbil in hi—”
“Spare me.” She groans, pushing her plate away with a clatter. “I’ve never seen anything like today. And there’s nothing I haven’t fuckin’ seen.”
“I know, I know.” Benji clears his throat, reaching out to give her wrist a squeeze and not seeming bothered in the slightest when she shakes him off. “But whenever I talk about retiring ‘n going out to Vegas y’push it off another few years.”
Dana worries her lip, shrugging as she stares blankly at the dead tv. “Maybe it’s time. I d’know.”
“...Y’really mean it this time, don’t you?”
Another shrug. “Just fuckin’ might.”
Dana showers after that, tolerating only the bare minimum of Benji's fussing as she wraps herself up in her thickest cardigan and curls up in bed, waiting for him to fall asleep. It doesn’t take long, even at his most attentive he’s never been able to stay up for longer than ten minutes once he’s horizontal. Once he starts snoring she slips out to the back porch for a smoke. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep for a while, yet. She’s startled by her phone ringing—Heather.
“H—”
“Are you okay?”
Dana takes a long drag, head tilting back. “Been better. It was a fucked up day before the MCI, so…”
“God, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—I just woke up—”
“And I’m your first call? That’s actually pretty sweet.”
“Who else would I call?”
“...Um, about six foot one, rhymes with ‘Lobby’...?”
“...Yeah, he’s next. Are you okay? Is he?”
“Oh you know me.” Dana ashes her cigarette, watching the little sparks float up into the dark sky. Her neighborhood is quiet this time of night, and her blood pressure finally feels like it’s starting to lower. “I’m alright. More worried about him.”
“That’s always the case with him. You sure you’re okay? Don’t need me to come over?”
“No, no. I promise. I’m gonna crawl back into bed after this cigarette.”
“If there was ever a day to smoke…”
Dana huffs a laugh, and Heather fills in the silence: “So…Robby? That bad?”
“He spoke for everyone before we left tonight, and I swear to God it was in the vein of ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body,’ but it was about grief and crying. He was…in a bad way. Just standing and staring at Adamson’s picture last I saw him.”
Heather’s trying not to sound too worried, but Dana can hear it in her voice. “That bad?”
“It was…just one bad thing after another. Something happened with Frank. I d’know the details, frankly I…don’t want anything to do with it, but if anyone’s gonna talk him off whatever ledge…”
Heather’s sigh is long and about what Dana’s feeling like too. “I had that job and I quit for a reason.”
“Yeah, well, we’d all have jobs we’d like to quit.” Dana sinks to the concrete edge of her porch, sitting down. “There’s more. Jake’s girlfriend…one of the fatalities. He couldn’t save her.”
The other line is silent for a long, long breath, so long Dana opens her mouth to see if Heather’s still there before she hears the crackle of her taking a shaky breath. “‘Well, fuck.”
Dana nods even though she knows Heather can’t see her. “Well, fuck.” She echoes, dropping her cigarette and crushing it under her slipper. “Y’wanna check on our sad boy for me?”
“Don’t think I have much of a choice.”
“...Probably not, no.”
“...Alright. I will. I’m sure he’ll still be up.”
Dana hangs up a few minutes later, sitting and staring out at the grass for another ten minutes, listening to the quiet hiss of the sprinklers, the crickets. She thinks about having to walk back through those doors Monday morning and feels a dread thicker than the smoke clinging to her cardigan.
She thinks about getting out, and she thinks she really means it this time.
+
When Dennis comes back out after investigating his new room, Trinity's on her phone. “What d’you want? Surprising amount of places are open. Citywide tragedies make people hungry, I guess. And lazy, because they're like, ‘life is too short, let's order Pizza Hut and bang.'"
“I'll have whatever. I can venmo you.” Dennis offers instead, busying himself with starting on his laundry.
“How about you pay by letting me pick the place? And cleaning up when we're done.”
He looks at her, wanting to at least make an attempt at arguing, but she's already typing away on her phone, not even looking at him. “We're doing Filipino, I want comfort food. Look up the menu for Modern Filipino Cuisine and tell me what you want.”
