Chapter Text
Rachel is elbow-deep in a broken hip when her pager goes off.
She glances at the clock. 06:38.
“Of course,” she mutters. “Damn it. My call is done at 7. Fuck.”
Her PA Courtney looks up from the other side of the table, already reading her face. “ED?”
“Mm-hmm.” Rachel leans back just enough to look at her OR nurse. “Hopefully something good to keep me here.”
Courtney chuckles.
“Kara? Can you check my pager and see what they want?”
The nurse picks up her pager and moves to the phone on the wall.
She hits the wall phone with her shoulder. “Sinclair.”
Jack Abbott’s voice comes through, tired but steady. “Hey—sorry to bug you this early. We’ve got a posterior knee dislocation, MVC. Reduced in the bay but vascular’s twitchy.”
“Dopplers?”
“Present but weak.”
“I’m finishing now. Keep him immobilized. Don’t let anyone get creative.” She pauses. “And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Nice reduction.”
There’s a beat of surprise on the other end before Jack gives a small chuckle. “Thanks. See you.”
Rachel hangs up and turns back to the table. “Alright. Courtney, you’re up.”
Her PA grins, already stepping in. “You trust me with the close?”
“I trust you with my life and my license,” Rachel says, stripping off her gloves. “Running subcuticular, reinforce medially. Meet me in OR 2 when you’re done.”
Cortney laughs. “Go. Save the knee.”
By the time Rachel hits the ED, the sky outside the ambulance bay windows has gone that washed-out blue that means night shift is almost over and no one is getting out on time.
Jack Abbott is waiting near Trauma Three, arms crossed, chart tucked under one elbow. He smiles when he sees her.
“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for coming down.”
“Wouldn’t miss a good dislocation,” Rachel replies. She glances at the leg, checks the splint, nods once. “You did good.”
“CT angio’s queued. Vascular’s aware.”
“Perfect.” She looks around. “Hey—Lena!”
A nurse looks up from the desk. “Yeah, Doc?”
“Can I steal a tablet? I want to put orders in before my brain turns into oatmeal.”
Lena slides one over without hesitation. “All yours.”
Rachel leans against the counter, one boot hooked around the chair rung, fingers flying as she inputs orders—imaging, consults, contingencies. It’s muscle memory, smooth and efficient despite the hour.
That’s when she notices him.
He’s standing a few feet from Jack, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in a way that feels earned rather than careless. He’s listening to Jack, head tilted slightly, eyes attentive.
Cute, Rachel thinks absently.
Like… annoyingly cute.
He smiles at something Jack says—not big, just a corner-of-the-mouth thing—and Rachel feels an unexpected hitch of curiosity.
She doesn’t recognize him.
Which is odd, because she’s been making a point to learn faces. Attendings especially. This guy doesn’t look new. He looks… established.
She finishes the last order and hands the tablet back to Lena. “Thanks. Let’s get my patient up to the OR. I think they’re turning over 2.”
Lena grins at her. “You got it, sweetheart.”
“You’re too good to me, Lena.”
Robby is exhausted in the bone-deep way that makes everything feel slightly unreal.
Jack is talking—something about reduction technique, vascular follow-up, timeline—but Robby’s brain keeps skipping like a scratched record.
Because of her.
She’s leaning at the nurses’ station, half-turned away, tablet balanced against her hip. Her scrub cap is tugged low, strands of honey-blonde hair escaping at the nape of her neck, catching the ED lights. The rest of it is tucked away, practical, contained—like she doesn’t have time for vanity, or maybe just doesn’t care.
Her eyes are dark brown. Focused. Sharp.
Robby clocks that immediately, the way he always does—how people look when they’re actually thinking.
She’s efficient, but not rushed. Calm without being cold. There’s something loose in the way she stands, one boot hooked around the rung of the chair, like she owns the space without needing permission.
“—so I reduced it in the bay,” Jack says.
“Mm,” Robby answers automatically.
Jack pauses. “You good?”
Robby blinks, refocuses. “Yeah. Sorry. Keep going.”
Jack resumes, but Robby’s attention slips again.
