Archive of Our Own

oregon: he flies with broken wings 

At the age of 22, when he was patiently waiting for his MCAT scores to come in the mail, Michael thought about what his life might’ve looked like in 30 years. He would first work through his emergency medicine residency with flying colors, providing the best medical care that he could in a crushing, survivalist system. He would meet a nice girl along the way, preferably not from the medical field, fall in love and get married when he became an attending. They would have three kids pursuing their own paths, still keeping an eye on their old man as he transitioned from the trenches to less strenuous callings. A professor would’ve been a nice fit for him. He always loved teaching, even more so than medicine. 

At the age of 52, he chucked himself to his sister’s farm in Oregon, deciding to use his vacation days to embark on a hiatus away from the hospital. He’s unmarried, childless, and riddled with a mile-high guilt complex thanks to three decades worth of emotional repression. He probably has PTSD. He doesn’t want to talk about it yet. 

Unfortunately, Ruth just has to be the better person. 

“Michael, it’s been two weeks. You gotta go back at some point.” 

He inhales a long and heavy breath, taking another sip of his warm beer. “...I don’t know if I can Ruthie.” 

She pulls her lips into a flat line, looking over him with tired concern. “You remember what Bubbe said? About running away from things?” 

The bitter taste of the beer sits on his tongue as he recalls his grandma preaching to him after a junior league baseball game gone sideways. He huffs out a weary laugh at the memory, thumbing over the sweat accumulated on the bottle’s opening. 

“‘The things that you keep running away from will always come back to haunt you’, right?” he says, looking towards the falling sun. “...she would probably hate me right now.” 

“Don’t say that. You know she wouldn’t.” 

Michael shrugs, letting the bottle hang from his fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” 

He feels Ruth’s hand come up to his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. He leans further on his knees, watching how the sky turns from blue to deep orange. The birds are starting to settle on the fence, while the horses and chickens return to their houses. The dogs are coming back to the house, wagging their tails with dopey little grins. It’s a nice quiet sight. He knows it can’t stay like this, but he desperately wants it to. Forever, perhaps.  

“One more week?” he asks, though it comes out more like a command. 

“Deal.” Ruth stands up on the step, brushing off her jeans. “Now get inside. I got enchiladas in the oven waiting and the kids are practically drooling all over the couch.” 

Michael snorts, shooing her off. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“Alrighty then. But you got dish duty this time.” 

“Will do captain,” he says with a mock salute. 

Ruth heads back in the house with a chuckle. Michael looks back towards the sunset one last time, memorizing every last detail he could with his worn-out eyes. He swigs down the rest of his beer, letting it settle in his veins before he finally stands up. His joints crack and pop in all sorts of ways as he stretches out the soreness in his thighs. He closes his eyes, deeply inhaling the cooling air, allowing himself one moment of peace against the torrent in his head. 

Now I’m not saying that confrontation is the best solution. But what I am saying is that sometimes, it may be your only solution. Especially if the problem is your own.

He walks back to the house in a slow stride, the exhaustion weighing down on his shoulders as he pries the door open. 

Jack Abbot 

Jack (5:34 AM): Dana’s gone. Put in her papers two days ago. Sorry you had to find out like this 

Oh and that Langdon kid? He keeps asking me about where you’re at. Says he needs to talk to you before something 

…

(6:11 AM): They miss you a lot. 

You coming home soon?

Michael rubs a hand over his face, looking over the messages over and over again. Jack sent them around a week into his forced exile. It’s the only update that he’s had from Pittsburgh since he left. He takes an odd amount of comfort in them, even with their clipped tone. 

He chucks his phone onto the nightstand when his eyes start to strain. He hoists his legs onto the bed, looking up towards the dark ceiling covered with random patterns of plaster. He doesn’t bother to pull the blanket over him as he shivers from the AC. He stays like this for what seems like an eternity, with the only sound filling the room being his breaths and the occasional creak. 

It’s lonely. And dark. And cold. 

You can’t keep running away forever Michael. 

He books a ticket for Pittsburgh the next morning. 

amor fati, memento mori

From his last count, Michael has around six tattoos – seven if you include the random dots covered by the sheer heft of hair on his right arm. The four on his wrists were random ones that he’s collected over the years, though they did have actual meanings at one point in his life. The one on his right forearm was an attempt at a stick-and-poke of a stick man, but he backed out after a few dots once the pain caught up with the alcohol. 

The two on his biceps are probably the most meaningful – and the most stupid of them all. He got them a few months after Adamson passed, when lockdown protocols were mostly lifted. He remembers walking into the tattoo shop, gruffing out a few words through his mask about how he didn’t care how the tattoo artist did it, and blacking out for two hours when they transcribed the phrases into his skin. If he was a little bit more adjusted back then, Michael probably would’ve never gotten them at all. At the very least, he would’ve been a bit more meticulous with how he wanted them to look. 

But in the end, the pain won out, which is how he ended up with amor fati on his right and memento mori on his left. 

"There are two types of people that would get those phrases tattooed on them: the ones that have zero idea what they mean and the ones that know exactly what they mean." Jack said this once to him when he was showing off a patient who got pro tanto as a tramp stamp. He laughed at this back then, despite his own love for Latin phrases. 

Naturally, he started covering them up when Jack caught wind a week after he got them.

The first person he decides to talk to after he landed is Emery Walsh of all people. 

Emery is the type of person that Michael didn’t expect to get along with. Within the greater hospital network, she’s known for her efficiency, leadership, and level head under pressure. Given that she was a former surgical captain in the Navy Medical Corps, there’s a certain level of terror that comes with her prestige — the kind of terror that says “don’t mess with this one unless you want your fingers bitten off”. Obviously, this led to not many people wanting to befriend her, even at her most genteel of days.

Yet, for some godforsaken reason, Emery likes talking to him, mostly because it gets Jack all pissy when they do. (It had something to do with Jack being the first one to meet her and that he’s “associating with the enemy”. Then there’s the whole long standing rivalry thing. Michael stopped listening when Jack started droning on about the Army versus the Navy.) There’s also the whole thing where he pretended to be her brother to scare off some attending from West Penn, but that goes unspoken most of the time. 

“I’m surprised you wanted to see me outside of work,” Emery says, putting her bag down as she settles into the seat across from him. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw your text.” 

“Can’t a man just ask a colleague out to lunch?” 

“With your reputation?” She raises an eyebrow. “I would’ve expected something nicer than Max’s at least.” 

Michael makes a faux-offended expression. “You dare mock a cultural institution?” 

Emery snorts, crossing her arms. “Pretzels and bratwurst aren’t exactly first date material Robby.” She leans in with a wry smile. “Unless you just want it to be casual.” 

Michael huffs out a laugh in kind, scratching the back of his neck. “Pretty sure Jack would kill me if he found out.” 

“Not if I do it first.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. “So, three weeks? Any life changing revelations come your way?” 

He sucks a cheek between his teeth. “Oregon’s nice. Got to see my nieces and nephew for once.”

“And?” she says, raising an eyebrow. 

He shrugs, uncomfortably so, feeling his chest tighten as he recalls the steady drone of the early morning sun. “I wished I could’ve stayed there longer. I have enough vacation days to do it.” 

Emery tilts her head, eyes squinting with concern. “Huh. Never thought I would hear the Dr. Robinavitch wanting to stay away from the Pitt.” 

“You learn a lot of things away from it.” He places his forearms on the table, fully leaning in on them. “I did miss you guys though, all things considered.” 

“Really?” There’s a soft, yet sharp laugh emanating from her throat. 

Michael immediately shrinks at this, grasping onto his glass tight enough to cause a fog. A low hum rings in his ears as he falls into a trance, trying to let the memories leach out of his skull. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth as everything slows around him, twisting and dilating into blobs of color and warped features. 

He feels a warm hand covering his own calloused ones after a moment, letting him swim back to consciousness. When he looks up, Emery’s right there with a small smile. 

“I've heard they missed you too. All things considered.” 

A small smile of his own creeps onto his face. “Thanks, Emery.” 

“Anytime, Robby.” 

They end up splitting the stuffed pretzels and the bratwurst before heading their separate ways. 

Michael doesn’t know how he ended up at the Malloys’. 

For one thing, he was supposed to head home after roaming around downtown. He was supposed to get in the Jeep and drive all the way back to Manchester. Instead, he detoured to Greenfield, walking down those familiar streets to end up at Jake and Janey’s house. He should know better by now, considering that the damage was still fresh. 

And yet, he’s still here right at their front door, loitering about like an idiot. 

He sees Jake in the window hobbling about. His face is a little more haunted, with the usual brightness in his eyes dulled out. For a second, Michael thinks Jake is going to look down. He wonders what his face would look like when he saw the man that was supposed to be his hero right on his front doorstep. 

Michael doesn’t get his answer when Jake disappears, probably to do better things. 

He thinks about knocking on the door. 

He doesn’t. At least for the time being. 

So, he walks back to the Jeep, sits in the driver’s seat for far too long, and lets a couple of tears slip before driving back home. 

sullivan and shostakovich, meet robinavitch 

Before his first day back, Michael decided to schedule an appointment with Jack’s therapist. He figured that it would be a start, even if it didn’t go well. At least he was trying to do something about it, despite having avoided the issue for many, many years now. 

What he didn’t expect was a blue-haired, slightly rotund man with round glasses and a thick graying beard to be Dr. Aaron Sullivan.

“I’m technically a psychologist, but I prefer the term ‘therapist’. Helps soften out the whole therapy thing to my patients,” he says with a cheeky smile, sipping a mug of tea. “Jack brought you here, correct?” 

Michael looks at him with a slack jaw, trying to comprehend the sight before him. “Oh, uh, yeah. He gave me your card, actually.” 

“Ah,” Dr. Sullivan says with a slow nod. “I would close your mouth though. Flies are everywhere these days.” 

Michael immediately clamps his mouth shut, clenching his jaw. Dr. Sullivan gives him another terse smile before pulling out a few things from his desk. Among those things are a journal, a pen, and an assorted box of teas with a picture of a skeleton talking to a witch on the front. 

“Before we get started, would you like a cup of tea?” 

He blinks for a few seconds, clamping his jaw tightly. “...sure?” 

“Flavor?” 

“Any kind.” 

Dr. Sullivan skims through the bags, muttering a few things to himself. He carefully pulls out one bag, showing it off to Michael. “Hibiscus blossom sound good? Or are you more of an oolong fan?” 

He would’ve preferred his usual black coffee, but he wasn’t going to complain. “Sounds good to me.” 

“Great.” 

Dr. Sullivan walks over to the counter, pouring water from a Britta pitcher into an electric kettle. He rummages through the counter with a couple of grunts, mumbling out a “oh there it is” before pulling out a slate gray mug. Michael watches all of this unfold with a slightly confused gaze, jokingly wondering how long it would take for him to run out while Dr. Sullivan’s distracted. 

“So, you work at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, yes?” 

Michael jolts in his seat, rubbing one of his hands on his jeans to steady himself. “Yep. Been there for around two decades now, give or take.” 

“Emergency medicine right?” 

“Yep,” he says, trying to steady his hands.

“Two decades is quite the feat.” Dr. Sullivan turns around, making room for the kettle to heat up. “You want to explain why you chose it?” 

Michael blanches, leaning back in his seat. The answer was fairly simple: he chose it to help as many people as he could. He knew that he wanted to be an emergency medicine doctor for as long as he could remember, ever since he saw one practically revive his friend from a drug overdose when he was 18. It was a demanding and thoroughly thankless speciality, but it was the one that he felt could best reach people. Never mind the fact that he would see many patients’ absolute worst day, burning the image onto his retinas long after they passed. 

He ends up shrugging and simply saying, “Thought I could help the most people if I chose it.” 

“Huh. Interesting.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks with a harsher edge. 