Dennis gets Lechon Kawali, the first thing he reads on the menu, and finishes up his laundry. He stands awkwardly, watching her type away. “Um…can I…y’mind if I…shower?”
She looks up, unimpressed. “Am I your mother? You don't need to ask me if you can shower.”
“Well—I just didn't know about, like, water pressure and everything else—like, if you wanted to take one but it'd be cold if I went, then you should go first.”
“Huckleberry. I will shower after I eat. You're fine.” She says, exasperated, though not entirely unkind, either.
He nods, grateful, and grabs the one semi-clean pair of pajamas he has to change into.
The food has just arrived by the time Dennis gets out. He may have taken advantage of the novelty of having access to a private shower, standing against the wall with his head pressed to the tile for a good ten minutes before he'd even started scrubbing himself down; he hadn't been able to resist it. Trinity’s ex conveniently left behind some old spice body wash, so he'd just used that all over himself, hair included.
Trinity wrinkles her nose immediately when she smells him. “Jesus, that shit is strong, you smell like my fucking ex. That's weird.”
“Your ex wore old spice, huh?” He jokes, opening up his food.
“She thought it made her more masc.” Trinity grimaces, looking away. “I used to tease her for it.”
“Oh—sorry if I—”
“Eat your damn food.” She angles her fork, leaning in and stealing one of his bites of pork. “Before I do it for you.”
They eat in silence for a while, both of them realizing how hungry they are.
“Y’think Robby’s okay?” Trinity asks apropos of nothing, mouth half full as she swallows a particularly large bite.
“What—what d’you mean?” Dennis grips his fork a little tighter.
“Just—he seemed kinda…defeated, at the end there. Like, he started the day looking kinda beat down, then by the end of it—”
“He's a great doctor.” Dennis interrupts, feeling an odd need to defend him even though she hasn't really even said anything bad.
“Uh—yeah. I know.” Trinity shakes her head. “That’s why I’m asking. If even great doctors, weathered ones, can break, it's kinda scary, don't you think?”
“He didn't break.”
Her eyebrows knit. “Jesus, Whitaker, I didn't know you were so sweet on him, sorry for any offense caused. I didn't mean break in a dramatic way, I just meant, like, cry, ‘n shit.”
“Anyone would cry after today. It'd be weirder not to.” Dennis thinks about Robby on the floor, head in his hands, reduced down to a vulnerability that clearly terrified even himself. I can't. Dennis has already resolved to take that secret to the grave, especially because he's not sure if Trinity would understand. He's afraid he'd lose it on her if she tried joking about it.
Dennis thinks about the night his grandmother died, walking in to see his own father on the floor, head in his hands, praying, not unlike Robby. He'd only been ten, and it had been unthinkable to picture his father that way, stoic man that he is. It had felt a little earth-shaking at the time, worsened when he tried to comfort him and was pushed away, his father looking horrified to be seen like that by anyone, even his youngest son, even his wife, who'd tried holding his hand during dinner and been rebuked for it.
Seeing Robby like that, Dennis had felt ten years old again, a little helpless, afraid to reach out. It's always good to be reminded that even great men have limits, weaknesses, need to break down sometimes. It makes Dennis feel a little less like everybody looks at him and sees a giant pussy, at least. He hopes he handled it okay.
Trinity sighs, sensing his discomfort and seeming willing not to push. “Yeah, well, at least Robby's a good teacher. Can't say that for everybody there.”
“...Y’mean your…bestie…Dr. Langdon?”
“...Yeah. I just…” Trinity shakes her head, squirming a little like she's trying to shake off the thought. “I feel weird about…all of it.”
“Why'd he leave early, anyway?”
Something complicated passes over Trinity’s face at that—deliberation, constipation, a cringe, and then the slightest bit of smugness. “Ah—”
Dennis raises his eyebrows. “What?”
“—Okay, Whitaker, I'm gonna tell you something, but you can't mention it to anybody else, okay?”
“...Okay…?”
“Like, if you hear about this in the next few days, which, fuck, I don't even know if you will, but you probably will—you have to pretend you're surprised. Okay?”
“...Oookay?”
