Chapter Text
The department is steady in that thin, post-midnight way. Still alive and humming but pared down to essentials. Less chatter, fewer footsteps, it was the kind of shift that felt too good to be true.
Abbott is finishing a note when Lena dropped a chart beside him.
“Bed eight’s asking again.” Lena said.
He doesn’t look up, “For what.”
“Pain meds.”
There's a small exhale through his nose, not quite irritation. “He can have five.”
She nodded and disappeared back towards the room.
Across the room Ellis is on the phone with radiology, already annoyed. Shen is currently reorganizing the airway cart near trauma one, he was muttering under his breath about the day shift and how they always left the cart wrong.
The EMS line rings.
Ellis grabbed it without hesitation, listening carefully. “Motocycle,” she called out. “Thirty-five, maybe forty. Helmeted. Brief LOC, GCS twelve. Two minutes out.”
Abbott is already moving.
“Trauma Two.”
The room woke up immediately, lights snapped brighter over the trauma bay. Gowns are pulled from their packaging and gloves are snapped into place. Monitors are prepped as the department shifts seamlessly from quiet to focused.
The stretcher comes in fast.
Helmet’s off.
Abbott sees the hair first.
Something tightens in his chest but his brain doesn’t fully catch up yet.
Then he saw the face.
Blood at the left temple. Jacket cut open. Road rash across the shoulder. Pale in a way that looks wrong.
For half a second his brain stalls.
Then it lands.
Robby.
The world narrowed down to details now, GCS twelve, brief LOC, blood at the temple, pale. He catalogs them automatically, years of experience forcing itself through the panic that was struggling to break free.
Abbott doesn’t react, he can’t react, he steps forward like he would for anyone.
“What’ve we got?”
“Single vehicle,” EMS said. “Witness reports the rider drifted left. Clear road. Brief LOC. GCS twelve on scene. Improved en route.”
Drifted left.
Abbott moves to the head of the bed.
“Robby.”
Nothing.
He leaned in slightly, close enough that he could see the small tremor that was running through his body. “Open your eyes.”
A pause.
They open slowly. “…Yeah.” Robby said, his voice thick. Wrong.
“Full name.”
“…Michael Robinavitch.”
“Where are you.”
“…Hospital.”
“Which hospital.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“…The Pitt.”
Abbott doesn’t blink.
“Name the hospital.”
Robby’s eyes shift slightly, like he’s searching for it.
“…Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”
“What day is it.”
“…Wednesday.”
It’s Thursday.
Abbott keeps his tone even, the way he would with any other patient. “Squeeze my hands.”
The grip is there, strong but slightly delayed.
“Push against me.”
Resistance, equal both sides.
“Any numbness?”
A faint shake of the head.
“Headache?”
“…Yeah.”
“Nausea.”
“…Little.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“…Riding.”
“And then.”
Silence.
“…Don’t.”
Abbott held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Okay. We’re going to CT.”
They move.
Outside the scanner, Lena adjusts his position on the table, her voice steady and low
Abbott stepped into the hallway and pulled out his phone. He pulled up Slack and typed quickly, no time for being careful.
Abbott: Robby brought in after motorcycle crash. GCS 12 on arrival. In CT now. Stable vitals.
Send.
The replies stack almost instantly.
Langdon: Wtf
Princess: Wait what??
Dana: Airway intact?
Abbott: Yes.
Whitaker: Mechanism?
Abbott: Single vehicle. Witness reports drifted left.
Santos: You’re kidding.
Whitaker: LOC duration?
Abbott: Brief. Regained en route.
Princess: Jesus.
The scanner hummed steadily.
Abbott stoods with his arms folded over his chest as he watched the images load one slice at a time. CTs always felt slower when it was someone you knew, Abbott couldn’t help the impatient drum of his fingers on his bicep.
Left temporal.
He saw it before the tech said anything, a thin crescent-shaped density where it doesn’t belong.
Small epidural.
Contained.
He exhales slowly. It wasn’t catastrophic, they could fix this.