Dr. Sullivan brings the steaming mug over to his desk, setting it down on Michael’s side. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He sits down on his side, opening up his journal. “I just find that most people in emergency medicine give the same answer.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Dr. Sullivan takes another sip of his tea, peering over his glasses to reveal his gray blue eyes staring right at him. “Look, Michael – or do you prefer Robby?” 

“Any one is fine,” he says, still tense. 

Dr. Sullivan frowns, crossing his arms. “I’ve worked with countless doctors and veterans over the years – many of whom are still somehow working to this day. And every single time, they’ve given me a variation of your exact answer. Now, I’m not saying that your answer is incorrect, or even invalid. Far from that actually. But what I am trying to get at here is simply why. Why does an emergency attending physician of two decades want to come here to get answers from a psychologist with blue hair?” 

Michael sinks in his seat, craning his head down in shame. He feels his feet melt into the wood floor as his vision becomes a gaussian blur. His chest and hands tighten as he glances back at the awaiting face of Dr. Sullivan, opening his journall. 

“It’s not easy. It’s not supposed to be. But, you can’t keep running away from it forever.” 

A raw nerve exposes itself, leaving him in the open as he fiddles with his thumbs. 

“Okay,” he says finally. He sits back up, leaning over his knees. “What do you want from me then?” 

“Tell me something. Anything really.” Dr. Sullivan clicks his pen, rolling it between his fingers. 

Michael rubs his palms together, rocking his knees back and forth as he contemplates what he should say. Should he start with Adamson and how he failed to save him? Or does he start with all of the deaths from that day, going down the list of names? Or does he recall the bodies from Pittfest, remembering how his body filled with adrenaline and dread as the blood kept staining his gown? 

“I did my residency at Big Charity in New Orleans,” he starts, his voice reduced to a soft husk. “My first day, I got this kid - five years old - he was accidentally shot by his brother with his father’s gun. It was the first big trauma case I was assigned to. We worked on him for forty minutes straight. We pulled out all of the stops for this kid.” He takes in a breath, trying not to break as he remembers the crying and yelling. “Eventually my attending called it when he coded. And I just kept thinking to myself, if I could’ve been a little faster or a little more experienced, maybe that kid would’ve survived.” 

“Would he?” 

Michael shakes his head grimly, sighing deeply. “Bullet ripped through his heart. The surgical attending at the time said that he wouldn’t have made it even if they did have an OR ready.” 

“I see.” 

Dr. Sullivan scrawls a few things in his journal. Michael simply sits there, feeling the familiar ring in his ears get louder and louder as the memories of that day flash through his eyes. He specifically fixates on the mausoleums of Charity Cemetery, observing how the pillars shine under the dim moonlight with unknown names and rotting flowers. The memories could stay there, he thought, languishing in the open graves as he shoved the feelings down to the dirt. 

There’s a small scrape that he hears above the noise. He comes back up, watching Dr. Sullivan push the slate gray mug closer to him. 

“I think your tea’s ready. You wanna drink it?” 

Michael slowly lifts the mug off of the table, motioning it towards him. He blows on the steam forming, taking a tentative sip. It was sweet, but not overly so, with notes of apple and something herbal lingering in the back of his throat. 

“This is good,” he says, putting down the mug. 

“It’s one of my favorite flavors. I find that it allows my patients to relax after a long day.” Dr. Sullivan flicks his pen, writing down a few more notes. “So, you want to continue?” 

Michael deeply inhales, then exhales, letting his shoulders relax. “...yeah. Just, uh, give me a minute?” 

“Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

“This is a bit of a weird assignment, but I would like for you to listen to Shostakovich when you get back home. Cliche as it may be, I find that listening to classical music helps to, uh, soothe the soul if you will. I do recommend that you stay away from String Quartet No. 8 for now though – too angry.” 

“I’m sorry, but why Shostakovich?” 

“Ah, glad you asked. Well, Shostakovich is infamously known for being a rather eclectic composer. He’s ostensibly neoclassical, but he also utilized elements of the grotesque, atonality, and the like within his works. To put it more simply, his music was – and still is – a wonderful, if not highly disconcerting representation of the human experience, no doubt influenced by his own tumultuous life. Also, this may sound a bit trite, but Shostakovich? Robinavitch? I figured it would be a good fit.” 

Thus, that is how Michael ended up listening to a Shostakovich playlist on a Thursday evening. 

The playlist was one of the first things that he clicked on after a quick YouTube search. After skimming through the description to check for String Quartet No. 8, he clicked play and let it run through his headphones as he cleaned up his house. Despite being not so keen on classical music (he was more of a classic rock and jazz fan), he was enjoying his experience with Shostakovich. The playlist helped to put his mind at ease as he wiped away at the dust and grime that accumulated over his vacation, even with the more dramatic pieces interspersed with the slow, relaxing pieces. 

As he was cleaning his living room bookshelf to the tune of something called The Gadfly Suite, Michael noticed a book that he barely remembers buying. After a few more passthroughs, he stared at it with narrowed eyes like it was able to offer him any answers. He eventually threw the towel on his coffee table and pried the book from its confines, brushing away the dust. 

When the music came to a crescendo, the large font paired with the drawing of a wrench planted in grass made him remember how he got the book. 

It was October 2020, just a month after Adamson passed. Michael was scrolling through Amazon haphazardly, not really bothering with trying to look for items as he wallowed on his couch. He probably had been scrolling for two or three hours when he saw the book come into view. He remembered hearing about it from an old college buddy a while back, but he didn’t bother to check it out until that very moment, mostly for the quirky title. One quick skim of the description later and he was placing it in his cart, checking it out in near-record time. 

Said book was Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which is clearly not a book about the Buddhist concept of Zen or motorcycle maintenance, as the author’s note reads. 

He plopped himself on the couch and pried the book open, deciding that he would read a couple of pages before his first shift back tomorrow morning. Some light reading couldn’t hurt, right? 

Michael ended up reading all of Part I before passing out. 

humvee motorcycle logic 

In his three-week absence from the Pitt, a lot of things have shifted around since then. He really shouldn’t have been surprised by this considering, well, everything, but Michael couldn’t help but be a little shocked. 

In a rather loaded email sent by Perlah, she gave him a breakdown as to what happened the three weeks he was off in Oregon. (He could practically feel her glares at the back of his skull when he was reading through it.) Aptly put, she was the day shift charge nurse now after Dana retired, and it’s clear that she very much doesn’t want to be. Javadi is rotating through ophthalmology, while Whitaker is going through OB/GYN. Langdon was formally suspended by the board due to his admission of drug usage, so he’s apparently resting either at home or in rehab. Because of this, one of the PAs from the night shift had to transfer to the day shift, while Shen took over some day shifts. (Apparently, he did not enjoy it.) Gloria hasn’t hounded the Pitt nearly as much, though she did witness Jack almost punch a wall after a conversation with her. 

Otherwise, everything was fine and nothing was going wrong whatsoever. 

The routine is simple. Walk out of his apartment at 6:25 AM with his tumbler in one hand and his backstrap in another. Pop his headphones in, pull up his usual classic rock playlist, and stroll through the city, taking in the cooling air and rising sun. Dodge a couple trees, wait for the stoplight to go from the red hand to the walking person, and approach the back end of the PTMC by 6:34 or so. Go through the back hallway, make his way through the stairs, and open the door to the waiting room to pass on through mostly undetected. Scan the ID badge, pass by the picture of staff members that succumbed to COVID, and hopefully place his things down with little fanfare. 

Naturally, Perlah clocks him as soon as he gets to the nurses’ hub. 

“Good morning, Dr. Robby,” she says with a sharp edge. “Three weeks and you’re no worse for wear.” 

He hauls his bag over the counter with a sharp huff, taking out his penlight and stethoscope. “Good morning to you too, Perlah. Though I will say, gotta work on the barbs there.” 

“Hey, we can’t all be Dana with her proverbial wisdom.” She spins her chair, standing up from it. “By the way, being a charge nurse sucks.” 

“Yikes, that bad huh?” 

She glares at him. “Say, weren’t you the one that said that running the ED was a Sisphyan task?” 

He raises his hands in a faux-surrender motion. “Guilty as charged.” 

Perlah lets out a soft laugh, leaning over the counter. “Welcome back.” 

Michael gives her a terse smile. “Thanks.” He glances over the busy staff members typing away. “Abbot?” 

“Checking up on a patient in 7, I think. He should be over here soon for shift change.” She gives him a once-over, wrinkling her mouth to the side. “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, taking a sip out of his tumbler. “Not sure. But I’m here now.” 

She tilts her head, giving him an unimpressed look. “Well, if you need somebody to talk to…” 

“I appreciate it, Perlah.” He glances over the back of his shoulder, checking to see if anybody saw him yet. “Hey, I’m gonna get some air. Abbot will know where to find me if he’s asking.” 

“Okay?” she says with a raised eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want me to call air support or something?” 

“I think I’ll be fine,” he cheekily says. “Just need to clear my head.” 

“Riiiight. I’ll let him know.” She has a terse smile as she says it. 

He starts to walk off with his hands in his pocket, clocking his right and left to make sure that everything’s covered before he makes his exit. He quickly heads out through the heavy wooden doors, making his ascent up the familiar marble steps, careful to keep his eyes towards the bright skylights. 

Before September 12th, Michael regarded the rooftop as a strange space where nothing happened, and yet every single revelation could be tracked all in one spot. Being that he was a frequent visitor thanks to Jack’s “morning routine”, it’s become a friendly sight to him, outside of the constant threat of somebody falling off. There’s the rising sun, the bustling city below, the pigeons that rest on the ledge, and the wind coming in from the east. It would honestly be beautiful on a less blood-soaked institution. 

It’s very little wonder that he found himself back up there staring at the rising sun. This time he’s behind the railing, presumably unwilling to take the leap. 

“Well, didn’t think I would see you up here again so soon,” Jack says, strolling up next to him. “Thought we agreed that you would be the one to get me down.” 

“Maybe I want to switch things up,” Michael replies, still looking towards the sun. 

“You call this switching it up?” Jack motions with his arms all around him. 

He shrugs, leaning over the railing. 

“Don’t do that.” 

“I’m not gonna jump, Jack.” 

“Really? From what I remember, the last time that we were here, you were on the other side of this fucking railing.” 

Jack mirrors his pose, holding his hands in front of him. Michael watches the streams of cars start to appear. There are a few more people below him, walking and talking through the streets. The sun starts to illuminate the concrete buildings in a warm shiny hue, burning itself into his worn eyes. It almost reminds him of Oregon in a way, if the grass and farmland was replaced by skyscrapers and streetlights. He almost likes it like this – again, aside from the threat of what’s below. 

“I saw Dr. Sullivan the other day,” Michael says, breaking the silence. 

“Good.” Jack turns his body towards him, shifting his weight. “He scare you yet?” 

He shrugs, crossing his arms tightly over the metal. “Nothing like a blue-haired tea lover to get you to open up.” He turns his head towards the man standing over him with a cheeky smile. “Never thought you would have that guy as your therapist.” 

“An old Army buddy of mine recommended him,” Jack says, fully turning his back towards the sun. “That man can really work a miracle with his tea.” 

Michael chuckles, looking towards the sunset again. “I’ll say.”

“...you sure you’re going to be alright?” 

“Don’t know yet.” He stands up, holding on to the railing. “I’m trying though.” 

Jack grasps his shoulder, patting it a few times before he lets go. Michael pulls his lips to the side, letting out a soft sigh as a hum comes above him. Jack eventually starts to make his way back down, leaving him alone. He just stands there, still holding on to the railing, fully taking in the sight of the waking city. 

For a short moment, he thinks that he understands why Jack likes it up here so much. 

Over the next few weeks, Michael established a fairly simple routine. On his days off, he would take a walk around the neighborhood, greet a few neighbors, and try to bask in his surroundings. He’ll make a good coffee afterwards with his expensive coffee pot, skim through the news, and check his mail. Then he’ll either read a few more pages of Pirsig, clean something, watch a show (currently it’s Frasier), or pick up another book (My Name is Asher Lev as of this moment, purely because of the Jewish connection). He tries to make a healthy-ish lunch and dinner somewhere in there. He’s noticed that the paunch is starting to get a little too round. 

