Chapter Text
The ER board was suspiciously blank for the Fourth of July, and that alone made Robby uneasy. It was the silence before the storm. He could already picture the inevitable chaos: scorched forearms from grill mishaps, fingers half-blown off by fireworks, and a parade of slurring, staggering drunks who thought patriotism meant downing tequila in the front yard.
He took a sip of his coffee and winced. It was cold and bitter. Absolutely useless. The machine hadn’t brewed a decent pot in months, but like most of them, he kept drinking it out of muscle memory. That, and he needed something to do with his hands. The caffeine barely registered anymore. Just something warm—well, once warm—to hang onto.
Langdon was slouched at the desk across from him, cradling his own cup like it might offer absolution. He looked better than he had a month ago—clean-shaven, steady hands—but Robby didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked toward the trauma bay every few minutes, like he was waiting for a ghost.
Langdon had been back less than an hour, and already Robby felt the tension coiling in the air.
“What have we got today?” Langdon asked, leaning in, trying to sound casual. “Anything exciting?”
Robby didn’t meet his eyes. “Kid in Bay 2. Broken wrist. Should be easy.” He took another sip and added, “Thought you might want to start light.”
Langdon’s shoulders dropped, just a notch. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking for it—but Robby was.
“You don’t have to babysit me, Robby,” he said, voice steady, a little too steady. “I’m fine.”
Robby hesitated. He could feel the edge behind Langdon’s words, but he kept his tone neutral. “Just… let me know if anything’s too much. No one’s pushing you.”
“I’m fine.” Sharper this time. Defensive.
And just like that, the air between them went still.
Robby nodded slowly and looked back at the board, pretending to read something he already knew by heart. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected today, but some part of him had hoped that Frank would come back with a little more humility. Then again, maybe it wasn’t pride—it was shame, packed tight and hot under the surface, trying to pass for confidence.
He missed the comradery they used to have. He was his best resident and it was amazing how one terrible shift had ruined everything so quickly. But Robby didn’t blame him—he knew addiction was a disease, and Frank was only just now on the other side of it.
After the air had cooled after Pitfest, he’d visited Frank in rehab to apologize for the way he had ordered him to open his locker. He hadn’t been kind in his treatment because of the day and he regretted it even now. Frank had been understanding, and apologized himself for what he said outside of the hospital. Things weren’t back to normal between the two of them, and he doubted that they ever would be again. But, maybe they could find a new normal.
“Hey Robby,” Princess said. “I have a potential fracture in room 3. Could you take a look at it. Poor girl battled with a basketball and lost.”
“Ouch. Yup. Be there in a second,” he said, smacking his lips together. He put his stethoscope around his neck, and shoved his hands in his pockets, excited to be anywhere that wasn’t around Langdon.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Robby caught a flash of a Pencil Skirt and Blazer—Gloria. She was rounding the corner near the nurses' station, a clipboard clutched tightly to her chest, jaw already set in that look that said
we need to talk.
He didn’t even hesitate. With practiced efficiency, he turned on his heel and slipped into the nearest patient room, hoping the thin curtain and the hum of a cardiac monitor would buy him a few precious minutes of quiet.
Too late.
Her voice followed him like a heat-seeking missile. “Robinavitch.”
He sighed, pasted on a grin, and turned to greet her. “Gloria! And how are we on this fine, chaotic, understaffed morning?”
She didn’t slow. “Save it.”
“Oh come on. Someone’s got to balance out your sunshiny disposition.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Enough with the cheek, Robinavitch.”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to be relaxed. “Let me guess—Press Ganey Scores again?”
She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
He laughed, sharp and humorless. “Right. The sacred patient satisfaction scores. Because that’s the priority. Not the fact that we had a gang member in here with a weapon, who shot a patient in an active ER bay last week.”
“We are addressing that,” she said quickly.
“How are you addressing it?” he asked. “By throwing things at the wall and hoping something sticks?”
“You know we are trying,” she explained.
“Trying isn’t helping,” he snapped, the veneer of calm slipping. “We’ve been asking for more security for months. What’s it going to take, Gloria? A doctor bleeding out on the floor before someone upstairs decides we’re worth protecting?”
She blinked, just once, but didn’t look away.