Trinity sets her fork down with an air of finality, brushing her hands together. “Okay, well, basically, I was noticing some weird things with meds on some of Langdon's cases, I told Robby, and Robby sent him home. He told me… I mean…he implied I was right. So.” She gives a snarky little half grin, though her words are flat. “Yup.”
“...What? I…Inconsistencies?”
“Like….missing pills, diluted medicine. That kinda thing.” Her eyes search his face.
“Oh, shit. You caught that first day? No wonder he was out for you.”
Trinity winces. “I know. Part of me feels kinda…I mean, it's always nice to be vindicated, I gotta foolproof spidey sense when it comes to men being shitty, but I'm afraid if people find out it was me they'll resent me? Because everybody was kinda…up his ass? So, can you please not mention it to anyone?” There's a touch of real worry in her voice, and Dennis can tell this is her way of communicating that yes, part of her does give a shit what people think about her.
Another secret to keep. Good thing he's alright at that. Dennis nods. “You have my word. Jesus, though, that's…I never would've suspected him.”
“That's how it is with addicts.” Trinity says, cheek pulling up as she clicks her tongue. “High-functioning ones, at least. Gotta get used to spotting that.”
Dennis rubs a hand over his face, weary. “Maybe I do.”
She seems genuinely relieved. “Thanks. Gotta give everybody unique reasons to hate me, not one big one right off the bat, y’know? Hah.”
Dennis doesn't really know what to say to that. “Except Garcia?”
Trinity nods. “Preferably not. If I can even salvage that…” She tilts her head, thoughtful. “Ellis is cool, too.”
Dennis nods in easy agreement, but something about the look on Trinity's face, kinda mischievous, gives him pause. “Is cool, like, a…lesbian way of saying you think she's cute?”
Trinity looks like she's considering denying it, but caves, nodding. “....Pretty much, yeah.”
“C’mon, Santos, it's an ER, not a…singles bar!”
She snorts. “I know, God. Singles bar. What was that like back home, a saloon? Anyway, we'll see if you still feel that way if you meet someone you like, huh? Y'meet a looot of new people a day at this job, some of them vulnerable, looking for a big, strong doctor…”
He blushes, shaking his head quickly. “Shut up. That's completely unethical.”
“Ethics, smethics.” Trinity stacks her trash, standing up and stretching.
“You're the one who—maybe got someone fired today over ethics.” Dennis points out standing up and starting to clean up like he'd said he would.
“If you do start dating someone, you better not make a peep when you fuck.” She continues on, grabbing her bag from the couch and heading to her room. “Otherwise I'm kicking you out.”
Dennis just sighs. “Noted.”
“Okay.” Trinity stops in the doorway of her room. “Night, roomie. Sweet dreams, hope neither of us have nightmares after today.” She disappears inside.
“Goodnight.” Dennis says to the silent room, standing there a long moment. He's finding it hard to feel as bothered by the day's events as he had been before he was clean and actually full, for once, and now all he wants to do is sleep. His thoughts flicker to Robby again, hand clutching his star of David, eyes swimming with tears. I dunno what that was.
The washer chimes, startling Dennis out of his thoughts. His clothes are clean.
+
“Hey, cowboy.” Heather pushes past Robby, right inside. She brought food.
“I said you didn’t need to bring—”
She opens his fridge, her eyebrow doing that archy thing he likes. “What were you gonna eat? A cold cut omelet with…” She scrutinizes the carton. “Two eggs that expired Monday?”
“I was planning on going out of town for the weekend, I didn’t think I’d need a lot of food.”
“Maybe you still should go out of town.” She says, setting the bag down and pulling out a burger. “Nothing special. Cold Friends.”
He doesn’t react, but the fact that Heather remembered his favorite burger place makes something funny twinge in Robby’s chest.
“Sit.”
Robby doesn’t have anything but obedience left. He’s sitting before she’s even done speaking. She seems pleased with that, bringing the food over and handing it over without a word. They sit and eat in silence. He can see Heather thinking as she eats her own, weighing what to say. He used to get on her for that, tell her he’d rather she just say whatever’s on her mind, and then she’d get on him for never saying what’s on his mind, and they’d fight.