As for his days in the ED, it gets a bit more complicated. For the most part, his role is the same. He’s still doing his job as a senior attending and teacher, even when Gloria pisses him off with the same five emails. He thinks that everyone respects him to an extent – awkward staring aside. 

Yet, adjustments were made, for better or worse. He avoids Pedes as much as he can. He doesn’t go to the rooftop on days when Jack is working. He bites his tongue around Samira more, only for the occasional complaint about her speed to pop up. He talks to Emery in the corners of the hospital where people can’t see. He checks in with Perlah far more often than she would like. He attempts to stare at Heather less – a hard feat but still. He keeps a bit more distance from McKay now. He glances over his shoulder for Langdon out of habit. He tries to keep an eye on Mel and Santos. He’s pushing on more responsibility on Shen and Ellis as much as he can. 

He’s trying. Probably. It’s hard to tell when he’s close to bursting a vein because of a stupid patient. 

It’s when he’s reading through Part II of Pirsig when he realizes that he hasn’t booked another appointment for Dr. Sullivan yet. He thinks he should. 

Still, he hesitates on the booking page for far too long. 

Michael started smoking at the age of 24. Prior to that, he was a staunch anti-smoker, mostly because of his grandmother. She absolutely hated even seeing them after a lifetime of cigarettes caused the premature death of one of his uncles and his grandfather. So, he refused them whenever he could when all of his friends were lighting up. Better to keep the infamous rage of Bubbe at bay. 

When the stresses of medical school eventually caught up with him, Michael caved. It started with bumming a stick from a friend after class, lighting it up in the alley before he went to the cadaver lab. It quickly escalated to him buying a pack every couple of weeks, with a shiny green BIC lighter to match. He was better than most of his friends, sticking to only one or two cigarettes a day, but he felt a little shame every time he lit one up. He never told his grandmother this, knowing that she would absolutely kill him if she did find out. 

Ruth did though, and boy did she let him have it, having caught him smoking in the alley when he was visiting her all the way back in 2004. 

Still, he kept smoking until he was around 43 or 44. As a doctor, he knew that it was more than a little hypocritical, but he needed something. It wasn’t so much the act of smoking than it was the serenity he got during it. For just a few minutes, he was able to shake off the stress and the edge before heading back into the ED. After all, nobody liked a high-strung Dr. Robby. It wasn’t until he noticed all the age spots on his face and the increasing hoarseness of his voice that he thought maybe he should stop. However, he didn’t really quit until Adamson read him the riot act in the ambulance bay, reminding him that he wasn’t all that young anymore. He kept himself clean since then, using a steady stream of nicotine gum and self-flagellation to curb the cravings. 

He did, however, buy a pack a week after Adamson died, though he threw it out when he attempted to smoke one in his backyard. His moral compass was unfortunately too good for him sometimes. 

All of this is to say that Michael bummed off a cigarette from a pack Dana left behind in one of the drawers, and he’s not sure if he wants to light it right now. 

On one hand, he can practically hear Adamson’s entire speech resonating in his ears. Bubbe’s eyes are staring him down from wherever her soul ended up. He knows that it’s bad for him. He doesn’t need the whole song-and-dance to understand that. 

On the other hand, he’s got a red BIC lighter in his right hand, and a fresh cigarette in his left. It’s dark. Nobody’s in the ambulance bay right now. One couldn’t hurt. 

So, he wraps his lips around the familiar paper wrapping and flicks the lighter on, covering the stick so that the wind doesn’t get to it. It takes him a few tries to get the flame to come, rolling the spark wheel so hard that his thumb begins to callous. 

“Thought you quit.” 

Michael turns to see Heather right behind him with a familiar amused smirk. He takes the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, keeping it in between his fingers as he shoves the lighter back in his pocket. 

“Yeah. Thought so too.” He gestures with the cigarette in his right hand. 

She juts with her chin towards the stick. “You know those are bad for you.” 

“I know that.” He sighs heavily, leaning back against the brick wall. “But I saw them in the drawer and I just…I don’t fucking know.”

She steps a little closer, putting her hands on her hips as her amusement shifts to concern. “You can’t keep doing this Robby. Relapsing isn’t going to solve the issue.” 

He cranes his head towards her, smirking halfheartedly. “...you sound like my sister.” 

Heather snorts, glancing behind her. “Well, what would Ruth think if she saw you right now?” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“You know I’m right, Michael.” 

He tenses ever-so-slightly. Deep-down, Michael knew that Heather was right. She always was, even though years have passed since then. 

“Shouldn’t you be going home?” he tries to say in jest. 

She gives him a knowing glance, pulling her bag closer to her. “Good night, Robby.” 

Heather starts walking back towards the glow of the ED, leaving him alone. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers, flicking it between the appendages. A chill slowly collades onto his back as he stays there, hearing the distant siren of an ambulance gradually come through. He flits his eyes towards the full moon staring at him, capturing how it softly illuminates the stars in the sky. 

So, he lights the cigarette, watching how the paper burns away as smoke slowly streams out. He lets it drop to the concrete once it’s burned halfway, stomping it out with one definitive crack. 

nicotine gum, zoloft, and mandy (the dog) 

Michael ended up booking the appointment early the next morning, getting a 9:00 AM on November 9th. 

“You know, you have to be consistent with appointments if you want therapy to work,” Dr. Sullivan says with a slightly pointed tone. “Though, I can’t say that I’m entirely surprised. Doctors truly are some of the worst patients.” 

“Sorry,” Michael says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Got caught up in work.” 

“Now that’s a bald-faced lie if I ever heard one.” Dr. Sullivan settles into his chair, placing two fresh mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of him. “I would expect a little better from you, considering your openness during our first – or rather, only session.” 

Michael brings the familiar slate gray mug to him, blowing off the steam. When he takes a whiff of it, he can recognize the fruity notes with a hint of something musky in the back. 

“Blueberry merlot, if you’re wondering. It’s one of my favorites.” Dr. Sullivan clicks his pen, pulling one of his legs to form a makeshift desk for his journals. “So, mind catching me up as to what you’ve been doing for the last month? Other than staring at the booking page, I presume.” 

Michael carefully puts the mug back down on the table, settling into the couch. He slowly rubs his hands on his jeans, taking a few deep breaths as he tries to parse what he wants to say. 

“I’ve been reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It’s pretty good so far. I’ve been listening to it with, uh, that one classical guy–” 

“Shostakovich?” 

“Yeah, that one,” he says, pointing towards nothing. “I think it’s helping.” 

“Uh-huh.” Dr. Sullivan scrawls a few things in his journal. “Pirsig…that’s an interesting one.” 

“You’ve read it?” 

“A couple times actually. Funnily enough, I only picked it up because of the motorcycle aspect.” There’s a few more scrawls on the paper. “I’m more partial to more ‘artsy’ writers if I say so myself, but Pirsig’s writing style is quite compelling in its own right.” He leans over the table, picking up his lavender mug depicting a skeleton reading a book. “Any other books you’ve picked up?” 

“Asher Lev is the other one. I haven’t gotten that far into it because of my schedule.”

“Asher Lev? Isn’t that the one where the main character gets shunned by his community for trying to be an artist?”

“Bingo.” Michael starts to fiddle with his thumbs. “I only started reading it because of the Jewish thing though,” he mutters. 

“Ah.” Dr. Sullivan takes a couple of sips, carefully monitoring Michael. He shifts in his seat, trying to sink into the couch cushions. “Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask…are you Jewish, Michael?” 

Michael clenches his teeth together at the question, slowly grinding his molars as he rubs his palms together. He glances down at his chest, planting his eyes on the spot where his Magen David rests underneath his shirt. A couple of more breaths pass through his nose as he rests with the thought, flickering his eyes around as if the room would give him answers. 

“I was born and raised Jewish – Orthodox mostly – but I have a bit of a…complicated relationship with God, to put it lightly.”

“I see.” Dr. Sullivan puts down the journal on the coffee table next to his mug. “Do you think it’s because of your profession or your lifestyle?” 

Really, it was a combination of factors. Michael’s connections to Judaism were mostly due to his grandmother, and even then it was complicated. He attended Sunday school, recited the Shema, and mostly ate kosher, but he was so caught up in being a “normal American kid” that his faith got muddled by the time he graduated high school. By the time he finished residency, what was left was a smattering of Hebrew, memories of Jewish history, and his Magen David pendant. Seeing the drove of death and suffering almost every single day probably had something to do with it. 

So, he shrugs, saying: “Both probably. I wasn’t the most devout even when I was a kid.” He picks up his mug again, mostly to keep something in his hands. “Why’re you asking in the first place?” 

He meant to be sincere, but it comes out a little bitter instead. 

Dr. Sullivan merely raises an eyebrow at this. “Well, aside from the Asher Lev connection, I may have done a quick internet skim and guessed from there. Robinavitch is quite peculiar for a surname, I found." 

“Guess we can add deduction to your list of superpowers,” Michael mutters, sipping his lukewarm tea. 

“Ah, so there’s the infamous Robby sarcasm that I’ve been hearing about.” 

“Huh?” 

“I may have heard from the pipeline about your infamous reputation.” Dr. Sullivan picks up his mug in kind, taking a long sip. “I was expecting something with more punch, however. But I digress.” He puts down the mug, taking his journal in exchange. “Anything else I should know about?” 

Michael sits his mug between his legs, rubbing his thumb over the lip. “I’ve been picking up cooking again. I got this app that has a bunch of healthy recipes on it. Helps to keep me away from the takeout menus. I’ve been watching Fraiser over the past couple of weeks whenever I don’t read.” 

Dr. Sullivan nods, motioning for him to keep going. 

“I also made it a habit to go on a morning walk or jog when I got a day off.” 

“That’s good. Fraiser though, nice choice.” 

Michael watches how Dr. Sullivan hurriedly scrawls on the paper, muttering a few things to himself as his eyes flicker between the journal and him. He sips the rest of tea, rolling his shoulders as he glances towards a few pictures depicting Dr. Sullivan with his friends. There’s also a couple of paintings of flowers in soft brushstrokes above his desk, along with a more surreal painting that Michael thinks might be Dali. 

“Michael, serious question,” The sound of Dr. Sullivan’s voice jolts Michael back to his awaiting face. “Are you taking any medication right now?” 

“Other than the occasional Zyrtec and some nicotine gum, not really.” He leans forward, still holding on to his mug. “Why?” 

“Just wondering is all.” 

“Okay.” 

He fully sinks into the cushions, feeling a lull come over his eyes. He ponders on the question for just a little bit longer, resisting the urge to understand what Dr. Sullivan means.

Michael lives in the middle of the Manchester neighborhood. He moved there around nine or so years ago with the boost to his salary, thinking that it would be a nice change from the apartment he was cooped up in Highland Park. It’s within walking distance to the hospital, the neighbors were pretty nice, and the Victorian houses were a nice touch. He inherited his current house from his aunt who moved to Vermont, with the sole insistence that he would at least keep the exterior intact. Otherwise, he can do whatever he wants to it. 

“Whatever he wants to it” meant that Michael kept the inside Spartan by design, other than the nice leather furniture, technology updates, and the occasional photo. He didn’t bother with decorating it too much since he didn’t have anybody around other than the six-week girlfriend that would pop up. (And Heather, but that’s for later.) Even after his stint in Oregon, he wasn’t particularly bothered by this. There wasn’t any point to decorating the place if all he does there is sleep, eat, watch a TV slow, or read a book. 

That is to say, there’s currently a German Shepherd laying on his living room floor right now, giving him the puppy dog eyes as he nurses his coffee.