Abbott: CT shows small left temporal epidural. Paging neuro. Hemodynamically stable.
Dana: OR?
Abbott: Likely.
Whitaker: Midline shift?
Abbott: None.
Whitaker: Size?
Abbott: <1 cm.
A pause.
Whitaker: Was he alone?
Abbott looks at that one for a second.
Abbott: Yes.
Neurosurgery arrives within minutes they’re calm and contained, exactly the way you want them to be when someone’s skull is involved. They reviewed the images before they made the call to head to the OR.
Abbott steps back into the hallway and sends one more message.
Abbott: hes headed to OR with neuro. I’ll update in the morning.
Dennis has been pacing since the words single vehicle hit the screen. Back and forth, couch to kitchen, he barely even registered that he was doing it. The TV hummed along behind him, Lazlo was lamenting in his strange accent about something he had lost track of awhile ago.
Santos was curled into the corner of the couch, her knees tucked under her, phone inches from her face as she refreshed Slack hoping for another update.
When Abbott posts that the OR is likely, Dennis stops mid-step.
When In OR with neuro appeared, he grabbed his keys. “I’m going.”
Santos looked up immediately. “No.”
“He’s in surgery.”
“Yes.”
He’s already halfway to the door, shoving his feet into his shoes without untying them.
“I just need to go.”
“To do what.” she said, pushing off the couch and following after him.
“I don’t know. Just be there.” He pulls the front door open, the cool air of the hallway hitting him like a wall.
Santos reaches him in three quick strides and slams her palm against the door, forcing it back towards the frame.
‘Dennis.”
He tries to pull it open again.
She shoved it shut even harder this time.
“Move,” he said, jaw tight.
“No.” She planted herself squarely between him and the door her back pressed against it, arms crossed tightly across her chest.
“Get out of the way.”
“You’re not going.”
“He’s in brain surgery.”
“And you’re not his partner. You are not his emergency contact. You are a resident who works with him.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
He tightened his grip on the keys, feeling the metal edge bite into his palm.
“If you show up there at two in the morning,” she said carefully, “everyone will know.”
“Know what.”
“That this isn’t neutral for you.”
“It is neutral.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m concerned.”
“You are more than concerned.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“If Langdon was in that OR, would you be grabbing your keys right now?”
He doesn’t answer. He knows that if it was Langdon he wouldn’t be doing this, he wouldn’t be running out of his own apartment like it was on fire.
“If Ellis was in that OR?”
Silence.
She doesn’t look away from him. “You’re in love with him.”
The words land flat.
He blinks at her. “What.”
“You heard me.”
“That’s not- no.”
“You haven’t sat down in thirty minutes.”
“He’s my attending.”
“And he’s in brain surgery,” she said. “And that scares you more than it should.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
Nothing came out, because she was right.
“If you walk in there right now,” she said more gently, “Everyone will see it immediately.”
He looked down at the keys in his hand, they’re shaking.
“I just don’t like not knowing,” he says, quieter now.
He didn’t like not knowing if Robby had opened his eyes again.
He didn’t like not knowing if the bleed had gotten bigger.
He didn’t like not knowing if drifted left had meant something worse.
He didn’t like how much it would have broken him if it had.
“I know.”
He leaned back against the wall and slid down until he’s sitting on the floor, keys still gripped tightly in his fist.
After a second, Santos lowered herself down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.
“You really thought I hadn’t noticed?” she asked.
He stared straight ahead.
“I didn’t think there was anything to notice.”
She gives a tired little huff.
“There is.”
Slack stayed quiet, no new messages or updates. Just: In OR with neuro. I’ll update in the morning.
“He was stable,” she says. “That’s what we know.”
Dennis nodded once.
He kept holding the keys anyway.
The next morning the department looks exactly as it always does, fluorescent lights, stale coffee, the board already half-full before eight a.m. It was like nothing had even happened overnight, like the world had just moved on from something that should have been important.
