I Would Like To Imagine Oscar Isaac's Triple Frontier Movie Is Marc's Mercenary Look And Life Before

Deleted Scenes From The Cruel Prince

(Some of these are alternate storylines)

These are all of them, both deleted and alternate storyline. I highly recommend buying this TCP edition 🫶🏼 as it comes with gorgeous artwork and a neat velvet cover!

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

180

a

I will always simp for this man

But if these men came up to me. I would simp for them as well

Cause damn. Why can’t they be in real life?

And I just realized something. They are all firebenders. They got the good genes.

saviors & healers- Robby x oc social worker! part one: the healer. - part two. - part three.

ꫂ ၴႅၴ slow enemies-ish to friends to possible lovers(?) trope- lol ꫂ age gap! ꫂ ၴႅၴ dr langdon certified hater. ꫂ ၴႅၴ warnings: swear count. panic attacks. violence. suicide ideation discussion. ꫂ ၴႅၴ word count: 4.9k.

masterlist:

__

Dr. Nina Wojicki was practically burning holes through Dr. Robby’s skull. No—scratch that. She was.

The tension in the Pitt was thick enough to scalpel, and it had been since the second she stepped foot inside. Her presence always stirred the air, but today it was sharper. Louder. Angrier.

And the number one name on her helllist—as the rest of the Pitt liked to call it—was Dr. Robby.

She never called him that, though. No, she made a point to call him Michael, every time, no matter how many times he corrected her. It wasn’t petty. It was strategic.

Her stubbornness had long become legendary in the Pitt—equal parts intriguing and exhausting. And today, Michael could feel it in his bones.

Fresh from the University of Chicago with a PhD in Social Work and newly thirty, Nina had wasted no time making the ER her personal battlefield. Charm when needed, daggers when not. She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to do the damn job—and she was damn good at it.

Michael knew that. Maybe a little too well.

Currently, she was scrolling through the system at the nurses’ station, eyes narrowing at the patient logs. Her tongue clicked once. Then again. Then a third time, sharper now.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Of course he didn’t log him.”

Across the room, Michael didn’t need to look up. He heard the click. Felt the shift. He knew she was coming.

He braced himself.

Langdon, ever the observant one, caught the look in Michael’s eyes and turned just in time to see the ash-brunette stomping their way. Her hands were buried in the pockets of her coat, fingers twitching around a bundle of Flair pens.

Bad sign.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Wojicki,” Langdon greeted, arms folded and eyes dancing. “To what do we owe this… delightful appearance?”

She shot him a look, then turned to Michael without skipping a beat. “Your incompetent doctor here didn’t log in the psych patient from this morning.”

Michael didn’t flinch, eyes still on the chart in front of him. He was already preparing for the storm. “Oh no,” he said dryly. “The horror.”

Nina’s jaw tightened. Langdon chuckled.

“Don’t even start, Jumpy,” she warned, pointing a finger at him.

He smirked. “Relax, Miss Fidgety. What earth-shattering crime did I commit this time?”

She cocked an eyebrow, sarcasm sharpened like a scalpel. “You didn’t enter the 8 a.m. patient’s info. The one I evaluated. I don’t have access to his file, and now I can’t input my follow-up diagnosis.”

Langdon stepped in. “He’s not your patient, Nina.”

“Excuse me?” Her fire ignited. “He has schizophrenia, Franky. That makes him my patient.”

“It’s not confirmed schizophrenia. It’s a symptom cluster. We don’t slap labels on one visit.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed. “You wouldn’t have paged me if you didn’t suspect it was psychological and not physical.”

“I didn’t make that call,” Langdon snapped. His eyes flicked to Michael.

Michael still hadn’t looked up.

But he was listening. Every word. Every heartbeat.

Nina pivoted again, now arms crossed. “Wanna speak up, Dr. Michael?” she asked, each word sugarcoated in attitude.

Finally, he shut the file with a satisfying snap and walked past Langdon, slapping the chart into his chest. “Follow me,” he muttered, not sparing either of them a glance.

Nina narrowed her eyes, growling under her breath as she stalked after him.

“So it was you,” she hissed. “You made the call. You looped me in.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He knew she’d follow. He always knew.

They reached the on-call room. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

She shut it behind her with a loud click.

“You gonna keep ignoring me, or are we going to have a grown-up conversation?” Nina asked, arms still crossed.

Michael turned, finally facing her. His shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“You stormed into the Pitt like a damn hurricane, Nina. You wanna talk about grown-up behavior?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I just let bad patient documentation slide? Want me to play nice while someone falls through the cracks?”