To explain, Michael lived next to a woman named Amelia Morris. She loved chess, yelling at people, knitting, and pot – lots of it. She recently got a German Shepherd at the insistence of her son, who got worried about her living alone at the age of 70. She loved her dog to death, spoiling the poor thing with everything she got. Michael would laugh whenever he saw her dog in a brand new costume, her face in shock as to what she’s been put in. Unfortunately, Mrs. Morris eventually had to be put into a retirement home closer to her extended family in California, which meant that Mandy had to be rehomed or put into the hands of her very busy daughter. 

And so, for some unfathomable reason, Michael became her temporary owner until he could find somebody more suitable. Apparently, Jessica thought he would be a good fit with his giant backyard and caring nature. 

Now, Michael doesn’t hate dogs – far from it. However, with the demands of being a ED physician and his general fatigue, he simply didn’t have the time or energy to take care of a pet. He even explicitly warned Langdon against this multiple times, almost knocking his head onto the wall when he found out from Dana – on the same day he found out Langdon was stealing drugs no less. 

But when Mandy’s laying there whimpering and staring at him, all he wanted to do was to just hug her until his next shift. She’s really too cute not to. 

“You wanna come up here?” he softly asks, patting right beside him. 

Mandy simply whimpers, turning her head towards where Mrs. Morris used to live. Michael pulls his lips into a frown, putting down his mug on the nightstand. After a moment, he drags himself down to the front of the couch, gradually scooting towards her. He raises his palm to let her sniff it, being greeted with a small whimper. She gradually raises her head and lays it down on his lap, staring up at him with those big eyes of hers. He gently pets the space between her flattened ears, glancing towards the house right next to him. 

“I miss her too, you know.” 

He isn’t quite sure who he wants to listen. 

“I’m sorry, you got a dog?” Jack says incredulously. “Brother, what the hell are you thinking?” 

“It’s only temporary until we can find a new owner,” Michael says, taking a sip out of his tumbler. 

“Excuse me, we?” Jack steps a little closer, putting his hands on his hips. “You got a new girlfriend or something?” 

“Try Mrs. Morris’s daughter.” Micheal turns his head around, giving Jack a wry smile. “She’s married by the way.” 

Jack only squints his eyes, sighing out harshly. “At least tell me that you got a dog sitter.” 

Michael shrugs, looking towards North 4. “My neighbor Maya agreed to help me out since she works from home.” 

“Good.” 

There’s a patient screaming that jolts the both of them. When Michael turns around, he sees a woman on the bed, holding up a chair. 

“What in the actual fuck?” Jack mutters. 

Michael whips his head around with pleading eyes. “Perlah?”

“Already called Esme,” she says, holding up her pager.

“Great,” he says with a terse thumbs-up. 

On the bright side, he only has one hour left in his shift. 

“Michael, you got a dog? What the hell?” Ruth says, practically yelling over the phone. 

He sighs, rubbing his face with his free hand. He glances towards Mandy, who’s laying on the floor panting. He gives her a small smile, a little soothed by her presence. 

“It’s supposed to be temporary until I can find a new owner, don’t worry.” 

“That’s not the part that I’m worried about! ” There’s a couple of chatters in the background that he doesn’t bother to ask about. “ Look, at least tell me that you’re feeding it properly .” 

“Yes Ruthie, I’m feeding her properly. I even got the gourmet wet food.” There’s a whimper from Mandy that instinctively causes Michael to sit down next to her. “I’m doing great by the way.” 

“Haha, very funny Mikey.” 

“Please don’t call me that.” 

“Seriously though, you? Taking care of a dog? You can barely take care of yourself.” 

“Ouch.” He pets Mandy between the ears, nuzzling her chin with his hand. “I thought you would have a little bit more faith in me.” 

“Just because I’m younger than you doesn’t mean I can’t call you out.” A pause from her end, then a few more chatters. “Hey, I gotta go. Promise me that you’re staying out of trouble. ” 

“I will.” 

Mandy lays her hand on his thigh, giving him a wide-eyed stare that could melt an iceberg. He huffs out a laugh, smoothing over her fur.

Perlah: “You got a dog? You’re joking right?” 

Emery: “I’m going to sound like a bitch when I say this, but a dog? You must be out of your mind if you thought that was a good idea.” 

Kiara: “Oh, a dog. That’s nice.” (Said with a confused grimace as she comprehends the thought.) 

Heather: (Silent judgement over her workstation.) 

Everyone else for that matter: (Gradual confusion?) 

Michael should probably start rethinking the “temporary” label. 

“I’m sorry, you got a what?” Dr. Sullivan says, looking over his glasses. 

“It’s only temporary,” Michael exasperatedly says. He puts a hand on the back of his hand, glancing towards the floor. “I didn’t mean to become her new owner anyway.” 

“I’m not judging you Michael. I’m just…surprised is all.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, really,” Dr. Sullivan emphasizes. “Now tell me, did you get this dog before or after our second session?” 

Michael blanches from the question, knowing full well that what he’s about to say might not go over well. “...around two days after?” 

Dr. Sullivan looks him over a couple times, taking a long sip of tea with raised eyebrows. Michael sinks into the couch, shrinking in on himself. 

“Well, at least you have somebody else in the house. But a German Shepherd?” He puts the mug down with a louder clack than usual. “I would’ve recommended a Westie or a King Charles Spaniel for you personally. But alas, I guess we can’t all be beggars here.” 

“Sorry,” Michael meekly says, even a little childish. “It’s just that my neighbor had to move away and her daughter couldn’t take care of her because of her job, so I somehow got stuck with her instead.” 

“And being an ED attending isn’t stressful enough?” 

“I got a dog sitter.” 

“Uh-huh,” Dr. Sullivan says, a little more drawn-out. “Look, I’m not disapproving of the dog despite what you think. I’m just simply worried that you won’t have the room to spare. Though, judging by the exasperation, you got read the riot act already.” 

“Four times.” Michael shakes his head with a disbelieving smile. “Not to mention everyone else.” 

“People care about you, whether you like it or not.” 

“I know that part,” he mutters, leaning over his knees. “I just wish that they would have a little bit more faith is all.” 

Dr. Sullivan tilts his head, pulling his lips to the side. He stands up from his and picks up something from his desk, handing it to Michael. He looks over it, seeing a list of psychiatrists in the area. 

“Call it presumptuous, but I want you to start considering seeing a psychiatrist as well, even if it’s just for a consult.” Michael cranes his head, reading through the list. “I’m assuming you’re aware of the symptoms for PTSD?” 

Michael nods his head, clenching his jaw. 

“I’m just going to cut to the chase here – Michael, you’ve been through many, many tumultuous events in your life. COVID, Pittfest…not to mention the usual strain of being an emergency medicine doctor. You don’t have to make that call right now, but if I’m being honest, it might be best to seek out further treatment.” 

He glances at the empty chair, frowning. “...when did this get so hard?” 

“Life isn’t meant to be easy. But that doesn’t mean we can’t stop trying either.” Dr. Sullivan puts a gentle hand on Michael’s shoulder. “The fact that you’re trying is all that matters.” 

Michael holds his breath, feeling a few tears start to well up as he starts to shake. Dr. Sullivan simply stays there, eventually moving away to grab a few tissues.

Michael’s relationship with Jennifer – if he could even call it that – goes back around eight years, right around the time that she transferred to the PTMC from LA County General. He could trust her with his life and she probably knows a lot more than he would like to, but they were fairly distant in comparison to his other friendships. It would be more accurate to call it a transactional acquaintance. Most of their conversations would consist of him going to her for advice while she would give said advice in her usual cool-edged manner. There’s occasionally a moment where she reads through him like a sheet of paper, but she never pried. He appreciated her for this, for as unyieldingly intimidating as everyone else makes her out to be. 

Currently though, he’s sitting in front of her desk, holding onto the armchairs as she reads through the referral. 

“You know that I’m not the only psychiatrist in the hospital, Michael. Dr. Suarez is right across the hall from me,” she says, motioning with the referral. “Veronica Tran from Presby would probably be an even better fit with her schedule.” 

“Yeah, but they don’t know me like you do.” 

Jennifer pushes her glasses down, glaring at him. Michael shrinks at this, rubbing his palms over his pants.

“Well, if I must say, Dr. Aaron Sullivan? The blue-haired one, right?” 

Michael nods. “I got referred to him by Abbot.” 

“Ah, makes sense.” She puts down the stack of papers, taking off her glasses. “He’s a bit of a peculiar one, but he’s one of the best.”

“You know him?” 

“I really only know him through the general pipeline, but I get the gist. That man can work a miracle even out of the most hard-edged of veterans apparently.” 

“Wow, a compliment from the Dr. Yoon? How peculiar,” he jokes. 

“Don’t get cute with me.” She folds her arms over her desk, leaning over them. “So, a working diagnosis of PTSD with a recommendation for medication if necessary. I would probably need a full evaluation to be sure, but I’m assuming you would like to clear the air before we get to that part?” 

Michael takes a deep breath, tapping his foot a couple times to steady himself. “I, uh, have these flashbacks. Usually they only come when I get triggered by something, like an ECMO machine or the beep of an IV monitor.” 

“How long have they been happening?” she asks, pulling out a notepad. 

“Give or take maybe around…four or five years? It’s hard to say.” A few scrawls, followed by a few more taps. “I get tinnitus during the flashbacks too. It gets hard to hear sometimes when it comes on.” 

“Uh-huh.” She looks up, shaking her hair. “Any other symptoms?” 

“Does going to the rooftop count?” 

“Michael,” she admonishes. He simply raises his hands up in resignation. 

A few minutes pass by as she writes down a few more notes. Michael simply stares at the cityscape behind her, watching how the cars and people buzz by below the cloudy sky and the sliver of sun. He rubs his arms underneath his jacket, trying to smooth over the goosebumps appearing on his flesh.

“Quick question, you’ve heard of Zoloft correct?”

He tenses his shoulders, shifting in his seat. “A little bit, yeah.” 

“Good.” Jennifer pulls out a giant packet from her desk, putting on her glasses again. “I’m assuming that you have a couple of hours to kill?” 

“Practically the only reason I’m here.” 

“Great.” She picks up her pen and clicks it with a small smile. “We’re going to be here for a while.” 

kalopsia, my dear friend

If there is one memory that Michael regrets the most – even more so than keeping Adamson on ECMO for 17 days straight with no improvement – it’s losing his relationship with Heather. 

Contrary to popular belief, Michael actually knew Heather from her days back in the finance sector. He was introduced to her by a college friend of his and they immediately hit it off. There was something about her disarming smile paired with the sharp wit and hard-earned empathy that made him admire her right then and there. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was in a relationship at the time, he would’ve instantly asked her out before she headed off for Boston that night. 

Over the years, they stayed connected with each other, whether through emails, or random phone calls, or even the simple text. She made it a point to visit him whenever she could, staying at his place because it was easier than booking a hotel room. (A lie of course, but he let it slide.) They would eventually get together in December of 2018, with Heather having pivoted to medicine two years before without his knowledge. He never said this to her, even after he found out, but he always believed that she was a better fit for medicine anyways. 

Then COVID happened. And Adamson. And the little girl who was supposed to get that lung transplant. 

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise when Heather decided to nip it in the bud, tired with her persistence and his lack of it. There was also the fact that she coincidentally matched to the PTMC, having kept it a secret from him due to his unending grief. He let her go without saying a word, simply crying to himself in the once-shared bed for what seemed like hours. 

He resigned himself to staring and talking – maybe flirting every once in a while. He knew that it would be futile. She was too much of a professional to even consider it. Still, he would try to no end, just to push her buttons beyond the stoic facade she puts up. 

Then that fucking day happened, and he has no idea how to reconnect even on that level. 

Four deaths, plus six more from the Pittfest shooting. 106 more patients surviving with the skin of their teeth. The rats. Dana getting punched. Langdon being a drug addict. The entire David Saunders thing. 

Even with all of that, there’s one memory that somehow keeps recurring in his head. 

“I got...I got pregnant a few years ago. I wasn't ready to be a mom then. I wasn't even sure about the relationship. I never told him. I was afraid. I was afraid of, um...all of it. But, mostly...I was afraid he'd hate me for being selfish.”