Robby exhaled, trying to pull the heat back from his voice. The fluorescent lights above them buzzed faintly, and somewhere down the hall, a baby wailed. The chaos of the ER moved around them, but for a second, the tension between them was the loudest thing in the room.
“We’re exhausted,” he said, softer now. “We’re doing our jobs with one eye on the door in case someone walks in with a gun.”
“I know,” she said, quieter too. “Believe me—I know.”
There was a pause, a beat where neither of them spoke. Just the hiss of air from the vent and the sound of a cart rolling past the room. They both remembered Pitfest and the toll it had on the entire department.
He shook his head, brushing a hand through his hair. “Just don’t let someone die before it changes. Please.”
Gloria held his gaze, then nodded once—clipped, but sincere—and turned to go.
The moment she was gone, Robby leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. He didn’t feel better for saying it.
But he knew he had to say it.
He shook the cobwebs out of his head. He still had to see that girl with the fractured ankle. No rest for the wicked.
Dr. Robinavtich knocked gently, then pushed open the exam room door. The woman sitting on the table looked up with a polite, expectant expression, her left ankle propped up and wrapped in a half-melted ice pack. She looked young—late twenties, maybe. There was a quiet confidence about her posture, even as she winced and adjusted slightly on the paper-covered table.
“Evening,” he said, tugging on a pair of gloves. “I’m Dr. Robinavtich—Dr. Robby, if you prefer shorter syllables. I hear we’ve got a basketball incident?”
She gave a half-smile. “You could call it that. I was playing with some kids and tripped. Very graceful.”
He crouched slightly to eye the ankle. “Grace is overrated. Mind if I take a look?”
“Not at all.”
He gently unwrapped the ice pack and examined the swelling. Moderate, with early bruising around the lateral malleolus. No obvious deformity. As he palpated along the fibula, he glanced up again.
“You have kids?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I’m a high school teacher. Sophomore government. These were my students—after-school rec.”
He nodded, carefully checking for tenderness along the joint. “Government, huh. That’s the real contact sport.”
That earned a quiet laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
“Any numbness or tingling?” he asked, pressing lightly along the top of her foot.
“No. Just sore.”
“Capillary refill’s good. Can you move your toes?”
She wiggled them without hesitation.
“Excellent.” He checked the range of motion next, noting when she flinched. “There’s some lateral instability, but not too bad. I’d like to get an X-ray, just to rule out anything else.”
She nodded, calm, though a bit weary. “I was hoping it wasn’t serious. I’ve got grading to finish tonight.”
“You’ll be icing it with a stack of papers on your lap,” he said, straightening. “Not the worst multitasking setup.”
“Depends on the paper,” she said dryly.
He allowed a brief smile, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Do you ever consider giving extra credit for good penmanship?”
She raised an eyebrow. “If I did that, I’d have a riot on my hands.”
He pulled off his gloves, stepping back toward the door. “Imaging tech will be in soon. I’ll come back once we have the films.”
“Thanks, Dr. Robby,” she said, testing the name like she wasn’t sure if it was casual or familiar.
Cute, he thought as he walked out of the room. If only he wasn’t 20 years older than her, and her doctor. No, he had given up on dating years ago.
“Dana,” Robby said, spotting the blonde nurse just as she rounded the corner near the nurses’ station. She was exactly where she always used to be—tucked behind her desk, half-hidden by a monitor and a worn-out clipboard, as if she’d never left. But she had. After Pitfest, she’d walked out without warning, vanished for four weeks, and returned just as quietly. No explanation. No drama. Just slipped back into her scrubs, set up her framed photos of her dog and her nephew on the counter, and told Robby in a low, unblinking tone: Don’t bring it up.
He hadn’t.
“How’s everything holding up?” he asked, keeping his voice casual.
Dana didn’t look up right away. She was unscrewing the lid of a dented navy Hydro Flask, the kind covered in faded stickers—some political, some sarcastic, one with a cartoon uterus giving a thumbs-up. She took a slow sip, swallowed, and gave him a sidelong glance.
“No house fires yet,” she said dryly, capping the bottle. “But the day’s still young. We’ve already got a drunk in Room 4.”
Robby grimaced. “It’s eight in the morning.”
