Chapter Text
Robby shouldn’t have gone to work on the anniversary of Adamson’s death; he can admit that now, in hindsight. That probably means he shouldn’t go in on the anniversary of his Bubbe’s death, either, but here he is. It’s a Saturday, and there’s no Langdon, and when Robby floated the date to Jack, Jack said he couldn’t cover. He didn’t remember the significance of the date, and Robby doesn’t blame him for that. He doesn’t expect other people to remember the important dates in his life, especially when he’s so bad at remembering them for others. Every year, the anniversary of Jack’s sister’s death blindsides him. He always thinks it’s far off, in whatever season is opposite to the one they’re in. Robby could have asked Shen, or pieced together some wretched on-call situation, but that’s not how he operates. He tried to get coverage. He couldn’t. So he’s on his bike, helmetless, pulling into the PTMC parking lot.
Robby doesn’t sleep much, which means he’s always on time. Usually early. He’s early today, badging himself in and heading for the locker room, then to the break room to grab coffee. Given that he woke up before dawn, he definitely could have made coffee at home, or stopped on the way. But lately it’s been a struggle to get out of bed. Robby prefers to stay supine for as long as humanly possible before he heaves himself into clothes and out the door. If he forgets to brush his teeth, he figures the coffee will cover it.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Dana says as he plunks his coffee on the main counter, checking out today’s board. The night does not look like it went well. Robby sensed that before he even took in the board, though. The “vibes,” as the kids say, were off, and he’s pretty sure it’s not just him.
“Morning,” he says, trying to sound neutral and like today won’t be a disaster.
“They lost six construction workers last night,” Dana says, passing him a tablet. “Night work. Sink hold or somethin’.”
“Jesus. Any of them still down here?”
“All got moved up, looks like.”
Robby rubs the back of his neck. “Jack?”
“Probably moved up too.” Dana flicks her eyes heavenward, meaning Jack’s on the roof. Fuck. Robby does not have it in him today.
“Fuck.”
“Swearing before 8 am,” Dana tsks.
Robby gives her a pointed look. “Not today.”
“What does that even mean?” she asks, but Robby’s already heading for the elevator.
It was 10 years ago that his Bubbe died, which is really a pretty long time. A decade. A kid born the year she died would be in 5th grade, now. It’s really not that big a deal. And, beneath the layers of detachment and rationalizing, it has gotten easier every year. But that doesn’t mean it’s actually easy.
Robby rides the elevator to the top floor, then plods up the stairs to the roof. Abbot is backlit by the lights of the city. He’s standing behind the guardrail, which is good. He’s got smears of blood on his scrub top which is less good.
“Jacky,” Robby says, approaching him.
Abbot is facing the skyline and doesn’t turn.
Robby takes a deep breath, reaching down into himself, scooping into his stomach, searching for anything to go on. He really didn’t plan on having to start his day this way. But even as he feels exhausted, overwhelmed, annoyed, he also feels guilt and shame for not wanting to be there for Abbot, given the number of times Jack has been there for him. And most of those times, Abbot was getting off night shift.
“Heard about the construction crew,” Robby says, drawing up behind him.
Abbot shakes his head. “Three of them were in their 20s, man.”
“Shit.” Robby mirrors Abbot’s position, leaning forward with hands on the guard rail.
“They all…they were a crew. They really loved each other.” Abbot’s voice breaks on love.
Robby nods, thinking: like the connection Abbot shared with his crew in the army. Like Abbot’s sister who died young by suicide. “I’m sorry.” He puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“And then the wives, the girlfriends, the parents. Fuck.” He shakes his head, brushing away a few tears.
Robby moves his hand to Jack’s other shoulder, drawing him closer, letting Jack rest his head on him. He feels a twinge at the number of times he and Jack have seen each other cry. It’s a brief moment of light in the shit day so far; feeling grateful that neither of them consider themselves too macho to cry. “Sorry,” he says again.