She laughs softly at something Lena says. Not loud. Not performative. Just a brief huff of amusement before she’s back to typing, fingers flying across the screen like she’s been doing this long enough to trust herself.
He doesn’t recognize her.
That bothers him more than it should.
Robby knows the Pitt. Knows its rhythms, its faces, the way people move when they belong. And she moves like she belongs—like she’s always been here, even if she hasn’t.
She hands the tablet back to Lena, nods her thanks, then turns slightly—
—and Robby catches her profile.
Strong nose. Determined mouth. That same scrub cap pulled low, framing a face that looks composed in a way that isn’t rigid. Controlled chaos, maybe. The kind that works.
Jack clears his throat. “So ortho’s taking lead on this one.”
“Good,” Robby says, a beat too quick.
Jack follows his line of sight. Smirks.
“Oh,” Jack says casually. “That’s Dr. Sinclair. New ortho head since Frye retired last month.”
Robby’s brows knit. “Sinclair?”
“Yeah. Started while you were gone.”
Robby nods once, like he’s filing away a neutral fact. Like his pulse didn’t just tick up for no reason at all.
“She’s wearing cowboy boots.”
“Seems solid,” Jack adds. “A little… chaotic.”
Robby exhales through his nose.
Across the room, Rachel glances up—just briefly, like she’s checking her surroundings—and for half a second, her eyes pass over him without recognition.
Robby shouldn’t care.
He does anyway.
She turns back to the patient, already moving on, already done with the moment.
Robby watches her go, unease curling low in his chest.
Rachel is still riding the post-op hum when she comes down to the ER.
The knee is fixed. Reduced, stabilized, vascular happy—for now. She tugs her scrub cap off as she walks, honey-blonde hair escaping in soft rebellion, boots echoing faintly against the polished floor.
Yolanda Garcia keeps pace beside her, trauma surgery fellow badge swinging, coffee long gone cold in her hand.
“Told you the knee would behave once you got your hands on it,” Yolanda says.
Rachel grins. “Knees just want to be respected.”
They round the corner into the main ED, and Rachel feels the subtle shift immediately—the way the room tightens around certain people. Authority without noise.
Yolanda spots him first.
“Hey,” she says, lifting a hand. “Robby.”
He turns.
Up close, he’s exactly what Rachel clocked earlier from a distance: tired in a way that reads earned, posture easy but alert, eyes sharp even this late. Scrubs rumpled, coffee in hand like it’s a lifeline.
“Dr. Robby,” Yolanda continues, already smiling. “This is my friend—new ortho attending—Dr. Rachel Sinclair.”
Robby’s gaze flicks to Rachel.
Not assessing the way some people do. Just… noticing.
His eyes drop briefly—to her boots.
Cowboy boots. Scuffed. Well-loved.
“Nice boots,” he says, voice low, gruff, almost reluctant.
Rachel breaks into a big, unapologetic smile—bright and warm and clearly delighted by him.
“Well thank you,” she says, like he’s just paid her the highest compliment imaginable.
She steps forward and offers her hand without hesitation.
“I’m Rachel.”
Robby blinks once—just once—then shifts his coffee to his other hand and takes hers. His grip is firm, steady.
“Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Robby.”
Their hands linger a beat longer than strictly necessary.
Rachel doesn’t miss the way his mouth tightens like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. She finds it charming. Absolutely tickled by the whole gruff, half-awake, mildly suspicious thing he’s got going on.
“Appreciate the clean handoff,” she adds easily. “Jack did great in the bay.”
Robby nods. “He did.”
There’s a pause.
Yolanda watches them, amused, then clears her throat. “Well. I have charting to do on the ankle I just put back together.”
She disappears before either of them can object.
The page comes in just after noon.
Hip fracture. ED requesting ortho consult.
Rachel sighs, tugging her scrub cap back on as she heads downstairs. Routine case. Bread and butter. She’s already thinking through fixation options by the time she hits the trauma bay.
The patient is tiny. Frail. White hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, eyes bright but scared.
“Hi there, Mrs. Lafferty,” Rachel says gently, immediately softening. “I’m Dr. Sinclair. I take care of bones.”
The woman smiles. “Well thank goodness. Mine’s misbehavin’.”