Dana raised an eyebrow. “According to her friends, she started drinking yesterday —for her 21st. Apparently, they only stopped pouring shots an hour ago, just long enough to dump her on a gurney and speed off.”
He let out a sharp exhale, something between a laugh and a groan. “Classy. Nothing says friendship like alcohol poisoning and a hit-and-run drop-off.”
Dana offered a shrug, her expression unreadable. “We’ve seen worse.”
That much was true. The ER had its own rhythm—chaotic, relentless, and full of stories that would sound made-up anywhere else. But today felt heavier, somehow. Maybe it was the echo of last week’s shooting. Maybe it was just knowing how close they all were, constantly, to some invisible line.
“Days like this,” Robby muttered, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the knots that had settled there long before his shift started, “I’m just glad I never had kids.”
Dana glanced up from her computer, one brow arched. The look was flat but familiar—dry as overcooked toast—but there was something in it that softened at the edges. “You say that every time someone under twenty-five ends up in a trauma bay.”
“And I’ll keep saying it,” he replied, letting his hand drop, “until someone gives me a reason not to. I’ll check in on her. Nothing, an IV and some embarrassment won’t fix.”
Dana snorted—just a breath of laughter—and returned to her charting, fingers flying across the keyboard in quick, practiced movements. The rhythmic clack of keys blended into the background noise of the ER: the high-pitched beeping of monitors, the low murmur of voices behind curtains, the distant cry of a baby somewhere down Pediatrics, and the ever-present squeak of gurney wheels on too-white tile.
Robby lingered a moment longer. Dana hadn’t said much since she returned—had barely acknowledged that she’d left—but the way she moved now, deliberate and steady, said enough. She was back. Maybe not whole, but functional. And in a place like this, sometimes that was the best you could hope for.
“Godspeed,” Dana said, not even taking the time to look up from her charting.
Luckily this time, Gloria wasn’t there to stop him from getting to the patient on time. He tapped lightly on the edge of the open curtain before stepping into the exam bay.
She looked barely conscious, but awake—just enough to register sound. Her mascara had long since smeared down her cheeks, and her dark hair was matted to one side of her face with sweat. There was a pink plastic tiara—slightly cracked—resting on the rolling tray beside her IV. A glittery “21 Today!” button lay face-down next to it.
“Beth?” Robby said gently, clipboard in hand. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Just checking in on you.”
She blinked slowly, then groaned, her voice dry and cracked. “Mmm… You’re not gonna yell at me, are you?”
He gave a small, tired smile. “No yelling. Promise. Though I might lecture a little. It’s a doctor thing.”
Beth made a weak attempt at a laugh, but it dissolved into a wince. She reached instinctively for her temple. “Ugh… My head is killing me.”
“That’ll happen when you try to drink the entire bar,” he said, glancing over her chart. “EMS said your friends dropped you off at the entrance and sped off like it was a drive-thru. Classy.”
“They’re not my real friends,” she muttered.
“Good to know,” he said. “Because your blood alcohol level was high enough to make even the frat boys blush. You’re lucky you didn’t aspirate or stop breathing. The nurse had to keep you on your side and suction you twice before you even stirred.”
Beth groaned again and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. “God. Can you just give me something for the headache and let me crawl into a hole and die?”
He pulled up a chair beside the bed, setting the clipboard on his lap. “Unfortunately, death isn’t on the discharge plan. But fluids, time, and maybe a little self-reflection are.”
She peeked out at him, one bloodshot eye narrowed. “Are you always this… judgy?”
Robby gave a half-shrug. “Only when the glitter still stuck to your cheek matches your blood pressure chart.”
That actually got a small laugh out of her. She winced again, but this time from amusement rather than nausea.
He softened a little. “Look, I know it was your 21st. I get it. But you scared the hell out of your nurse. And whether you remember it or not, your body was shutting down last night.”
Beth blinked. “I… I don’t remember anything after like, midnight.”
“That’s not unusual,” he said. “But it’s also not harmless. You’re lucky you woke up here instead of somewhere else—or not at all.”
Her face paled a bit at that, the gravity settling in. She looked away, out the small square of window above the bed.
After a pause, she said, “Thanks. For not being an asshole about it.”
Robby stood and adjusted the blanket over her shoulder, instinctively. “It’s not about being an asshole. It’s about being honest. You’ve got time to make smarter choices. You only get one liver.”