Beyond the revelation of her miscarriage earlier in the day, and even beyond the revelation that she was even pregnant in the first place, he still replays this one occasionally when he’s laying in his bed while Mandy’s tucked right beside him. 

She wasn’t selfish. She was never selfish in his eyes. 

He’ll forgive her a million times if she needs it, even when he knows that the ship has mostly sailed. 

So, he pulls Mandy in a little tighter, letting a few tears shed before he flutters his eyes fully shut. 

After getting a formal diagnosis of PTSD and failing to find Mandy a new owner, Michael made some changes to the usual routine. 

He now makes an effort to walk Mandy whenever he can, offering her treats to keep her energized. She often sleeps in his bed, which he doesn’t mind. He keeps two steel bowls in the kitchen, a couple of leashes on the coat rack, and a few balls in the closet. There’s a bunch of lint rollers there too, though he still finds hair in between the cushions of the couch.  

He still watches Frasier, though he’s gotten a bit more engaged in whatever nonsense Fraiser and Niles put themselves in. He finished Asher Lev before Zen somehow, so he decided to pick up Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin while he tries to work through Pirsig’s dissections on quality and reason. He’s put a few more pictures of his family by the fireplace, along with the single staff photo he saved from last year. He’s also got a few more recipes under his belt now, though he’ll still order Chinese every now and then for nostalgia’s sake. 

He makes sure to take the Zoloft pill every night before he goes to bed. He books semi-regular sessions with Dr. Sullivan. Jennifer keeps in touch with him via text. He’s not quite sure what’s working the best, but he’s noticed that the tinnitus and the flashbacks have somewhat reduced. He’ll take the win where he can. 

As far as work goes? It’s pretty much the same. The caseload is still high, and the complaints about patient satisfaction will always keep coming. Michael made a few attempts to be a bit more open to everyone aside from the usual suspects, though Princess and Perlah think that he’s “kind of a lumbering brick wall” according to Santos’ understanding of their Tagalog conversations. He keeps on going to the rooftop, though it’s not as frequent as before ever since Jack found out from one of the new med students. (The riot act would be a little too kind to describe what he experienced.) 

Even with all of that, Michael still felt like there was something he couldn’t shake. He’s making his dues. He’s doing the work. He’s even smiling a bit more. 

He ponders on it as Mandy snuggles next to him on the couch as Fraiser complaining drones in the background. 

string quartet no. 8 in c minor, op. 110

“If you must know, String Quartet No. 8 is Shostakovich’s most harrowing piece. He wrote it in three days in 1960, having been disillusioned by the tyranny of Stalin as well as the aftermath of World War II. While he publicly dedicated it to the victims of fascism and war, he privately noted it to be a eulogy to himself, making it essentially a suicide note in musical form. He didn’t go through with it, but his sheer torment is evident throughout the entire piece. Michael, it is a dark, relentless piece that is on the level of Stravinsky or Holst in sheer anger. Or, if we want to think in more modern terms – Trent Reznor on a really, really bad day. So, let me be clear when I say this, listen to this when you feel like you are ready. Not when you think you are ready – when you are absolutely sure that you’re ready. Deal?” 

Michael ended up deciding that he would listen to it just before New Year’s for some reason, thinking that pairing it with his reading of Pirsig would be a good idea. He got the Zoloft. He's doing therapy. He even has a makeshift emotional support dog. He thought he was ready.

Obviously, the universe hates him. 

The lumbering start of the first movement allows him to settle on the couch with a soft yawn. He reads a couple pages of Part III to keep himself awake, putting the drone of the cello and the soft violins as background music as he reads how the author and Chris get into an argument about Quality. It was quite nice. Not exactly the intense lament that he was expecting, but it was a good head-nodder. 

Then the second movement starts. 

Michael jolts out of his seat at its sheer relentlessness, as screeching strings underscore sheer terror. He slowly shuts the book as his chest begins to tighten, flicking his eyes between the carpet and the ceiling as it just keeps going and going and going. 

He’s on the carpet now, with Mandy turning her head right towards him as he gazes into nothingness, pulling a knee into his chest to steady himself with the sudden peaks in tempo and volume. 

The drone of the strings gradually dissipates into the ring inside of his ears, with each peak in volume gradually bringing him down, down, down to the floor. 

He’s laying on the floor now, staring up at the ceiling as his breaths come in-and-out, in-and-out. His head is swimming. His skin is hot, with itches all over. He can barely think at this point. All he can hear against the noise is a few soft rustles ahead of him, followed by a quiet whimper. 

When the piece finally comes to a lull, Mandy’s laying on his chest, looking at him with soft eyes as she gently places her paws over his stomach. Michael slowly pets her in response, running his fingers between her soft fur as he comes back up for air. 

He cries this time, not out of sadness or anger. Rather, it is a cry of relief, with his soft groans quietly dispersing in the air.

“Judging by your early morning text spirals, you listened to String Quartet No. 8?” 

Michael nods, cradling his mug of Earl Grey as he rocks in his seat. 

Dr. Sullivan puts down his mug, clasping his hands in front of him. “Well, how was it then?” 

Michael takes a sip of his tea, recalling the emotions with starling clarity. “It felt like-like I was drowning. I just kept sinking onto the floor with every movement. It’s like…it got me or something. Is that normal?” 

Dr. Sullivan leans back in his chair. “That is perfectly normal, Michael. Music is designed to draw out visceral feelings out of us, whether intentionally or otherwise. I can assure you that you are not the only one to have those feelings.” 

“It’s just that…I haven’t experienced something like that in a while.” 

Dr. Sullivan is taken aback, his eyes quickly shifting to concern. “...you want to explain?” 

Michael rubs his palms together, bearing his teeth as his mind collects the fragments of September 12th, laying it all out for him to witness. He sucks in a breath, biting his lip as he figures out the best way to let it out.

“So, uh, Pittfest. It was on the fourth anniversary of Dr. Adamson, my mentor's, death. I was supposed to go with Jake that day, but he wanted to take his girlfriend instead. I thought I could handle it. It was just one shift.” 

“But it didn’t end up that way.” 

Michael shakes his head, letting out a bitter, weary laugh. “Damn straight.” He looks up then, trembling in his jaw as he leans over his knees. “Four fucking deaths. There was a father who died in front of his children, and a guy with a heart condition, and a teen brain dead from a fentanyl overdose, and a little girl who drowned trying to save her sister…” 

“Jesus,” Dr. Sullivan mutters, taking off his glasses. “This was before the mass casualty?” 

“Yep,” Michael says while nodding. “106 patients survived that day out of 112.” 

“But?” 

Michael shrugs, planting his eyes towards the ground as he recalls Leah’s bleeding heart all over the gurney. “Remember what I said about Jake? Well, uh, funny story, his girlfriend Leah was one of the six that died. I fucking tried everything to save her. Four units of blood, cell saver, TXA…the whole nine yards. I broke protocol to save one girl and all it got me was nothing.” His voice starts to break as hot tears begin to flood his eyes. “Jake fucking hates me now and I can’t do anything about it.” 

“That’s not true.” 

“Is it?” 

A harsh, breathy sigh comes out of Dr. Sullivan as he stands up, grabbing something from his desk. Michael barely looks at him as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, harshly biting down on it. Dr. Sullivan eventually comes back with a purple cat plushie.

“Figured that you might want some tissues.” 

“Huh?”

He pulls a couple of tissues out of the slit in the back of the plushie. “Neat little party trick, and a great therapeutic tool.” 

Michael sniffles in amused bafflement as Dr. Sullivan sits back in his chair, grabbing his lavender mug. 

“Despite what you think, you’re doing okay. Sure, you’ve had a few setbacks, but that’s just the healing process. Healing takes time and effort. You don’t get to the end without going through all of the hurdles first. I’ve been there, and so have many other people before you sitting in that seat. The most important part of this is that you’re at least trying…in your own way of course.”

Michael's mouth twists as a tear runs down his cheek. “You really think that?” 

“Chalk it up to my optimism or whatever, but I really do believe it. The question is: do you?” he says as he raises his mug. 

He ends up listening to the quartet once again when he comes back home, sitting on the couch with a blanket pulled over his legs and Mandy laying right beside him. The stars look a little brighter as he takes in the screeches and drones with a newfound sense of clarity, with his chest finally relaxing after one last squeeze of his heart. 

He pops the Zoloft pill right before he goes to bed, hearing the ring softly humming in his ears.

the long road to repentance…or something like that

“There’s something that I like for you to know, Robby. It’s called ho’oponopono. It translates to something like ‘correction’, but I had a friend who liked to dub it ‘the four things that matter most’. It’s typically used to heal relationships between family and friends. Basically, it’s just a few things that we can say to help us reconnect with those that have drifted away from us.” 

“Exactly why are you telling me this?”  

“Because I want you to pass this on, in however many ways you can. Even when I’m long gone, I want these things to remain right here, no matter how hard it gets. The system may change, and the people will pass, but the words are eternal, so long as you make it.” 

“You want to tell me what those things are then?” 

“Traditionally, it’s ‘I’m sorry’, ‘please forgive me’, ‘thank you’, and ‘I love you’. I tend to replace ‘I’m sorry’ with ‘I forgive you’. Helps soften the blow, I found.” 

Michael made a promise to himself right after he got back from Oregon: no matter what happens, he was going to make it right somehow, even if it was going to hurt more in the process. With his Zoloft in one hand, a German Shepherd snuggling up in his lap, and a quirky therapist on speed dial, he figured now would be a good time to start.

“I’m sorry.” 

The first one goes to Langdon. Well, Frank actually. He writes it in a letter, mostly because he doesn’t know where he’s at. 

Dear Frank, 

I don’t know where you’re currently at, but I heard that you went to rehab. I hope things are going well for you. I’m writing this letter to simply tell you something that I wanted you to hear. 

Truth be told, when I threw you out that day, it came after a series of failures and transgressions that admittedly wore me down more than I thought it did. When Santos told me about her suspicions, my first thought wasn’t, “Oh, that isn’t Frank”. It was, “I should’ve seen it coming.” In hindsight, the signs made more sense the longer I thought about them. I didn’t want to think that they were true, but then I saw the pills. Something in me just snapped when I saw them in your locker. Every single failure, every misstep, every excuse I made: I was honestly more angry at myself than you. Maybe I still am. 

I want you to know that I’m still rooting for you, wherever you are. When you do see this, I hope you understand. 

I’m sorry for how I treated you that day. I still care, even when you don’t think I do. 

Sincerely, 

Robby 

He sends it out the next day. He doesn’t get a response back. He doesn’t expect to. 

The second one is to McKay – or Cassie rather. 

Actually, he apologized to her before, in the stairwell no less. It had been a little over a month since he came back to the hospital, having reflected on his previous failures. He was expecting it to be a lot worse, considering her impulsive nature, which made her initial acceptance feel more bitter as he returned to the memory. Michael thought that he should try again with even more sincerity this time, not exactly sure when he could start. 

Somehow, this led to him finding her in the break room, sitting on the floor with her phone in her hands. She had a long pensive look on her face as she was scrolling through pictures of her and her son with red eyes, having just got off a case of a brutalized teenage girl. 

There was a small sense of shame in the back of his throat as he observed her just outside of the doorway, taking a deep breath as he went in. 

“Mind if I sit?” he softly asks, motioning towards the empty space. 

Cassie jolts, looking at him with wide eyes. She eventually scoots over, making just enough room to sit right next to her. She curls right into herself, wrapping her arms around her legs. Michael settles right next to her, placing his legs in front of him so that he doesn’t knock her over. 

“So, that was a shitty case.” 

“Yeah.” Her voice is rawer than usual, breaking apart at the edges. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s supposed to get better?” 

“No. Not at all. You did everything you could for that girl. Nobody, and I mean nobody, comes out of that unscathed.” 