Now, though, he thinks he appreciates her consideration.
“That kid wasn’t involved?” She searches for the name. “David?”
“Nope. Just some…” He waves a hand, undecided on what word to use, and settles succinctly on “cunt.”
Her lips twist, but Collins allows him the curse. “Everybody at work okay?”
“...Relatively.”
“How many?”
“112 in total.”
“How many made it?”
“106.” Robby clears his throat. “For now.”
“Good numbers.”
His eyes find hers. “I know some better ones.”
Her eyes gentle before her voice does, and Robby feels himself get a little tenser, preparing for a degree of fussing. “I talked to Dana—”
“What’d she say? That she’s worried I’ll lose it? That I did lose it?”
Heather exhales slowly, lips pressing together. She’s being patient with him tonight. She wasn’t today. He wishes she wouldn’t be. “She mentioned…well, a few things, but. Well…” She falters. “Maybe I should ask you what you’d rather talk about—”
“None of it? Nothing? Nada?”
“I hauled my ass over here, so you’re going to talk to me at least a little. It’s payment.”
“Payment for what?”
Heather pulls her legs up on his couch, fluid and calm, though her twitchy little facial expressions betray her concern. “For the burgers. For you being annoying today. For that time with my mother—”
“Oh, that’s a deep cut, how many times have I apologized for that one—”
“And your last words on this Earth should be apologizing for—”
“With the hat she looked just like you from that angle!”
“I do not look like a seventy year old woman from behind—”
“Debatable—”
“You never seemed to feel that way when we were—” This time Heather cuts herself off. “Sorry.”
Robby’s cheeks are a little flushed, but he’s smiling for the first time in hours, a little lighter. “I thought I was the one supposed to be apologizing.”
Heather gives him a little look from under her lashes. “Yes, apologizing through answering my question. Okay?”
He scrubs at his hair. “Mmhmm.”
“Would you rather talk about Frank, or Jake?”
Robby’s voice is a little rougher when he speaks this time. “There a third option?”
“Nope.”
“...Phone-a-friend?”
Heather’s voice goes sugary sweet. “I’m your friend. I can pick.”
“...You’re not my friend. What do you wanna know about Frank?”
“All I know is Dana said something bad went down. That’s it.”
“I…I don’t know if I should talk about it.” Robby bites his lower lip, scratching at his beard. “Well, actually, fuck, I guess you’re about to be my only senior resident, so you should probably know that, hah!”
She blinks at him once, then again. “I—what?” She mostly looks confused, squinting at him, but he picks up on a tiny tremor in her voice, almost like excitement.
“Yup.”
“...Robby. What the fuck?”
He presses his thumbs into his eye sockets. “My ulcer’s definitely coming back. Fuck.”
“Michael.”
That gets his attention. “C’mon, don’t Michael me—”
“Then answer the question.”
“Okay. Okay.” He clasps his hands in his lap, remembers there’s a beer in his pocket, and pulls it out, wiggling it at Heather along with his eyebrows. He opens it, taking a sip and reveling the slightest bit in Heather’s impatient little twitches. She looks like she wants to hit him. He’d probably let her.
“Basically, Dr. Santos noticed some inconsistencies with meds on his cases. I asked, he got defensive, I searched his locker, there they fucking were, he fucked off, came back for the MCI, bothered me the rest of the night, proved without a shadow of a doubt that he is a fucking addict, how cagey he was acting—” Robby throws his hands up. He feels himself smiling, with too much teeth to be much of a happy one. “Sorry—just—fuck.”
Heather’s eyebrows are practically in the middle of her forehead. “....”
“Nothing to say to that?”
“...Not particularly. You reported him yet?”
“That is a tomorrow job. He’s been calling me so much I’m kinda worried he’s gonna show up here.”
“Pulling out all the stops? So you don’t report it?”
Robby’s hands find his face and stay there. “...Mhm.”
“...Can’t say I expected that cherry on top. I thought he was just an adrenaline junkie, not—”
“The impulse dog should’ve told us, probably.” Robby attempts at joking, but it comes out flat. At least it makes Heather laugh.