Dana doesn’t soften it as he hangs up her phone. “Neuro wants strict cognitive rest,” she says, phone still in her hand. “Minimum two weeks. Reevaluate in three.”
There’s a quiet shift at the desk.
“Three?” Princess asked.
“Yes.”
Dennis stares at the chart in front of him but he doesn’t absorb any of it.
Three weeks.
The board updates. Robby’s name stays gone.
The shift doesn’t pause.
By ten they’re behind. Chest pain in Four. A fall in triage with a possible head injury. Blood cultures waiting. Langdon hovered because turnover isn’t moving fast enough and he’s the only attending in today.
Dennis moves.
He picks up an extra patient without comment. Rewrites orders before they’re questioned. Catches a potassium before it becomes a problem and fixes it. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t give his mind time for a break.
At noon Santos glances at her phone and says, “You’re dropping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
He doesn’t look at her, he’s in the middle of charting.
His pump buzzes.
70 ↓
She glances back at her phone before letting out an exhausted sigh and pulling a juice box out of her pocket, placing it on the desk between him and the computer. “Drink it.”
“I’m in the middle of-”
“Drink it.”
He takes it, exasperated, but starts sipping on it anyway.
They separate again.
He keeps going.
By three the headache behind his eyes is sharp. His hands feel slightly disconnected from the rest of him and he pretends that’s just fatigue.
Her phone buzzes again.
64 ↘
She corners him by the Pyxis.
“Seriously?”
“I corrected.”
“You’re still dropping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You're stubborn."
He rolls his eyes but pulls a glucose tab from his pocket this time, popping one into his mouth.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You need to eat lunch, these little sugar bumps aren’t doing anything.”
“I ate,” he said automatically.
“At like nine! It’s” she checked her watch. “Two-thirty.”
“Two-thirty?” he looks down at his own watch now. “I thought it was maybe noon.” he frowned.
“That’s because you haven’t stopped moving since eight.”
He swallowed the last of the chalky tablet and exhaleed. “Fine. I’ll grab something.”
“Not ‘something.’ Food.”
“I know what food is.”
She gives him a look that suggests she’s not entirely convinced.
He pushed off the wall and headed toward the snack cart near the break room, the one perpetually stocked with hospital-issue sandwiches and granola bars that taste faintly of cardboard.
He dug through it, scanning labels without really reading them. Turkey, egg salad, something unidentifiable in plastic wrap.
He settled on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, long-acting protein, something that’ll actually hold.
He peeled back the plastic and takes a bite while still standing, barely tasting it. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t care. He eats half of it in three bites, washing it down with water from the cooler.
Before he can finish it, another trauma case is wheeled in and he's dropping the sandwich in the trash so he can wash up.
By sign-out he felt hollow and vaguely sick, that shaky, overcaffeinated emptiness that comes from calling half a sandwich “lunch” and pretending glucose tabs count as nutrition.
Langdon studied him from across the desk while they wrapped up.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like garbage.”
“Thanks.” Dennis logs out and headed straight to the locker room.
Santos is already there.
“You’re not leaving,” she said.
“I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.”
He pulled his bag out of the locker, shoved his stethoscope in, and zipped it harder than necessary.
“We’re going upstairs,” she said.
He exhaled slowly. “We don’t have to.”
“Yes. We do.”
He leaned back against the lockers.
“I’m tired.” He let his eyes fall closed for a second.
“I know,” she said.
He dragged a hand down his face.
“They said cognitive rest,” he muttered. “Dark room. Limited stimulation. Me hovering isn’t helpful.”
“You’re not going to hover.”
He gave her a look.
“You’re not,” she insisted. “You’re going to sit in a chair for like ten minutes and prove to me you can stand up without wobbling.”
“I’m not wobbling.”
“You were at sixty-four.”
“I corrected.”
“You ignored it for an hour.”
He doesn’t respond.
The silence stretches.
He opened his eyes and stared at the opposite lockers like they might offer an exit. “Fine.”
Neuro stepdown is dim and quiet, nothing like the ED. The lights are turned down low, voices are soft and there's a constant hum of soft machine beeps.