His jaw twitched. “No. But you could try not lighting the place on fire every time you find a mistake.”

She stepped closer. “Maybe if people around here actually did their jobs, I wouldn’t have to play fire marshal.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was tired. Honest. “You always this intense, or do I just bring out your best?”

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the way he said it. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… low. Real.

“You bring out something, that’s for sure,” she muttered. Her voice wavered. Just enough for him to catch it.

They stood there—too long. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was dense. Like grief. Like something was about to be said and neither wanted to be the one to break it.

He took a step closer. So did she.

Close enough now that he could see the slight tremble in her fingertips. The crease between her brows. The way her breath hitched before she spoke.

“I paged you because I trust your gut,” he said finally. “Not because I needed a lecture.”

Her breath caught halfway in her throat. “Then next time, say that. Don’t leave me out in the Pitt to fight with Frank like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said—quiet. Fast. Like it had been waiting to leave his mouth. “You’re just the only one brave enough to yell about it.”

That silenced her.

He studied her—every flicker of emotion she tried to smother.

“You act like everyone hates you here.”

“They don’t have to like me,” she muttered.

“No. But I think some of us do,” he said—and added, almost too quiet to hear—“a little too much.”

Her eyes darted to his.

The air cracked.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not even a touch. But his hand brushed the door handle like he needed to remind himself where the line was.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

Finally, he spoke. Voice hoarse. “You should probably go document your follow-up. We’ll talk again—just… maybe not in front of the whole ER next time.”

Her lips twitched, somewhere between a smirk and a challenge. “Sure. If you grow a spine and back me up next time.”

He let out a dry laugh. “Deal.”

But as she brushed past him—shoulder to shoulder—neither of them said what they were really thinking.

__

Dr. Nina had just gotten in for the early evening and overnight shift, which she dreaded. But at least there was an upside: Dr. Abbot; who quite honestly felt like her dad in some ways.

Was her father a doctor? No, he was a lawyer. Was her dad a fisher? Also, no. Was he kind, empathetic, but also had a sarcastic side? Yes and yes. Was he also grey haired? Triple yes.

She hadn’t turned on her pinger when her phone rang at her desk, just as she sat down. Her nostrils flared as her mouth clenched, and she picked up the phone.

“Yes?” she spat a little too quickly—and quickly felt guilt seep into her abdomen.

Dr. Robby on the other side was taken back for a moment before speaking, “Dr. Nina? We need you down in the Pitt for a moment—”

She cut him off. “Dr. Michael, I can’t come down at this moment. Is Dr. Alfaro there? Or Dr. Murphy?” she questioned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She thought of the other social workers who could’ve just arrived or were already there.

She heard Dr. Michael sigh. “Well, yes, but—”

She cut him off again. “I can’t come down, Dr. Robinavitch. You need to find someone else.”

She stated his full name, promptly ending the conversation.

Dr. Michael stood there for a brief few seconds before nodding. “Of course, Dr. Wojicki,” he declared before hanging up.

He stood with his hand finally retreating from the corded phone, his eyebrows crinkled. He didn’t think she’d ever called him by his last name besides the first day they met.

Even though that attitude was a regular occurrence, it was never first thing when she got here.

She slapped the phone back into the receiver and stared up at the ceiling, leaning back in her chair.

God, she hated it when this happened. And she cursed herself for not staying on top of herself.

After moving here from Chicago—five months ago now—she’d definitely let her health and wellbeing fall to the back burner.

Now, it was beginning to take a toll.

She thought she’d be okay moving to a new city. But no. She’d been wrong.

Again.

__

Twenty-five minutes later, there was a knock at Nina’s office door.

She froze.

Held her breath. Slowed it. Willed her pulse to calm as she silently begged whoever it was to just go away.

“I know you’re in there, Dr. Wojicki.”

Damn.

She recognized the voice immediately—familiar and frustratingly warm. Dr. Michael Robby.

With a loud, dramatic sigh, she pushed herself up from her chair and made her way to the door, dragging her feet more than she’d admit.

When she opened it, Michael stood there, eyes scanning her the way only someone trained in observation—and maybe something a little more personal—could.

She looked like hell. Pale, drawn, and tense. Purple bags hollowed out her under-eyes, and her pupils were blown, uneasy. She stood there in front of him, arms crossed too tightly and confidence nowhere in sight.

Very unlike her.

“Are you okay?” he asked immediately.

She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that my line?”