Cassie turns to him, laying her head on her knees. “Can I tell you something?” 

He simply nods his head, crossing his arms. 

“I think…I think I started losing myself when I was treating that girl. Like I was seeing myself in her. Maybe with a lot less bruises and scratches, but I could just, like, picture myself right in her spot.” She lets out a harsh sigh. “It’s stupid, I know.”  

He sits with the thought, thinking back to David Saunders. If he was a better person that day, a bit less blind to his own biases, and maybe a bit less angry after seeing the blood on his hands, then maybe he would’ve done the right thing – whatever the hell that meant. So, he goes for the next best thing. 

“Cassie, do you mind if I tell you something?” 

She simply nods her head, too fatigued to do anything else. 

“I know that I said this to you before, but I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you that day. I should’ve listened to you. What I did, pushing my responsibility into your hands? That should’ve never happened, even with everything that was going on.” He pulls his leg up, cradling his knee. “If there’s one thing you take away from this, it’s that I want you to know that I’m trying to be better about it.” 

“Why are you telling me this now? I already forgave you.” she says, utterly exhausted. 

“This is a teaching hospital. You deserve to have a teacher that can understand their mistakes.” He gives her a small sad smile. “And trust me, I made way too many of them.” 

She gives him a sad smile in return, a tear slipping out of her eye. 

“Thank you.” 

The third one goes to Samira Mohan. 

This one gets even more complicated, for obvious reasons. There’s the slow pace he always criticizes her for. The exhaustive empathy despite the ED’s relentlessness. The suggestion to switch to psychiatry of all things. The constant, “I know you can do better, but I need you to try more”. The mispronunciation of her last name. (He didn’t realize he was doing it until she told him point blank on Halloween that it’s “Mohan” with a soft “uh”, not a harsh “ah”.) 

He started to gradually recognize that despite his constant criticism; he and Samira were basically fucked-up parallels to each other. It helps that Heather gently pointed it out to him when he was clenching his teeth after Samira ordered two more tests on a patient with chest pain. Jennifer said something about it too, in her usual blunt formality during a routine psych consult. 

Thus began the most difficult part, with Michael on the benches in the park across from the PTMC, sipping a beer Donnie handed to him while Samira sits next to him with a small flush across her face. Most of the usual after-shift group had already left, leaving the both of them alone with the trees and the random cars zipping by. 

Samira turns to him, in the process of scraping off the label on her beer bottle. “Look, if this is about that patient, I promise you that–” 

“It’s not.” Michael cranes his head, rolling his bottle between his hands as he tries to not cringe at himself. “Hear me out…I want you to evaluate me.” 

Samira’s eyes widen in bewilderment. “Wait, what?” 

“You heard me. I want you to criticize me.” He takes a sip of his beer, feeling it warm his veins. “Pretend that you’re me, if it helps.” 

She takes in a long breath, flitting her eyes over his figure as she purses his lips. Michael simply sits there, listening to the wind wheeze between the branches and the random bird call. 

Eventually, Samira starts, giving him the hard lesson that he should’ve gotten a while ago. “Ever since I was an intern, you’ve always railed at me more than any of the other residents. You’re constantly getting on my case about how slow I am or how I focus too much on one patient. And honestly? I think that’s a little unfair.” 

“Elaborate.” His mouth twitches at the corner. “Be a little meaner if you want.” 

Samira raises an eyebrow at this, taking a sip of her beer. She rolls her shoulders, relaxing them as she continues. “Sometimes, I don’t understand how you can criticize me for taking the time to do the extra tests when you do the same exact thing. You can go two hours taking care of one patient, but you expect me to take on four at once. You tell me that I’m ‘shortchanging my own education’ or ‘taking too much time’, but people like Langdon or Shen can do whatever they want because they’re faster at this.” 

Michael grimaces, nodding as a silent response. 

“I think I’m good. Better than good actually. I work at the speed I’m comfortable at because I know where I can get the best treatment for my patients. I just wish that you would see that instead of riding me in front of the others.” The last part comes out quieter than the rest as she begins to shrink into herself. 

He turns to her again, leaning over his legs. “You know why I wanted you to do that?” 

She shakes her head tentatively, though Michael can tell that she’s restraining herself from saying anything more. 

“I’m your attending, yes, but I’m also your teacher. Call it cliche or whatever, but teachers are also still learning.” He begins to rock his knees from side-to-side. “To be entirely frank, I've been doing pretty shitty at that when it comes to you.”

“Because I don’t work fast enough.” 

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging. “And maybe…it’s because I see a lot of myself in you. Unintentionally, but still.” 

Samira cocks her head to the side, squinting her eyes. “I’m sorry?”

He inhales deeply, cracking his neck. “I think that the reason that I’m so hard on you is because my brain imprinted my bad habits onto you for some reason. It’s weird, I know.” 

“Uh-huh,” she says, a little hesitant. 

“Samira, I’m not trying to justify myself or make excuses here. I’ve been unfair and unnecessarily harsh to you far too many times in the past. I probably still fucking am. But, I want you to know that just because I’m your superior doesn’t mean that I’m not incapable of learning.” 

He glances at his half-empty bottle, letting the words sit on his tongue as he thumbs the glass. He tenses his body, and then lets it all out. 

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done. You’re a great doctor and you deserve an attending that can work with you at your level.” 

Samira pulls her lips into an attempt of a smile, nodding. “I appreciate it. Really.” She stands up, pulling her bag close to her. “I do respect you by the way. Even for all that you’ve done.” 

“I appreciate it.” He juts his bottle towards her as she begins to make her way home. “I’ll see you on Thursday?” 

“I’ll see you then.” She gives him a soft wave before disappearing into the night. 

Michael finishes off his beer, throwing the bottle in the nearby trash can. He simply sits there for a little while longer, feeling a weight come off his shoulders as the chill softens.

“Please forgive me.”

Michael decides to write another letter – this time to Jake. 

Dear Jake, 

I know that it’s been a while since we’ve last talked. Your mom tells me that you’re doing well. I hope that you’re doing well in school. This is a little late, but congrats on making it on the dean’s list. I always knew that you could do it. 

I’m writing this to you because I want you to understand that I still care about you. I know that I haven’t been the best at showing it, so I guess that this is a good start. You don’t have to reply to me or anything like that. I just want to understand where I’m coming from. 

On the day of the Pittfest shooting, I was dealing with a lot. Too much, as my therapist keeps saying. To be honest, the only reason that I came into work on that day was because you took Leah to the festival instead of me. I think I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle Adamson’s death. You know how that went. 

I haven’t told many people this, but after I pushed you out of Pedes, I completely broke down. I just felt all of the guilt rush through my body when you kept on blaming me for not doing enough for Leah. On a better day, I think I would’ve done more for her, but that’s the thing. September 12th wasn’t a better day, for any of us really. I’m still trying to work through that part. 

I hope that one day you’ll be able to forgive me. I’ll be waiting wherever you are.

- Robby 

He hands it off to Janey without another word, leaving their house with an unsteady rhythm. He would eventually get a simple “I miss you” from Jake a couple of days later, with a picture of the open letter. Michael smiles at this, letting a tear slip out of his eye.

He’s sitting on the floor with Mandy by his side, fiddling with his Magen David pendant. He looks up towards the ceiling, trying to imagine the face of his grandmother lording over him. 

“Bubbe,” he meekly starts. “If you’re out there and listening, uh, hey, first of all. I know that I haven’t been the best Jew – or person, for that matter. I think it’s the whole being a doctor thing that’s getting me down.” 

Mandy whimpers, nuzzling into his thigh. He whispers a quick “don’t judge me” before moving on. 

“So, let’s get this out of the way – I smoked way too much. I know for a fact that you probably would’ve strangled me if you were still here. I quit if you’re wondering. I don’t have the wife or kids like you wanted. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to know about my ‘scandalous sex life’. It’s not that impressive anyways.”

He pauses, suddenly remembering the conversation he had with Heather. “Well, I did knock up a girl out of wedlock.” He turns to Mandy. “Does this even make any sense?” 

No reply. He figured as much. 

He continues with a chuckle in his throat. “I swear a lot. I drink probably way too much for my age. I have a bunch of tattoos. I almost threw myself off of the hospital’s rooftop last year. Ruthie tells me that you wouldn’t be mad, but I have a feeling that you would be really disappointed in me.” He holds up his pendant to the sky, watching it glint in the light. “I do still wear this though. Helps keep me grounded in all of this.” 

He lets out a soft laugh then, rubbing a palm down his face. “Where am I even fucking going with this?” He unfurls his legs, wiggling his toes to let the numbness fade. “I’m getting help though. I’m going to this therapist – Dr. Aaron Sullivan – I think you would’ve liked him. Mandy would’ve loved you too.” He pets her head, smoothing over her fur. 

“I miss you a lot, Bubbe,” he says, a little quieter. “I hope that you can forgive me for everything.” 

A quiet wheeze against the window gives him his reply. He accepts it, keeping his pendant over his shirt this time around.  

“Thank you.” 

Arguably speaking, Dana is Michael’s oldest friend in the PTMC. They instantly clicked when he first came to the hospital as a new attending, mostly because they had the same sense of humor. He knew from the first day that she was something special, with a rare combination of biting wit, intimidation, and kindness all wrapped up in one blonde 5’4" package. Over the years, that only increased as the burnout and anger threatened to tear the whole department apart. Hell, they even had a marriage pact in case they were both 50 and desperate. 

The Pitt didn’t feel right without her. As much as Perlah is trying (with plenty of glaring), there’s really no replacing Dana Evans. However, Michael didn’t come over to her house to convince her to come back, even though some part of him deep-down very much wants to. If he was going to do the gratitude thing right, he was going to start where it all began…ish. 

“How’s retirement treating you?” he asks, leaning back on her couch. 

She shrugs, putting down two mugs of tea. “Got to travel a lot. Paris, the Netherlands, Italy – you name it. Probably gained a few pounds just from the amount of cheese I ate.” 

Michael snorts. “You look great though.” 

“Thanks.” She takes a sip with a small smirk. “So, what’s up? It’s not everyday that I get a text that you want to come over.” 

Michael shrugs, rubbing his pants. “I just wanted to see you is all.” 

“Really? Nothing else?” 

“Yes, Dana - nothing else,” he says, picking up his mug. “It’s been, what, like five months since I last saw you? Absence makes the heart go yonder.” 

She chuckles, putting down her mug on the coffee table. 

“What?” 

Dana gives him her characteristic cheeky grin, leaning back in her chair. “Y’know, Jack’s been telling me that you’ve changed a lot. Something about you getting a dog?” 

Michael takes a sip, slightly cringing at how hot the tea is. “I didn’t mean to adopt her. It’s just…she’s really cute. Like once she puts on the puppy dog eyes, it’s game over.” 

She starts to laugh, a full wholehearted laugh. It pleasantly rings in Michael’s ears as he starts to laugh along as well. 

“Never thought I would see the day that Michael Robinavitch would willingly adopt a dog.” 

“Well, the therapy helps too.” 

“Therapy?” she says with a slightly disbelieving smile. “You’re actually seeing a shrink now?” 

Michael nods with an embarassed smile. “Yeah. He’s great. A little out there, but he gets the job done.” 

Dana snorts, cocking her head to the side. “I'm glad you’re doing okay.” 

He puts down the mug on the coffee table, taking the opportunity to lean over his knees. He clasps his hands together tightly, letting the words he wanted to say sit on his tongue as the silence lingers. 

“This is going to sound weird but…thank you. For everything.” 

She raises an eyebrow, cocking her head to the side. “Why’re you saying this now?” 

He shrugs, softly smiling. “Just felt like it.” 

She breathes out a laugh through her nose. “You’re a good man, Robby.” 

“I like to think that I’m trying.”

“I mean it. Really.” 

From then on, Michael started saying “thank you” wherever he could, simply to give grace to everyone who decided to stick it out with him. 

He made Santos his first one, deciding that hers was way overdue.  