Abbott is stepping out of Robby’s room when they rounded the corner, jacket already over his shoulder, badge clipped to his chest like he's switching gears.
“Well look at that,” he said. “I was wondering how long it would take.”
“You heading down?” Santos asks.
“Unfortunately." he rolled one of his shoulders. " Night shift waits for no one.”
His eyes settled on Dennis, he tilted his head slightly as he studied him. “You look worse than he does.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” Abbott stepped closer, claps a hand on Dennis’s shoulder; it’s solid and grounding, the kind of contact that looks like it’s casual but it absolutely isn't.
“You eat today, or are we still trying to power through on caffeine and denial?"
Dennis exhales. “I ate.”
Abbott glances at Santos.
She raises her phone slightly. “He corrected.”
“Mm,” Abbott says. “Thrilling.”
“I ate half a sandwich.” he argued under his breath.
Abbott ignores that. “Scene report finally came through.” he added casually.
Dennis lifted his head, interest clear on his face.
“No debris, oil, or obstruction,” he continued. “No braking either.”
Silence.
“Witness said he just drifted left.”
Santos frowned slightly. “Like he lost focus?”
“Maybe,” Abbott says. “Maybe he sneezed. Maybe he blinked. Maybe he was thinking about paperwork.”
He shrugs.
“Bike’s fine. Helmet did its job.”
Dennis’s jaw tightens.
Abbott noticed that immediately, “He’s stable,” he said, tone shifting just enough to matter. “Headache. Grumpy. Neurosurgery’s still married to three weeks.”
Dennis nods.
Abbott gives his shoulder one last squeeze.“Go in,” he said. “And try not to interrogate him like he’s a trauma consult.”
Santos snorted.
Abbott started toward the elevators, then glanced back once.
“Oh,” he added, casual. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”
Dennis freezes.
Abbott just smirked and kept walking.
Santos watched him go. “…I like him,” she said.
Dennis glared and pushed open the door.
Robby looked up the second the door opened.
The room was dim, blinds half-drawn, monitors turned low. He was propped up against two pillows, hospital gown loose at the collar, a faint line of staples disappearing into his hairline.
And when he saw Dennis, his expression shifted and its not relief. The look is of immediate and focused worry.
Dennis looked pale under the fluorescent spill from the hallway, eyes ringed darker than usual. There was a faint tremor in the way he adjusted his grip on the strap of his bag.
“What did you eat today,” Robby asked.
No hello.
Dennis exhaled. “Hi.”
“What did you eat.”
“I’m fine.”
Santos dropped into the chair by the window like she had been waiting for this exact exchange. “He hit sixty-four at three.”
Dennis turned toward her. “Stop.”
“Down arrow,” she said. “Ignored it.”
Robby’s gaze didn’t leave Dennis’s face.
“What did you eat.”
“A peanut butter sandwich.”
“Half before he ran off to another case.” Santos smirked at him.
Dennis shot her a glare sharp enough to kill. “Really?”
“What?” she asked innocently. “It’s relevant.”
His eyes stayed on Dennis’s face on the faint pallor, the tension in his jaw, the way he was standing too stiff, like if he relaxed he might tip.
“And before that,” Robby said quietly.
Dennis hesitated.
“Coffee.” he looked down at his feet now, he hated being talked down to like this. “Some juice.”
The monitor hummed beside the bed, steady and predictable. A contrast to everything else.
“You can’t do that,” Robby said.
“I got busy.” Dennis folded his arms, posture closing in on itself. “I’ve been diabetic since I was ten. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know you do,” Robby said quietly.
“Sixty-four isn’t that bad.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re acting like I almost passed out.” he shifted from one foot to the other, clearly not wanting to take a seat but not sure what to do with himself.
“I’m acting like you look sick.”
That landed.
Dennis stilled. “You weren’t even there,” It came out colder than he meant it to.
Robby absorbed it without reacting.
“There were no skid marks,” Dennis added quickly. “No debris. No braking.”