He chuckled, and somehow it echoed in her chest—warm, unexpected. Her spine tingled. Her cheeks flushed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard you say that before. Not to me, and definitely not in the Pitt,” he teased, leaning against the frame like he had all day.

Nina exhaled and rubbed the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut. Michael’s gaze flicked downward, catching the faint bruises along her hands—half hidden, half colored by her naturally cool-toned skin.

“Is everything okay, Dr. Nina?” he asked again, this time softer.

Her eyes opened slowly, sharp and guarded. “Peachy,” she muttered before closing the door in his face.

She didn’t slam it. But she made sure he heard the click of the lock.

Michael stood there for a beat, replaying what he saw, what he sensed, and—more than anything—what he believed.

Then he walked away.

Inside, Nina sagged against the front of her desk like someone had pulled the plug. A sob broke through before she could stop it, followed by another, and another, until silent tears carved rivers down her face.

Her body was exhausted. Her mind—shattered. And emotionally? She was drowning. Dried out and waterlogged all at once.

Sleep was a fantasy. Functioning was becoming one too. And if something didn’t give soon, she would break.

No. She was breaking.

She laid a trembling hand flat against her chest, trying to still the panicked beat beneath. It felt like her heart was either going to burst or give out entirely—and she wasn’t sure which terrified her more.

She was running on fumes. And even those were poisoned with depression, anxiety, unresolved trauma—emotions she had battled her whole life, but now, without medication or support, they were winning.

She’d thought the move would bring her peace. A new city. A new chapter. A reset.

But it hadn’t.

It amplified everything.

And somewhere along the way, she’d started to feel abandoned, even though no one had technically left her. She had chosen this. Chosen alone.

But it still stung like rejection.

She felt unloved. Unlovable. Like no one would care if she just… disappeared.

Head tilted back, eyes locked on the dimmed ceiling light, she whispered into the silence—not really expecting an answer:

Why me?

What did I do to deserve this?

How could someone so empathetic, so hardworking, someone who tried so damn hard to care for everyone else… be left to carry this much?

Her only answer was the weight in her chest.

And the silence. Always, the silence.

__

6:42 AM; the next morning.

She had exactly 18 minutes left before she could leave this hellhole—also known as the Pitt. She’d been stuck down here with Dr. Abbott for the better part of her shift, dealing with one psychological patient after another as they rolled in throughout the night. Dr. Nina was now checking in on her last patient of the shift, and immediately, she sensed something was off. Call it spidey senses, call it intuition—whatever it was, the energy of the room shifted, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

"Good morning, Mr. Callahan—what brings you in today?" she asked as she approached the computer next to his bed. He didn’t respond, only stared at her. She offered a soft smile. "It’s early, I know. That’s alright."

She was about to speak again when his file loaded, but before she could, he snapped.

"You! You’re the one who fucking poisoned me!" His voice screamed out, and Nina froze.

Me?

She’d never met this man in her life.

"I understand that you’re agitated, and the meds should be working soon, but I don’t think we’ve ever met before. Have you been here—"

He cut her off, suddenly lunging off the bed, his movements frantic. In an instant, he knocked her back into the wall, the sharp edge of a scalpel gleaming in his hand. His IV tore from his arm, blood spilling out and splattering all over her. Nina’s gaze locked onto the scalpel, and her body tensed. Fear crawled down her spine as his face came dangerously close to hers. She turned her head, trying to escape his proximity, but he screamed in her ear.

"You’re going to regret ever giving me meds, Matilda! I’m gonna fucking kill you!" His words were full of rage, and before she could react, the scalpel pressed to her throat.

He didn’t get far before he was suddenly yanked backward. Dr. Abbott, appearing from nowhere, put himself between Nina and the patient. He glared at the man, fury flashing in his eyes. "Don't you move another step," Abbott warned, his voice low but deadly. "I will gladly lose my license today if that means you don't touch her."

Nina coughed, the blood from her neck trickling down her skin. Her eyes dilated, her body still locked in fight-or-flight mode. But underneath it all, she felt like a little girl again, alone and helpless—berated by her parents with no one to protect her.

As soon as Dr. Abbott saw that the patient was restrained by other nurses, he turned back toward Nina. His concern grew when he realized she was nowhere to be found. He looked down.

She was curled into a ball on the floor, her body rocking back and forth, her head hitting the wall behind her with each movement. Uncontrollable tears streamed down her grey-blue eyes, her heart sinking as if it had fallen straight through her chest. She was in a daze, unsure if what had just happened was real or just a hallucination. Was she so dissociated that her mind had fabricated the whole thing?