“Hey, Dr. Santos, you mind coming over here?” he says, beckoning her to the nurses’ hub. 

“Uh, sure?” She quickly stands up from her workstation, fisting her hands in her pockets. “What’s up?” 

“This is going to be long overdue, but I wanted to thank you for doing the right thing with Langdon. I know that it couldn’t have been easy, especially since it was your first day.”

Santos’ eyes widen, eyeing him closely. “Uh…thanks?” 

“I mean it.” He turns his head, softening his eyes. “You’re doing great, by the way.” 

Her eyes turn soft as she glances at her shoes. “I, uh, I really appreciate it.” 

“Anytime, kid.” 

Ellis was next after she came in early to help out with a busy shift. 

“Thanks for coming in so early. We were getting slammed with all these injuries from the marathon.” 

“Anytime Robby. Where do you need me?” she says, brimming with energy. 

“Start with Eliza in North 5. I’ll call you when I need you.” 

She nods, rushing over to the room at lightning speed. 

Mel was the next one after she corrected his numbers on a elderly patient. 

“Thanks. Don’t know how I missed that one.” 

“It’s nothing really.” She takes back the tablet, rocking on her feet. “I just erased the extra zeroes.” 

“Still, I really appreciate it. My eyes are getting old,” he says, pointing to his glasses. 

She genuinely laughs as she scrolls through the tablet. 

Then came Shen after he took over for him last minute while he was nursing a cold. 

“I can’t thank you enough for taking over so quickly,” he says while petting Mandy. 

“Don’t sweat it. I was honestly forgetting what the day shift felt like. Light work, I tell ya’.” 

Michael chuckles at Shen’s audacity, rubbing Mandy between the ears. 

Emery’s comes not after a surgical case, but after she gave him a cup of coffee at the start of his shift. 

“Thanks. I really needed this,” he says, taking a sip. “Break room coffee isn’t cutting it.” 

“It better be worth it. Seven bucks for that small-ass cup.” 

He cringes. “Yikes. Why now though?” 

“Thought you needed it is all.” 

Perlah comes after the end of a long difficult shift. 

“I’m so glad that I have four days off next week,” she mutters, pulling her stuff together. “That balcony crash was insane.” 

“You and me both.” He leans over the counter, a little meek. “Hey, this is gonna come out of nowhere but, uh, thank you for doing this.” 

She squints her eyes, whipping her head in confusion. “Uh, you’re welcome? I would’ve appreciated it a lot sooner though.” 

“I know.” He glances at his clasped hands in soft shame. “I know.” 

She just snorts, standing up. “Good night, Dr. Robby.” 

He simply waves, breathing in the sterile air of the ED as he stands there for a little longer. 

Whitaker is when he’s going through psychiatry, having come down with Dr. Martinez to help out with a patient with hypomania. 

“You did great in there. I think you might have a real knack for psych.” 

Whitaker blushes, bowing his head towards the ground. “Really? I wouldn’t say that I’m that good. Dr. Martinez was doing most of the heavy lifting.” 

Michael turns to him with a serious look on his face. “Hey, you’re doing more than you think.”

“Thanks,” Whitaker says with a wave, walking off towards the opposite direction. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” The younger doctor immediately turns around. “Thanks for being here, by the way.” 

“No problem, Dr. Robby,” with an awkward salute attached.

Jennifer’s is when she’s writing him another prescription. 

“Thanks for doing this, by the way,” he says, waving the prescription around. 

“Anytime, Michael – for as difficult as you are,” she says with a soft smirk. 

“Do you always have to get the upper hand?” 

“Oh please. You know it’s basically my whole shtick at this point.” 

They simply laugh, basking in the soft glow of her office.

Dr. Sullivan is by late night voicemail. 

“Uh, hey, Dr. Sullivan. This is coming out of nowhere, but I wanted to say thank you for sticking by me. I know I haven’t been the easiest patient with everything I’ve been going through. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I was getting into when I saw the blue hair and everything. I’m glad that I came to you when I did though. I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

His response comes with a box of teas, as well as an elephant plushie for Mandy. 

Mandy is when she’s whimpering for his hand as he’s watching the third episode of How I Met Your Mother. (This came at the suggestion of Maya, who had been rewatching it over the summer.) 

He pets her between the ears getting close to her face. “I’m going to sound like a weirdo for saying this to a dog, but here it goes…thank you Mandy, for everything. You are the best damn dog that anybody can ask for.” 

She responds with a playful whine, putting a paw on his thigh. He cradles her face and gives her a kiss on her head, ruffling her fur.

Jack comes when he’s on the rooftop, waiting for Michael to get him down. At least this time, he’s on the side of the railing that doesn’t promise immediate death. 

“Good morning, Jack,” he says as he strolls up to the railing. “Rough night?” 

Jack shrugs, fisting his hands in his pockets. “Could be better. I’m not on that side though, which should tell you something.” 

Michael chuckles, shaking his head. “Sullivan know about this?” 

“I should be saying the same thing to you.” Jack turns, propping his hand on his good hip. “You think I wouldn’t know about your little ritual?” 

“I get it from you, Jack.” 

“You’re supposed to be better than me, man.” 

Michael cranes his head, leaning over the railing. “You and I both know that isn’t true.” 

They stand there in relative silence, watching how the people and cars start to emerge with the rising sun. The wind gently whips by their faces, as a few birds settle themselves on to the edge of the building. Michael draws in one long breath, embracing the warmth in the air. 

“...I think I get it now – why you like it up here. It’s a beautiful sight.” 

“Don’t get sappy on me now.” 

“I’m almost 53. I can afford some eulogizing here and there.” 

“Old man,” Jack mutters with a smirk. “Well, I’m gonna head back down there. You coming?” 

“In a minute.” 

“Suit yourself then.” 

Jack grips his shoulder, shaking it a couple of times before he heads off. He was probably around a couple of feet away when Michael turned around, facing away from the sun. 

“Hey Jack?” He turns halfway. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

Michael draws his shoulders up, shrinking in on himself. “For being here. For pulling me back up.” 

Jack scoffs, slowly making his way to the door. “Anytime brother.” 

He’s left there alone, taking one last look at the sunrise before heading back down, a little more content than before. 

He ends up saying “thank you” to everybody at least once by the end of the week. 

“I love you.” 

Despite having said it in his head multiple times, Michael never said “I love you” to Heather while they were in a relationship. He promised himself that he would say during an important moment, when they were finally secure enough to commit to something long-term. He always believed that those three words should only come when he felt like he was ready. Looking back on it, he thought he was stupid for not even trying. 

Even with all of the years and damage, he still wants to say it. Just not in the way that she wanted. 

He’s in the ambulance bay again without a cigarette this time, looking up at the glowing half moon. He hears a whoosh behind him, followed by a few footsteps as the familiar presence comes behind him. 

“Well, glad to know that you aren’t killing yourself,” Heather says, pulling her bag close to her side. 

He huffs out a laugh, craning his body towards her. “Jesus, you can’t just say things like that.” 

“Somebody’s gotta look out for you.” There’s a soft smile painted across her face. “You hear about Dana?” 

“Yeah. Surprised she wants to come back to this place.” 

“Can’t keep the girl away from the ER even if she wants to.” 

A mellifluous laugh underscores her voice. Michael turns to stare at her with a growing smile, trying to capture the moment. The moon shines on her smooth skin, illuminating her dark features with subtle glow. 

Her eyes shift to confusion, while an amused smile slowly drags across her face. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. 

“Okay then.” She turns away from him, walking in the other direction. “I’ll see you next week.” 

He waves her off with the words that he wanted to say stuck at the back of his throat. He sighs out, looking back up at the stars and moon, watching how they glint against the dark sky. 

After a moment, he lets out an “I love you” as she gradually disappears into the night, hoping that they reach her one day.

Back in the time where Michael and Ruth were being raised by their grandmother, she would usually make a loaf of challah on Friday. They would eat part of the loaf on the very same day while saving the rest for french toast over the weekend. He knew that Bubbe made it with an apparent “super secret recipe” that he wasn’t allowed to look at because he kept trying to peek as she was kneading the dough. He didn’t mind this, so long as there was a fresh braided loaf on the table. She would have probably given the recipe to Ruth when she was an adult. 

He realized recently that he hasn’t had good challah in years. So, Michael decided to get with Ruth on FaceTime, attempting to follow Bubbe's recipe on a Sunday morning. 

“It says here that you should put two large eggs, plus an egg yolk. Then add in, uh, something oil?” She puts down the card with a huff. “Bubbe’s handwriting is the worst.” 

Michael snorts, cracking a couple of eggs into the stand mixer. He then cracks an egg into a separate bowl, ready to dip his hands into the bowl. 

“Don’t get your big grubby hands in there.” 

He stops, pointedly turning towards his laptop. “Well, what do you want me to do? Stare at it until it comes out?” 

“You got an empty water bottle? You can use the suction to grab it out of there.” 

“Unfortunately, I like to be environmentally friendly. You got anything else?” 

“Eggshell?” 

He grabs one of the larger halves, showing it off to her. “This good?”

“That’s perfect. Use that to gently scoop the egg yolk out of the bowl. Try not to break it.” 

Michael does what she says, scooping into the egg to dig out the yolk. He tries to lift it out of the bowl, only for it to break on him. He frowns, leaving the shell in the bowl as he grunts in frustration. 

“You broke it, didn’t you?” Ruth teases. 

“We can’t all be master bakers like you Ruthie.” 

Ruth chuckles, crossing her arms. Michael puts the bowl to the side, looking at the mixture with a sad look. Mandy comes by to lay on the floor, gazing up at him with those big eyes of his. He pulls his lips into a flat line as he rummages through the fridge for another egg. 

“Hey, Michael?” 

He turns around, closing the fridge door. “Yeah?” 

“I’m really proud of you.” 

He cocks his head to the side, smirking as he comes back to the laptop. “Where’s this coming from?” 

“Everything, I guess?” She draws her shoulders up, gazing towards the side. “I gotta go take care of something really quick. I’ll be back in 15. Sound good?” 

“Yeah yeah, go on ahead. Don’t let me keep you waiting,” he says with a shooing motion. 

He can tell that she’s about to click the end call button when the words start bubbling up. 

“Hey, Ruthie? I love you.” 

She smiles, letting out a laugh. "I love you too.” 

Michael has only visited Adamson’s grave once. The photo on the wall was more than enough for him, he thought, as his mentor’s smiling face reminded him of the guilt he still carried. When he did visit the grave, it had been at least a couple of years since Adamson’s passing. All he remembered from that day was laying down a bouquet and crying so hard that he almost passed out. 

It wasn’t until Shelby sent him an email earlier in the week that he decided to face his fears – this time with Mandy in tow. 

Adamson’s gravestone was marked in the middle of St. Mary’s. It was a slate gray slab marked with the words: “Montgomery Kent Adamson: Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend”, with “1946-2020” marked below it. There was a smaller phrase marked at the top that simply said mors vincit omnia, which Michael could only see when he finally got in front of it. He held a bouquet of lilacs in one hand, and Mandy’s leash in another, clutching it tightly as he held his tears in. 

“Hey, uh, I know it’s been a while since I’ve been here. I would say that I didn’t have any time, but you and I both know that isn’t true.” He draws his shoulders up, glancing to the side as a breeze comes through. “I think I’ve been doing okay for the most part. I got a therapist, and I got a dog. I even got a Zoloft prescription. I haven’t gotten any more tattoos yet.” 

There’s a small laugh that comes out as he shifts around in his spot, feeling the weight of the amor fati and memento mori on his biceps. Mandy lays on the ground, gazing up at him as he draws in a breath. 

“I really, really miss you man. I still wish you were here most days. To be honest, I uh, kind of hated you when you died. Isn’t that weird? I hated my mentor because he passed away on me. It’s stupid.” He draws in another, heavier breath, feeling his eyes fill with tears. “I kept you on ECMO for 17 days because I thought it would’ve been enough. Then you died, and so did that little girl who needed that machine more than you. I felt so fucking awful when they turned it off.” 