Robby blinked once. “What.”
“They said you just drifted left.”
The air had shifted.
“That’s what they said.” Robby replied.
“Why.”
Robby didn’t look away. “I don’t know.”
Dennis nodded once, tight.
“I’m fine,” Robby said softly.
Santos shifted in her chair, eyes darting between the two of them unsure if she should stop this.
She decided on something neutral, "You scared us,”
Robby exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“We know.” her face shifted into a small sad smile.
Dennis looked down at the floor, his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Robby watched Dennis for a long moment, the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he was standing like if he relaxed too much he might tip.
“Please eat dinner,” He said, softer now, pleading.
Dennis looked up, he could hear the worry lacing every word.
“Okay,” Dennis replied under his breath.
“Not just a protein bar.” Robby added.
Santos snorted quietly. “I’ll make sure he does.”
“Good,” Robby said, his gaze not leaving Dennis. He shifted slightly against the pillows and winced.
Dennis moved without thinking, a half-step forward, like he wanted to do something to help.
“I’m fine,”
“I know.”
Another small silence settled.
“You good?” Robby asked.
“Yeah.”
Robby didn’t look convinced.
“Text me when you get home,” he said.
“Okay.”
They lingered a moment longer than necessary.
Then they left.
They don’t talk much on the way out, the elevator ride was quiet and the fluorescent lights made everything look flat.
Outside, the air is colder than it should be, the wind whips off the river burning his face with the chill as the hospital doors slide shut behind them with a soft mechanical whirr. He vaguely thought about needing to buy a scarf.The walk home was only about thirty minutes, it wouldn’t be terrible except they had to cross the bridge and when it was windy like this it went from manageable to miserable fast.
He checks his Dexcom out of habit, making sure hes stable for the long walk home.
108 →
He was fine, he is fine. he told himself
They had only made it a block into their journey before Santos angled herself towards the bus stop. “It’s freezing,” she muttered.
He couldn't bring himself to argue, he had no desire to cross the bridge on foot, every minute out here was miserable.
When the bus pulled up with a groan, they were ready to climb in the second the doors folded open. Dennis wrinkled his nose at the faint scent of damp coats and stale air that had settled inside the bus. He slid into a seat near the back, letting his head rest against the window.
“You’re mad at him,” Santos said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He watched the city slide by in blurred streaks of light, the rumble of the asphalt below them was weirdly comforting. “He just drifted left.”
“It doesn't matter.”
“If it doesnt matter then stop acting like this.”
The bus pulled up onto the Andy Warhol Bridge. Even inside, he could feel the crosswind rocking the frame slightly as the steel beats flew by. Below them, the river was dark and restless, lights reflecting off the surface.
No skid marks, no debris, no braking. Just drifted left. His jaw tightened.
“I’m not mad,” he said again, letting the sadness brush against his voice now.
About ten minutes later the bus hissed to a stop at Liberty and Sixth. They stepped off into the cold again, the warmth of the bus disappearing instantly as they stepped into the windswept streets. Traffic moved steadily along Liberty, headlights flashing across the wet pavement.
They didn’t have far to go.
Up Sixth first, just one block and then at Penn they'll turn left. Their building was on the other end of the block, sandwiched between a Primos and some coffee shop Dennis could never remember the name of. The walk wasn’t far, maybe five minutes at most if they were slow but it was just long enough for the cold to settle in before they reached the lobby.
It’s almost midnight when his phone buzzes.
Dennis was on his side in bed watching Netflix quietly on his phone. Some documentary Mel had suggested to him but he wasn’t really paying much attention. He had barely registered the vibration at first, he only really noticed it when the banner dropped down across the top of his screen.
Robby: Did you eat dinner.
Not, did you get home.
Not, how are you.
Did you eat dinner?
Dennis stared at it, trying to understand the way his chest tightened over the message as the documentary kept playing in the background. When he finally decided he needed to reply and hit pause the room fell into a softer kind of silence just the faint hum of the heater and the occasional sound of a car passing outside.