Dr. Abbott kneeled in front of her, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. "Nina," he said softly, his voice full of concern.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and she flinched, pulling away. "Don’t touch me," she hissed, her voice shaky.

"Nina, please, let me help—"

She shook her head violently, standing up in a rush. Her eyes were wide with terror as she scanned the room, desperate to escape the suffocating walls closing in around her.

Before Dr. Abbott could say another word, she bolted. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she ran past the nurse's station, where the Pitt crew was just arriving for their shift. They watched her, confused, as she sprinted toward the stairwell. Dr. Michael had just arrived for the day and caught a fleeting glimpse of her ash-brown hair disappearing into the stairwell in mere seconds.

Nina didn’t stop to think. She just ran. She ran up six flights of stairs, her breath growing shallow, her vision clouded by the rush of blood and panic. All that could be heard were the heavy, ragged sobs and shallow breaths as she pushed herself onward.

When she reached the sixth floor, she staggered out of the stairwell. She was met with curious eyes, but they quickly dropped to the blood soaking through her white coat—her neck still bleeding from where the scalpel had grazed her skin. Fuck. She would need a new one. She groaned inwardly.

"Dr. Nina—" Kiara began, but before she could say anything else, Nina bolted past her, heading straight for her office.

She slammed the door behind her, too frantic to lock it. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide. Her gaze fell on the wooden desk in front of her. She yanked out the chair and collapsed beneath it, curling up into a ball, pressing herself against the solid wood.

Her sobs grew louder as she rocked back and forth, trying to calm herself, but finding no relief. She felt completely undone, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

No one would help her. No one would ask if she's ok.

Yet. She didn't want anyone to. She didn't want to seem like a problem. A child.

__

It was a mere few minutes later, Robby going into saving mode, when she heard a soft knock on the door, followed by the gentle click of it opening. Footsteps padded softly into the room, and she immediately froze, her body tensing with unease.

Who was it?

"Dr. Nina?" came the familiar voice of Dr. Michael.

A sob escaped her before she could stop it, and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes darted to the desk—he knew. He knew she was under there. Quietly, he shut the door behind him, walked around the desk, and pulled out the chair.

He looked down at the fragile woman who suddenly felt like a scared child. She couldn’t meet his gaze, too afraid he’d be angry with her—for being a burden, a problem, a mess. She curled deeper into herself, although there was no more space left to retreat.

He knelt down, gently setting the supplies Dana had brought him: gauze, saline solution, stitches, bandages.

"Did that really just happen?" she whispered, the question stopping Robby in his tracks.

"Did they really just attack me?" she asked again, her voice barely audible. She wasn’t even sure her mind was telling the truth—it had lied to her before.

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She finally lifted her head, and what he saw confirmed his worst suspicion.

“Did that patient really attack me? Did he really hurt me?” Her voice cracked. She didn’t feel it—her neck, her shoulder, her head. There was no pain.

She was simply numb.

“I think you may be concussed,” Robby said, studying her face. Her pupils were dilated. Her skin was pale—though, with her, that was always the case. Then he saw the cut on her neck, and the blood staining her white coat and black work clothes.

“May I check you? I want to rule out a concussion, Nina.”

Something about the way he said her name—soft, careful—made her heart ache. She nodded, inching just out from under the desk. He checked her eyes with a small light, guiding her vision with his finger. No concussion. Good.

He motioned toward her neck. She sighed and tilted her head.

“It’s beginning to clot. That’s good,” he said, cleaning the area with gauze and saline. Next, he examined the bruises already forming around her neck. She nodded, allowing him to lift her shirt slightly to peek at her shoulders.

Gods, she bruised so easily.

“Already bruised?” she teased weakly.

He glanced at her, then back at the dark marks. A small chuckle slipped out as he reached for a bandage.

“Something tells me you’re not surprised?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately, with this ghostly complexion? I bruise if the wind breathes on me too hard.”

After securing the bandage, his gaze fell to her hands, marked with smaller bruises.

“May I ask why your hands are bruised, then?” he asked gently.

She immediately tucked them behind her.

“No, no. We’re not doing that,” he said softly, reaching for them again. She didn’t resist as he brought them forward.

She wouldn’t lie—she felt lightheaded. And she couldn’t deny that her breathing faltered slightly when his hands wrapped around hers.

Another confirmation, he thought.

“Is there anyone at home, Nina, who—”

She shook her head quickly. “No. No, It’s just me.”