“Honestly.” She shakes her head. “Christ. Poor Abby.”
“Poor Abby.” Robby echoes.
They sit with that for a moment, then Heather nudges him. “Okay, well. We can talk more about that…later.” She meets his eyes. “And…Jake?”
“I d’know. Hates me.” Robby’s gone very still, staring blankly down at his feet. “Nothing else to say about that one, really. Dana probably—” He clears his throat again, “told you—”
“Again, just…broad strokes.” Heather’s voice is softer again. Softest he’s heard it in a long time.
“Well, yeah. Girlfriend with a GSW to the heart. I tried.”
“I know you did.” Her hand finds his shoulder, rubbing it. “I know she would’ve had the best chance she could with you.”
Robby just shrugs. The thought doesn’t comfort him much, true or not. “Tough one.”
She looks at him for a long moment. “You want a hug?”
He starts to shake his head no, but he doesn’t even really have the energy for that. He’s afraid that if he lets himself break open here with her even a little that he’ll shatter completely. He doesn’t expect her to take no for an answer, though.
“I don’t know what to do.” He finally whispers.
“In general? Or right now?”
Another shrug. It’s all he can muster. The hand on his shoulder slides to his back, flattening against his shoulder blade, and she shifts closer. He dimly remembers he still hasn’t showered, tempted to pull back just because of that, but she pulls him in regardless, slow enough that he can stop her if he wants.
Heather hugs him. It's for long enough that it might count more as holding. Robby breathes shakily against her shoulder, laughing at first, like he's trying to prove that he's okay, that he doesn't need it, but when she tries to pull back, probably to preserve his pride, he grabs her tighter instead.
Something shifts at that point, and Heather’s hand comes up and pets the back of his head, flattening the hair. It makes him shiver. He knows she's probably feeling smug about that, because she makes a little hm sound, but she doesn't tease him about it. Not right now.
“If it were me…” She finally starts, still speaking like she's afraid she'll break him, “I'd have wanted you on it over any other doctor. But even you can't…some causes are just…lost.”
Robby swallows. “Just an even bigger letdown, trusting maybe I could get her through, then I fucking can’t—”
“You aren't responsible for the evil in the world, Robby.” She swipes her hand down his hair, down the back of his neck. “You're just as victim to it as the rest of us. I know you know, it's the usual—weigh the people you did save, weigh the odds, know you did the best you possibly could've and then some, try to make peace with that.”
He grumbles. “Maybe one day. Ten years from now.”
“Mm. Maybe then.” The soft certainty of her voice settles him slightly, but also makes it all worse, makes that sharp, tugging pull in his stomach become almost impossible to ignore when he's close to her like this.
“Y’know.” Robby’s breathing is definitely getting shakier now. “Gave her my ticket. She wouldn't have gone, if I didn't.”
Heather looks a little like she'd forgotten about that. “God, the universe is—”
“—Fucked up?” Robby supplies.
“...Yeah.”
Robby wipes quickly under his eyes. “Can't stop thinking Adamson would've—would’ve known what to do. If he was here.”
She tsks. “He’d probably tell you to shut up. ‘Cause, like any doctor, he probably had just as many cases he couldn't let go of, just as many he thought his mentor would've known how to handle. That's just how it goes.”
“I don't like how it goes.”
“Tough shit.”
Robby’s almost too tired to want to kiss her, but when she says stuff like that he wishes he was more tired. Or less. Whatever would make it easier for him right now, sitting here against her.
Heather squeezes him again. “He's still with you, y’know.”
“Didn't feel like it today.”
“Doesn't have to feel like it to be true.” Finally, Heather pulls back, not seeming to mind that he can't meet her eyes, though she does duck her head a bit to try. “I think you should shower, and I think you should sleep, and it'll all feel a little more bearable.”
“Problem there is that those things require moving and thinking.” Robby mumbles, scrubbing at his face again, still barely holding onto his fraying edges. He thinks maybe he's just one big fraying edge.
“Just move. Not think. And when you're asleep you won't have to do either. Don't make me corral you. I’ll go full Dana.”