The bouquet loosens in his grasp as he lets it out. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever live up to your example. I’ve fucked up so many times since you were gone. But I’m here now.” He places the flowers at the bottom of the gravestone, with a few tears slipping out. “I wanted to let you know that I love you. I hope that I’ll see you again one day.” 

He sits there for a good long while, taking in the sights and sounds of the cemetery as Mandy curls up beside him, allowing him to simply cry.

interlude: the man’s second hand bike 

One awful secret that Michael’s been hiding for at least two decades now is that he has a motorcycle license. He got it around the time he was finishing his second year of residency, having been enamored by the cool factor of riding around town on a vintage two-wheeler for far too long. He did put it to use during the early days of his attending years, only to switch to the Jeep after seeing a man’s face ripped off due to a 18-wheeler dragging him onto the street. 

As an emergency medicine doctor, Michael knew full well what the implications are. “Motorcycles are living death machines on two wheels”, as Dr. Livingston from surgery told him. No amount of protection will ever mitigate the sheer terror that comes with riding a bike. There’s simply too many factors, starting with the fact that everything is all out in the open for something to snatch or ensnare. Really, smoking a cigarette is a cakewalk compared to getting on a bike.  

Yet, when Michael saw Mr. Anderson’s used 1985 Yamaha VMAX on his usual morning walk with Mandy, he decided to stop resisting the voice inside of his head and just buy the damn thing. It’s not like he was going to use it that much. (And no, he did not get it because of Pirsig. He’s not that dumb…hopefully.) 

He should’ve known better when he came to Emery’s house with it, being met with a deadpan stare and crossed arms. 

“A motorcycle, seriously?” she says as Michael takes his shoes off. “You’re the chief emergency attending and you got a motorcycle?” 

“Spare me the speech please.” He throws his coat on her couch, glancing at the various pictures on her walls. “I already got Adamson up there screaming at me right now.” 

“Be glad I’m not Jack or Dana at least.” she mutters, picking up a girl that looks around two or three years old. “Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?” 

“I’m 52, not 80.” 

“Still.” Emery gives him a pointed look as she bounces the kid around, turning her towards him. “This is Laurie by the way.” 

Michael grins at Laurie, giving her a small wave. 

“You wanna say hi to Uncle Robby?” Emery says, still bouncing her. Laurie gives him a slightly confused stare, curling into her.

“‘Uncle’?” Michael says, still grinning. “I’m touched, Emery.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” 

She turns to walk into the kitchen, holding Laurie tightly in her grasp. Michael is immediately hit with the smell of chicken parmesan and garlic bread as Emery sets Laurie down on the baby chair. He motions to the chair right next to it, pulling it out when Emery gives him a nod. He adjusts his seat a couple of times, trying to give himself enough space for his legs. 

“I’m surprised you wanted to eat dinner with me. Thought you would be slinging beers with Jack and them.” 

He shrugs with a cheeky grin. “I would’ve asked Dana, but she’s out with her family.” 

“Gotcha,” she says with a soft laugh, pulling out her chair. “Sorry that I don’t have any booze. My aunt did a full sweep a few months ago because of this one.” She motions to Laurie, who’s shifting around in her seat.

“Can I be honest here? I never took you to be the motherly type.” 

“Trust me, neither did I.” She sits down, pulling her curls into a ponytail. “Wouldn’t trade her for the world though.” 

“With that face? Pretty sure the world would fall to their knees.” 

“I’ll say. She gets it from her father.” Emery picks up the tongs leaning over to where the garlic bread is at. “One or two?” 

“One please.” Michael hands over his plate to her. “How is he by the way?” 

Emery shrugs as she puts the spaghetti on his plate. “Probably stuck somewhere in Seattle. I haven’t talked to him in a while.” She passes the plate back over to him with a small huff. “Mom says he’s doing okay though.” 

Michael pulls his mouth to the side, giving her a sympathetic look as she puts her own plate together. 

“Save it,” she says, pointing with her tongs. “Not everyone can have a great relationship with their brother.” 

He raises his hands, letting out a chortle. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to.” She plops down in her seat, scooting her chair closer to the table. 

“That bad?” 

“Yep. Decided to book it across the country instead of taking responsibility," she says bitterly. 

Michael raises his eyebrows, softly inhaling. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Emery leans over her forearms with a small smirk. “I think your motorcycle is way more interesting than my screwed-up family.” 

“This again?” 

“An ED doc on a motorcycle. You do realize how terrible that looks for you right?” 

Michael sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Please, I get enough reminders already. I just had a guy come in with a fuc–friggin’ mangled leg thanks to a drunk guy in a pickup.” 

“Watch your tone there Mister,” Emery jokes as she sips her water. 

He snorts, cutting into his food. He stays over there for a while, laughing and talking about the absurdities of motorcycle maintenance as Laurie struggles to swallow her cutlet. For a few moments, Michael loses himself in the scene, fancying him as a worn-out dad trying a little too hard to make his partner laugh. 

“So let me get this straight: you use the rooftop as a quasi-mediative sanctuary, you accidentally adopted a German Shepherd, and now you got a motorcycle?” Dana asks with a very pointed eyebrow over her coffee. “Man, no wonder you were going around apologizing to everybody.” 

“Nice to know that you still care, Dana.” 

“I leave for seven months and you’re already trying to give me a heart attack.” She takes a sip of her coffee, still eyeing him. “You talk to your therapist about it?” 

“Dr. Sullivan gave me the therapist’s version of the riot act already,” he mutters, stirring some cream into his coffee. “Over hibiscus tea in fact.” 

“Hibiscus tea?” There’s a grin plastering over Dana’s face. 

“Never mind.” He sips his coffee, glancing over the ED. “I don’t even ride it that often.” 

“You think that 20 years on the job would teach somebody,” she mutters, looking down at her tablet. “Not to mention the kid with the ripped up leg.” 

“How’s Ricky by the way?” 

“Had to amputate, but he’ll live.” She steps a little closer to him, looking at the board. “So, any other life changes you want to inform me about?” 

“Does Pirsig or Shostakovich spark your interest? Or are you more of a How I Met Your Mother fan?” 

“You know that I’m more of a Veep girl anyday, Robby.” She taps him on the shoulder, pointing to the ambulance bay as a man with road rash. “You may want to get that.” 

Michael snaps on a pair of gloves and walks over to the gurney. Outside of the grunts of pain and bloody scrapes, he seemed to be doing alright. 

“What do we got?” 

“Motorcycle versus self-driving vehicle. Surprisingly, the motorcycle won this time,” the blonde paramedic on the side says. “BP’s elevated at 143 over 90, but heart rate’s holding steady at 80.” 

“Take him to Central 4,” Dana says, trying her very best not to chuckle. 

Michael grimaces, reminding himself that he at least walked to work today.

If there was one thing that Michael has wanted to do since he was 18, it was riding a motorcycle across the countryside. He always liked the idea of having the wind whip around his body as he drifted across the plains of grass and vibrant trees while the sun beat down on him. The outside world, for once, didn’t matter at that moment. It was just him, his bike, and Mother Nature doing what she did best. 

Obviously, Michael never had a chance to take that trip. The seven motorcycle accidents he’s encountered over the last couple of weeks haven’t helped matters either. 

The Yamaha VMAX languishes in his garage, collecting dust as he stares at it. He just got off of a brutal seven-on, seven-off schedule. He should be taking the time to read through Zevin, or watch the second season of How I Met Your Mother, or petting Mandy, or even napping. Instead, he’s contemplating taking that trip, wondering how feasible it might be in an hour. 

He does the rational thing and calls Dr. Sullivan, hoping for some clarity in this. 

“In my professional opinion, as long as you’re not in imminent danger and you have your emergency contact on speed-dial, I would say proceed with caution. In my personal opinion, I still am very wary of your choice to even buy the thing in the first place. ” 

“I don’t even ride it that often,” he mutters, chewing his cheek. 

“Considering your more questionable coping mechanisms, the motorcycle seems a little less daunting by comparison.” A pause, presumably for tea. “Don’t let me stop you from having a fun time though. But do be careful will you? I don’t think anybody wants to see the headline of ‘Respected ED doc hospitalized because of impulsive motorcycle purchase.’” 

Michael snorts. “Thanks Doc.” 

“Take care Michael. Oh, and take pictures if you can.” 

“I'll try.” 

He ends the call there, glancing back at the bike. He’s got Jack and Dana on speed-dial. He’s got a heavy duty jacket, an expensive motorcycle helmet, and a fairly okay GPS. He could do this. 

He texts Maya later that day, crossing his fingers and knocking on wood in the process. 

The open road is surprisingly less scary once he’s actually on it, even with the living death machine beneath him. 

The rising sun is just ahead of him, gradually making its way up as he drifts along the road. The bright green of the grass and trees fill his vision as the breeze passes by his covered ears. He grips onto the brakes just a little bit tighter, slowing his ride as white houses start to approach his view. The bike’s engine purrs beneath him as he takes in the sight, focusing on the colors and shapes within his grasp. 

Michael eventually gets the sense to park the bike within a set of trees. He plants the wheel chock solidly into the dirt, pushing the bike a couple of times to ensure that it doesn’t move. He puts his helmet on his seat, leaning over it to get a view of the sunrise, watching how the orange hue of the sky gradually shifts to its usual blue. There’s only the breeze and a couple of birds with him as he stands there staring with his hands in his pockets. 

For the first time in a very long time, his brain can finally rest, with the all-too-familiar ring in his ears slowly dissipating. 

quis ut deus? 

Michael’s 53 now, having turned somewhere in June. His life’s been pretty good. It’s not perfect, but he’s trying. He’s starting to get used to the idea of regular therapy appointments, though there are times that he forgets a week or two. Dr. Sullivan is surprisingly gracious about it. Jennifer, on the other hand, simply glares at him when he doesn’t come, swiftly reminding him that she would rather not give him to Dr. Milano next to her. Despite this, he swears that he saw her smile every now and then. 

He’s picked up a few more books since then, with John Williams’ Stoner being his favorite new read. He’s learned at least 10 more recipes thanks to his app, though Bubbe’s challah still eludes him. He managed to watch through all of How I Met Your Mother in the span of a few weeks, particularly crying during “Bad News” and “The Time-Travelers”. (He doesn’t want to admit that he kind of sees himself in Ted.) He’s rewatching Frasier again, being particularly captured by Eddie and Martin this time around.  

He’s gotten a few more toys for Mandy in the interim, as well as a brand new dog bed that she refuses to sleep in. He doesn’t mind it. He’ll take her sleeping in his bed anyday. She’s honestly too cute with those eyes and ears of hers. 

The work-life balance is still working itself out. He’s still a little wary of Pedes, but he’s gotten a bit more courage to actually go into now. He’s learning to expose himself a little more, being more willing to go to places outside of work with his colleagues. They surprisingly don’t mind as he tries to fit in with his broad shoulder and preference for whisky, though there are a few lingering stares here and there. He doesn't pry about it all too much. The motorcycle still remains a secret, however, hidden away in his garage most days. 

He considered mors vincit omnia on his ribcage. He decided against it after looking at the slightly faded memento mori and amor fati tattoos in the mirror, recalling Jack’s words as he stared at them. They’re probably enough for now. 

The Magen David remains underneath his shirt most days, but there will be times that he takes it out at home. He’ll have a conversation with Bubbe then, talking about how he’s doing with Mandy right beside him. There’s an odd breeze that comes by during those times. It knocks on his window gently, passing by with a wheeze. He lets it sit there, imagining her face attached to it. 

He’s still unmarried, childless, and riddled with a guilt complex. The tinnitus is sometimes there, with the occasional traumatic flashback or two. He’s not entirely sure where the road ahead of him lies, or whether or not this will last. 

But he does know this: he’s a little more willing to let “Michael” back into his life. It has a nice ring to it.