He nodded, carefully checking her fingers. No breaks. No sprains. Just bruises.

“May I ask why you show up with more bruises every time I see you?” he asked again, voice soft but sincere.

She met his eyes, didn’t pull away. Her hands were still in his, even though he didn’t need to hold them anymore.

She cleared her throat. “My hands… are kind of my go-to when I get really stressed. Or angry.”

She looked down at them. “They’re my personal fidget spinner. I flex them, pull at them, hit them against things just to... feel something. To make my mind shut up for once. I don't know.”

She stopped, realizing what she had just confessed.

His chest tightened.

“Are you taking anything, Nina? Or speaking to someone?”

She shook her head. “Well—not anymore. I used to. Back at the hospital before I moved, I had weekly sessions, meds... but since the move, it’s all taken a backseat and—”

“We have to change that, Dr. Nina,” he said, gently rubbing his thumb across hers. The smallest gesture, yet it made her feel... safe.

“I—I don’t know, Dr. Mic—”

“Robby,” he corrected gently. “Call me Robby.”

She looked up, her grey-blue eyes locking onto his warm brown ones. There were laugh lines around his eyes, but in this moment, they just made him look kind. Steady.

“Robby,” she said, almost tasting the unfamiliar softness of it. “I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”

“An inconvenience?” he asked knowingly. “No. Nina, we as doctors can only do our best when we’re taking care of everything behind the scenes. Our mental and emotional health? Non-negotiable. We can't ignore it. Not in this field.”

She nodded.

“Let’s talk to Kiara. I’m sure she can help,” he offered.

Before she could respond, a knock broke the moment. Both turned their heads toward the door.

Robby quickly pulled back, standing up and tidying the used supplies. Dr. Abbott walked in as Nina stood, straightening her clothes—and that’s when she saw it.

The blood.

Her stomach turned.

Without hesitation, Robby held the trash can out in front of her. A reflex. She threw up. Abbott glanced between the two of them—he knew he’d just walked in on something private. You could feel it in the air.

When she finally stopped, Robby handed her gauze to wipe her mouth.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Abbott cleared his throat. Nina turned to him, nervously.

“Hi.”

“I brought you some clean scrubs so you don’t have to drive home in those,” he said kindly. “Just wanted to check on you, kid.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Abbott.”

Robby took that as his cue to leave. As he reached the door, she called after him.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” she said warmly.

He met her eyes and smiled before stepping out.

When she turned back around, Abbott was already settled in her chair.

“SO. How can I help you, Mr. Abbott?” she teased, and he chuckled as she sat down.

__

The next morning, she was back.

Sharing a shift with Robby and the rest of the Pitt crew. Anxiety had followed her all night and clung to her as she walked in. Would he pretend nothing happened? Would everything go back to normal? She stepped into her office and saw a letter on her desk—no, two. And next to them, a Dunkin Donuts vanilla latte. She opened the first letter, from Kiara. It promised privacy. Off-the-books sessions. No insurance. The line made her laugh softly.

Then, her eyes landed on the other envelope—pure chicken scratch. Robby. The letter was full of warmth, empathy, and gentle wit. He offered himself as a mentor, a sounding board, or even a brick wall for her sarcasm, should she need one. But most of all, the letter offered friendship. A knock sounded. Robby’s head popped in. “Hi,” she said, slightly flustered. She sat back in her chair as he entered, shutting the door behind him without looking away. She looked rested. For once.

“What do I owe this pleasure?” she teased, sipping the latte. He smiled at the floor, then sat in the chair across from her. “Morning, Nina. How was the rest of your day yesterday?” She smirked. “You know I abhor small talk, Dr. Robby,” she teased. “But wouldn’t you like to know?” He chuckled lightly.

“Abbott got me some medical-grade melatonin before I left yesterday. Told me to take three and call it a night once I got home. My cat was very concerned when she woke me up screaming, because I forgot to give her her lunch,” she mused, sipping her coffee.

“A cat?” His eyebrow flicked up, curiosity growing.

“Yes, a kitty. You’d know that if you stopped trying to small talk me every day,” she hummed. “But yeah, I have a six-year-old tabby named Kilo, which—yes—you can already guess why he’s named that. I just say it’s Australian when people ask.”

Robby smiled. “Well, good to know there’s more to you than that wall you keep up,” he said warmly.

She tilted her cup toward him. “Glad to hear some not-so-rude humor from you today, Dr. Nina,” he added boldly.