Beth gave a tired nod. “Lesson learned. No more birthday benders.”
“Good. Stick to cupcakes next year. They're safer.”
He was halfway through the curtain when she called softly, “Hey, Dr. Robby?”
He turned back.
“Does everyone mess up this bad when they turn 21?”
He tilted his head, smiled faintly. “No. But the smart ones learn from it when they do.”
She smiled lightly, “Thanks.”
Robby closed the door, heading back to the nurses station. Dana was still there, of course, busy working on the mountains of charting she needed to finish. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw whittaker and Santos talking to a patient.
He learned a couple weeks ago that they were roommates, and honestly the whole arrangement seemed great for the two of them. Santo had been less cocky, actually trying to learn, and Whiticker had gotten some confidence in his bones that he had been severely lacking.
“Oh,” Dana said suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “There’s some guy in Triage asking for you.”
Robby blinked. “Asking for me?”
She nodded. “Didn’t say why. Just said he knows you.”
“He didn’t give a name?”
“I didn’t ask,” she said with a shrug. “Kid in chairs had a seizure before I could. I’ve been playing catch-up ever since.”
He sighed, already feeling the pull of another detour. “Great. I’ll go check it out. What does he look like?”
Dana paused, as if trying to distill something strange into something useful. “Young. Hair like Langdon, but built like you.”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “That narrows it down.”
Dana cracked the faintest smile. “Be back soon?”
“Soon-ish,” he said, turning to go. “Can you have imaging sent to the girl with the ankle fracture? It’s definitely broken.”
“On it,” she said, already typing the order.
Robby turned sharply, moving fast before someone else could intercept him. The corridor opened up into the main waiting area, already beginning to swell with the slow tide of the day’s chaos. People sat slumped in chairs, eyes glassy with fatigue or pain. A toddler cried against her mother’s chest. The television in the corner played a cooking show on mute, the host’s silent gestures absurdly cheerful in contrast to the sickly quiet of the room.
He scanned the space. It didn’t take long to spot him.
The kid—if he could even call him that—sat hunched forward in one of the corner chairs, elbows on his knees, fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve. There was something strangely familiar about the shape of him. The shaggy, light-brown hair was a little too long, sticking out in a way that reminded Robby of Langdon in med school. But the frame—broad shoulders, restless hands, tightly coiled posture—was pure Robby.
And as soon as he locked eyes with the young man, a chill crept down his spine.
Something was off.
He stood too still for someone in an ER. His shoulders were hunched tight to his ears, as if trying to make himself smaller, but his eyes were anything but calm—they flicked from door to door, ceiling to floor, tracking the movements of patients, nurses, even the janitor pushing his mop across the linoleum. He looked mid-thirties, but there was a jittery energy coiled under his skin that made him seem both older and younger. His hoodie clung to his frame, heavy and out of place in the thick July heat that clung to the city like a fever.
Robby slowed, the sound of his own footsteps softening as he registered the man’s shifting stance. The guy kept adjusting his footing, one sneaker squeaking faintly on the tile. His hands twitched at the hem of his jacket—left hand, then right—never quite still, like he didn’t know what to do with them.
The hairs on the back of Robby’s neck stood up, instinct prickling before logic could catch up.
Then their eyes met.
The man’s gaze locked on like a spotlight, wild and searching, pupils too large, too dark. His face was pale and drawn, beads of sweat tracing down his temple despite the air conditioning.
“Are you Dr. Robby?” he asked, voice taut as a pulled wire.
Robby hesitated. His pulse skipped once. “Can I help you?”
The man didn’t answer. His eyes darted again—to the nurse’s station, to the security camera above the doors, to the hall that led deeper into the ER. Then, with a sharp breath through his nose, he shoved one hand into his jacket.
Robby’s body tensed. His grip tightened around the chart, knuckles white. The guy's pupils were pinpricks now. Meth? PCP? He looked chemically unglued—adrift and fraying at the seams.
“I can have one of the nurses triage you,” Robby offered, keeping his tone low, steady, careful. “Let’s step into the waiting room, and—”
“Shut the fuck up, man,” the man snapped, and in one brutal motion, his hand emerged from his jacket clutching a handgun.
He raised it and leveled it at Robby’s forehead.