Rachel chuckles, then straightens, eyes flicking to the board.
Robby is already there.
Arms crossed. Watching.
That should’ve been her first warning.
She reviews the imaging quickly, nodding. “Intertrochanteric fracture. Stable pattern. We can fix this with a cephalomedullary nail today. Early mobilization, less delirium risk.”
Robby exhales. “I don’t love rushing her to the OR.”
Rachel looks up. “Why?”
“She’s ninety-two,” he says evenly. “Anemic. Hypotensive earlier. I want to optimize her first.”
Rachel keeps her tone level, but there’s steel under it now. “Every hour we delay increases morbidity. She’ll do better fixed up.”
Robby shakes his head. “Or she crashes under anesthesia.”
Rachel stares at him. “Or she gets pneumonia lying in bed waiting for the fracture to heal.”
There’s a beat.
The room goes quiet enough that even the monitor seems to hesitate.
Robby meets her gaze. “We can temporize. Traction. Pain control. Reassess in the morning.”
Rachel steps back half a pace, incredulous. “You paged ortho for a consult, not a debate club.”
His jaw tightens. “I paged ortho because I wanted your input.”
“And I gave it,” she snaps. Then—realizing the patient is watching—she reins it in, voice lowering. “Look. This fracture pattern? I’ve fixed hundreds like it. She’ll walk again if we don’t wait.”
Robby crosses his arms tighter. “You don’t know her baseline.”
Rachel gestures toward the patient. “Ma’am, do you live alone?”
The woman nods. “I do my own laundry. Beat my grandson at cards weekly. I have my sewing circle at church tomorrow.”
Rachel turns back to Robby. “Baseline.”
Robby’s eyes flick to the patient, then back to Rachel. “I’m responsible for her in the ED.”
“And I’m responsible for her hip,” Rachel fires back. “So don’t call me down here just to piss on my treatment plan.”
A couple of nurses freeze mid-chart. Someone clears their throat.
Robby’s eyes flash—not angry. Something sharper.
“Watch it,” he says quietly.
Rachel steps closer, lowering her voice. “Then watch this. I’m not reckless. I’m decisive. There’s a difference.”
They stand there, squared off, two people used to being right, both actually trying to protect the same fragile woman between them.
Finally, Robby exhales.
Slow. Controlled.
“Anesthesia clearance,” he says. “Now. If they’re on board, I won’t stop you.”
Rachel holds his gaze for a long beat.
“Fair,” she said.
She turns back to the patient, smile returning like a switch flipped. “We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”
The woman pats her hand. “I like her,” she tells Robby. “She’s got fire.”
Robby shakes his head and chuckles while leaving the room.
The sinks are loud in that steady, soothing way—water rushing, brushes scraping, the ritual of scrubbing grounding everything back into place.
Rachel stands shoulder to shoulder with Yolanda, hands already red from antiseptic. She scrubs with a little more force than strictly necessary.
“So,” Rachel says flatly, “Robby just pissed all over my treatment plan.”
Yolanda lets out a soft laugh, totally unsurprised. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Rachel glances at her. “That tracks?”
“Mmhmm,” Yolanda says, scrubbing calmly. “He does that.”
“With everyone?” Rachel asks.
“With people he doesn’t know,” Yolanda corrects. “He’s grumpy until he decides you’re competent. Then he’s… slightly less grumpy.”
Rachel huffs. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
Yolanda shrugs. “It’s not personal. He’s protective. Territorial. Like a Tasmanian devil.”
Rachel snorted despite herself.
Yolanda grins. “Look—if he really didn’t trust you, he’d shut it down completely. The fact that he compromised? That’s huge.”
Rachel considers that, rinsing carefully. “He still could’ve not treated me like I was about to murder a ninety-two-year-old.”
“True,” Yolanda concedes.
Rachel shakes her hands dry, flexing her fingers. “He’s lucky this patient’s gonna do well. Otherwise I’d be real mad.”
Yolanda smirks. “Give it time.”
Rachel glances at her. “You like stirring the pot, don’t you?”
“Only when the pot deserves it,” Yolanda says.
They finish scrubbing, standing there a moment in companionable silence.