Her mouth popped open in surprise. “You asshole,” she muttered—but she knew exactly what he meant. She had been a bitch the past few months, after missing her medication refill.

“Dr. Kiara already called UChicago, got your meds refilled—they’re sitting in your desk drawer,” he explained.

She sighed. “I’m gonna kill you all. Starting with Franky downstairs,” she chuckled.

“Oh, wait now, I need him in the clinic today. Maybe after our shift ends,” he replied, sipping his coffee.

“I guess I can hold off,” she playfully sighed.

The two of them sat in a comfortable quiet for a moment, studying one another.

“I don’t want you—or Kiara, or Abbott—to think I’m some kind of weak child who can’t handle this job,” she said gently.

Robby shifted in his seat. She continued, voice steady but low.

“I don’t want you to think I’m incapable of doing good work. My fuel and passion are what keep me going. The reasons behind what I do—they’re at the forefront of my work, every single day.”

He nodded slowly. “We’ve all got our reasons in this profession.”

“Well…” She hesitated. “My childhood wasn’t exactly the greatest. I think I spent more time alone in my room than anywhere else, scared of which parent was going to scream at me next. The only time I felt seen by my family was when I was on my deathbed—figuratively speaking.”

She stared out the window, her features softer than usual. Vulnerable.

“The reason I am who I am—and why I do this work—is because I became the person I longed for as a child. The one I begged for. Screamed for. Until I lost my voice,” she said quietly. “Even then, no one came. No one helped. No one saved me.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands.

“So when I get the chance to save someone else—or just be there for them—it heals me. Little by little. Heals me without me needing to beg for assistance or worry if someone’s going to care. So I don’t have to ask for help or make someone worry about me.”

Robby watched the guilt start creeping back into her eyes. She was bracing herself for rejection.

But he leaned forward instead, his voice warm.

“Well… thank you, Nina. For opening up to me. I want you to never feel like you’re a burden—because you’re not. Your reasons, your passion for this work—it’s admirable. You haven’t let your trauma, your insecurities, or even your setbacks hold you back. I’m incredibly glad to have you here.”

He held her gaze. Those words and his gaze, held something a bit more.

“And I want you to know—everyone else, even when you’re a complete bitch—”

She giggled, softly. A smile crept up on his face.

“—to everyone. Especially me. We’re grateful you’re here. Today and every day. You’re a damn good doctor, Nina. And you’re irreplaceable.”

She felt something warm and unfamiliar creep up her chest—but all she could manage was a nod.

“Thank you, Robby. I appreciate that,” she murmured.

He nodded and stood. “Now meet us downstairs when you’re sure you won’t tear Franky’s head off.”

She giggled again, just a little.

“Tell Franky to put me in the system,” she quipped.

He nodded. “Will do.”

She smiled a little wider, a little brighter than she had in weeks.

Robby left with a heart full—and a smile that didn’t leave his face the rest of the day.

Nina looked back down at the letter Robby had written, her eyes lingering on the number scribbled at the bottom.

But they flitted back to the line just above it—the one that struck her the most:

You don’t have to carry the weight of others or feel like you’re a burden. First, it’s not your weight to carry. And second, you will never be a burden—to the hospital, to the crew, and especially not to me.

eeeeeek! hope you all enjoyed!!!

please like and reblog, if you enjoyed!

I looooove going the speed limit. the people behind me sure don't tho

Very true

HELLO I am here to point out that the guy who helped sokka, zuko & co escape from the boiling rock mistook their relationship with Suki as a polyamorous one

He addressed BOTH of them and called her their girlfriend and no one corrected him.

My new favorite song

Queen of Mean by Sarah Jeffery

O:O3 ━●─────── 3:30

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

Ha me

All Because

I like cat whiskers

And

Tyler Oakley

And

Shane Dawson

Because I like YouTube

I like Fall Out Boy

And

Panic! At The Disco

And

My Chemical Romance

And

Twenty One Pilots

Because I like music

I like Sherlock

And

Doctor who

And

Supernatural

Because I like Tumblr

I like The Hunger Games

And

Divergent

And

Percy Jackson

Because I like books

I like a lot of things

That most people

Don’t know very much about

It’s like a disease

Once you like one

It’s all over

OTP’s

And

Fanfics

And

Stalking

Comic Con

And

Vid Con

And

Meet ups

I like a lot of things

And

I’m in a lot of fandoms

And

I have a very suspicious feeling

That it all started

Because

Mr. And Mrs. Dursley

Of number four

Privet Drive

Were proud to say that

They were perfectly normal

Thank you very much.