He pictured Robby in that hospital bed right now, lights dimmed but still too bright. That restless, post-concussive discomfort that made it impossible to truely rest, he was Probably nauseous and exhausted.
Dennis could feel his heart clench. Robby had brain surgery yesterday and he was lying there, head pounding, worried about whether Dennis had eaten dinner. He stared at the message a few seconds longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Whitaker: Yes
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Whitaker: Yeah
Deleted that too.
Everything felt too casual.
He settled on:
Whitaker: Yes
Something simple and safe.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Robby: Good, Thank you.
Dennis swallowed, he knew this was unsustainable.
Another buzz.
Robby: My head's bad tonight but I’m okay.
Whitaker: Are you sure?
Deleted it.
Typed:
Whitaker: Do you need anything?
Deleted that too, it was too soft, too revealing. He couldn’t start that. He couldn’t become the person who hovered, the person who stepped in because Robby wouldn’t protect himself.
Whitaker: Good. Get some sleep.
He stared at the words, they were clinical and careful. Exactly the right amount of distance, enough to build the space back up between them that had slowly been shrinking.
He sent it.
The typing bubble didn’t come back.
Netflix waited in the background for him to resumes his episode, his phone vibrated twice, the Dexcom alerting him.
210 ↗
Slight up arrow.
He ignored it, Santos and him had split some chinese for dinner and that always caused a spike no matter how he bolused. All he knew was he could manage his own body, what he couldn’t manage was loving someone who didn’t brake.
And that was the part that scared him.
So he did what he had to, he pulled back.
Robby’s first day back in the ED starts with a text he doesn’t expect.
5:38 a.m.
Dennis: Wear a helmet.
Robby sat up in bed and stared at it, the early light barely pushing through his blinds.
Three weeks.
Dennis hadn’t answered a single message in three weeks.
Not the practical ones from the hospital about his recovery or the soft fragile ones he had sent after he returned home.
He was always left on read and now...
Wear a helmet.
Robby types carefully.
Robby: I’m not riding.
He sees the status switch from Sent to Read.
No reply.
By the time he walked into the Pitt it was already loud. Monitors chiming, triage was backed up, board half red. Someone had handed him a chart before he even set his bag down. There was chest pain in three, abdominal pain in six, a psych hold in two waiting for placement.
Nothing unusual.
No one made a big deal out of his return, he got a couple claps on the back and a few good to see yous, no one had time to slow down for a doctor returning. Robby slipped into it easily enough, it was muscle memory after years of working here. Orders were placed, questions answered and decisions made; he still felt not quite right but it did nothing more than slow him just a little.
Across the department, he could see Dennis moving around like he always did, quick and efficient. They had barely crossed paths all day and Robby was trying not to think it was intentional. But after shift, Robby tried to talk to him they were at the lockers, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving after twelve hours. The room smelled faintly of detergent and stale coffee.
“Hey.”
Dennis looked up from where he was pulling his coat on, his face set to a neutral mask.
“You got a minute?” Robby asked.
“For what.”
“Just… a minute.”
There’s a pause, Dennis shifts his bag on his shoulder.
“I should head out, Santos is waiting.” he glanced to the door, like he was able to see her standing by the exit through the walls.
Robby nods. “Yeah,” he fidgeted a bit where he stood. “Right.”
Another second passed, long enough for something else to be said but the silence stretched between them.
“Okay,” Robby said.
Dennis gave a small nod, not unkind, and excited the room.Everything was quiet again ooncethe door swung shut behind him.
Two nights later, Robby tries again.
They’re leaving the department together, weaving through the end of shift traffic.
“Whitaker?"
He turned.
“You got a minute.”
The pause was longer this time, his face betraying his emotions, showing the pain deep in his eyes. “I can’t tonight,” Dennis said, he wasn't angry or apologetic about it, he just seemed tired.
Robby held his gaze, searching for something that might soften it but there wasn’t anything.
“Okay.”
Dennis adjusted the strap of his bag and walked toward the exit without looking back.