At that, Robby’s head drops again, elbows on his thighs and hands rubbing over his scalp. “She tried to quit today. TBD on that.”
“She always says that.”
“Maybe she meant it this time. Seemed different.”
Heather sighs, but Robby can tell the thought of a Dana-less Pitt disquiets her as much as it does him. “...I doubt it.”
“Maybe she should get the fuck out. God knows I’m—probably gonna die here—”
“Heroically, I’m sure—”
That gets another laugh out of Robby, but it scares him when she makes him laugh because he can feel the sobs threatening to punch their way out of his chest every time it happens. “Probably from one too many ulcers, or an MI, or stroke, or UTI, I’ve only peed, like, twice today, or the roof—”
Heather’s eyebrows draw together in thinly veiled alarm. “Better not be the fucking roof.”
“I'm kidding.” Robby defends, half-hearted.
“Mhm.” She sounds skeptical. Her hand finds his back again. “We need you… I…” She hesitates.
He squints up at her. “You can't even say it.”
“Not ‘cause I don't mean it.” She sighs. “You know, anyway.”
“You seem fine without me.”
“You saw me today.” Heather's voice is the quietest it's been, almost reluctant. “You noticed. I needed….” She trails off. “You took care of me today, even when I didn't wanna let you. Now the shoe’s on the other….” She gestures with her hand, not seeming inclined to finish the sentence.
“I’m the one putting my shit on you.” Robby shakes his head. “I’m sorry for that.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Wow, more self awareness than I'm used to from you.”
“Yup.” His head drops lower, shoulders drawing up. “Relish it.”
Her head drops to his shoulder, a mirror of the way they sat in the ambulance earlier. Her arm snakes around his back, squeezing him to her. They sit like that for a few more minutes before she gets to her feet, holding a hand out and pulling him up. “Okay, c’mon.”
He just nods. It really is easier when she's the one making the decisions. “Okay.”
“Shower?”
Another nod. She leads Robby into his room, not seeming to care that it's kind of a mess, and to the bathroom. They stand awkwardly there for a moment, before she clears her throat. “I’m gonna…your kitchen.”
He looks at her, confused.
“Dishes. I’m gonna do your dishes. And probably change your sheets. It is genuinely what I would like to do in this moment for you. Okay?”
He hates being fussed over like that, but a small, traitorous part of him has never wanted anything more than for her to take care of everything, of him. His arguments die on his lips. “Okay.”
Robby cries some more in the shower. It's a good place to cry, because you can have a degree of plausible deniability about how much it is you're actually crying. The hot water loosens him up, batters him down, and by the time he comes out, clad in some soft sweats and a shirt, he feels like he's floating, like none of this is quite real.
He can hear Heather moving around in the kitchen. His sheets are already changed. He sits heavily down, searching around for his phone before seeing she plugged it in by the bed. He grabs it, unable to help himself as he opens his texts with Frank. The last one came through only a minute ago.
Hope you’re sleeping okay. I know I’m not. You know me man. Please don’t do this.
Robby hesitates, looking down at the sea of Frank’s pleading. He starts to type, but stops when he looks up, Heather in the doorway. “Feel a little better?”
He shrugs. “You…you didn't have to…do any of this.”
“I know. Felt like it.”
He shuts his eyes, crinkling them up. “You especially don't have to—stay any later than you already have—” He hates that it's obvious in his voice he wishes she would.
Heather’s lips flatten again, and she looks to the side for a second, looking frustrated, though with herself or him he's not sure. “I…”
“It's fine.” Robby looks down at his phone, at the half-thought out message he'd been tinkering with.
She walks over, squinting down at his phone then reaching down to take it out of his hand. She frowns, scrolling through the texts for a second as her forehead wrinkles, then she pointedly deletes the reply Robby had been typing, closing the app and shutting his phone off. “No.”
He exhales. “Okay. That's fine.”
“No, I mean…no to responding to any of that right now. For the other thing…” Heather’s eyes meet Robby’s, staying there. “I’ll stay.”
“You don't have…”
“Robby. I’ll stay. Say okay.”
“Okay.”
+