Robby stayed where he was for a second longer than necessary, the hum of the department filling in around him as he watched Dennis's back get lost in the crowd.
Three weeks of silence.
Two dodged conversations.
This wasn't accidentl, Dennis clearly had wanted nothing to do with him. They had become so close over the last few months that the sudden absence felt suffocating.
Robby didn’t go to his car.
He takes the stairs instead, the hum of the department fading behind him with each floor. He didn’t really decide to go up; his body just carried him there. The air was cold, the city stretched wide and indifferent beneath him, traffic threading through the dark, the rivers cutting a black line in the distance. He leaned against the railing and stared out at the lights without really focusing on any of them.
The door creaked open behind him, Abbott stepped out with a coffee in one hand, jacket slung over the other. He took in Robby’s posture before speaking up.
“You look like someone who lost a fight,” Abbot said.
Robby didn’t turn. “He won’t talk to me.”
Abbott came to stand beside him, resting his forearms on the railing. “Yeah.”
A gust of wind blows between them, Robby's unzipped sweatshirt getting dragged around by it.
“He hasn’t answered anything in three weeks,” Robby said. “Not one text.”
Abbott took a sip of his coffee, “You drifted left.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact.
Robby exhaled slowly.
“No braking.” he added.
Robby kept his eyes on the skyline, just barely being able to make out the Pond Lehocky billboard high up on Mount Washington from here.
“I remember being tired,” Robby said finally. “Everything felt loud. Like it was pressing in.”
Abbott doesn’t interrupt.
“And when the bike started to slide…” Robby swallowed. “I didn’t react the way I should have.”
Wind was cutting a chill straight through his clothes.
“For a second,” he adds quietly, “I didn’t fight it.”
Abbott watched him carefully. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice had a deep understanding to it. He didn't even try to act shocked, like he had figured that was the case from the start.
Robby’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said but he could hear how weak it sounded. “It wasn’t like i decided anything, i just-”
“You didn’t fight it,” Abbott finished.
Robby finally glanced over at him.
His expression wasn’t clinical, it was tired. “I know that second,” Abbot said. “The one where you don’t actively choose anything. You just don’t correct it.”
Robby swallowed and looked back out at the skyline letting his eyes settle on the Gulf Tower as it shifted to a new shade, revealing the dropping temperature. “I just didn’t care if I hit…” he mumbled softly.
Abbott nodded, letting the sounds of the city stretch out between them.
“He sent me a text the morning I came back,” Robby said after a minute.
“Yeah?”
“Wear a helmet.”
Abbott almost smiled at that.
“There you go.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No.”
The wind gusts again, colder this time. The late early winter weather beginning to turn into that bitter cold that would linger for months.
“If Dennis thinks you might not care whether you’re here next year,” Abbott said evenly, “he’s not going to let himself care this year.”
Robby’s jaw tightened slightly.
“He used to answer.”
“Yeah.”
Abbott takes another slow sip of coffee.
“You scared him.”
Robby doesn’t argue.
“He thinks I might do it again,” Robby says quietly.
Abbott didn’t answer right away.
“Would you?”
The question hangs there.
Robby didn’t look at him.
He didn’t say no.
He didn’t say yes.
He just stared out at the lights.
Abbott nodded once, like he’d expected that.
“Therapy,” he said after a minute.
“I’m going.”
“Good.”
Another stretch of quiet.
“You don’t get to drift through life like that,” Abbott added. “Not if you want people to stay.”
Robby’s mouth twitched faintly at that. Not amusement. Recognition.
“I didn’t mean to scare him.”
“I know but that doesn’t fix it.”
“No.”
They stand there a little longer, before Abbot excuses himself back to the ED. He paused at the door. “Prove you’re staying,” he called out over the wind. “Don’t just say it.”
Then he disappeared back down the stairwell.
Robby stayed a minute longer, leaning heavily on the railing like it was the only thing holding him up. He wasn’t entirely sure what staying looked like in practice, he only knew that Dennis pulling away had hurt more than the crash did.