“Yeah.” Abbot blinks a few times. He takes a deep breath, then slowly lifts his head from Robby’s shoulder. “Thanks, brother.” He rubs his face. “I know you gotta get back down there.”
“Yeah.” Robby looks over the edge of the roof. “You on tonight?”
“No. Funeral.”
“Shit. Whose?”
“Army buddy. But, he was 70. Not as bad as it could be.”
“Hmm.” Robby pats his back once more, then heads for the stairs.
Once he’s back in the ED, the crew has fully transitioned from night to day, his residents and students slogging to the locker room and then out to the hub to check the board. Robby doesn’t think he has a speech in him this morning. Shen is there and gives Robby and the team a quick run-through of patients, then he’s out: “Catch ya on the flip side.”
Robby doesn’t understand how Shen genuinely seems unphased day after day. It’s annoying.
But a lot of things are annoying, like Javadi and Ogilvie trying to one-up each other in child prodigy-ness, and Santos’s ringtone, and Garcia talking shit. All regular things he should really be immune to by now, but they’re grating more than ever. And then, there’s Whitaker. He used to be the one breath of normalcy Robby got in a day, but not anymore. Because of course not. Of course, Robby had fucked that up too.
It had been three months ago, at the holiday party. A night shift skeleton crew was on, and they’d all gone to Paddy’s across the street. Normally Robby stayed away from work place fraternization, but the shift had been shit, and Abbot was going, and he really, really needed a drink after the day they’d had.
Robby hadn’t intended to get fucked up, or maybe he had. He wouldn’t have said that was his plan. But while everyone mingled and ate fried appetizers and chatted about holiday plans, he’d sat at the bar ordering double whiskeys. A few people sidled up to him: Abbot, Heather, hell, even Gloria popped over to wish him happy holidays. Then more time had passed than he was aware of, and Jack was pulling on his coat and saying, “You good brother?” in a tone that suggested he actually thought Robby was good. Robby didn’t want to disappoint him, or ruin his evening, so he nodded and tried to smile. And then the people who actually looked out for Robby, not that he let them, Dana, Heather, Jack, they were all gone. At that point, Robby’s memory appeared in flashes. He was at the bar, and then he was in the bathroom. He was in a stall for a while, and he remembers Whitaker’s voice, but not what they talked about. Then he remembers being out on the street, and it was snowing, the snow softly ticking against his face. Whitaker was using Robby’s phone to call a car. Robby had his arm around him, though he didn’t remember putting it there. Then they were at his house, and Robby was asking Whitaker if he wanted to come inside. Robby remembers Whitaker under a street lamp, and the snow, the way it stuck in his curls, and how beautiful and warm he was, and how somewhere in Robby’s brain he knew this was a mistake, but at the same time he felt hopeful that someone so good wanted to be in his life. Like maybe he hadn’t fucked it all up after all.
He’s pretty sure they kissed outside his door, likely because it was taking him so long to find his keys. He thinks they kissed inside, too. He thinks they maybe even made it to the couch. He knows the couch is where he threw up.
He definitely remembers the searing, crushing embarrassment and shame at being 50 years old and throwing up like a college student, on the floor, the couch, on Whitaker. He’d wanted to dig a hole, crawl in, and die. Whitaker was sweet about it, he’s pretty sure. Of course he was. But his good intentions were no match for Robby’s self-loathing, and Robby had turned on him, urging Whitaker to go home, and when that hadn’t worked, raising his voice. Go. You shouldn’t be here. Stupid mistake. Fuck, just go. He’d watched Whitaker’s face crumble. He hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t even called him a car or offered him cab fair. Hadn’t told him to text when he got home safe. Hadn’t even thanked him for taking him home after he’d gotten wasted at the fucking Christmas party.
The next day, Robby was there, and Whitaker was there, and he looked skittish and like he hadn’t slept all night. Robby pulled him into the staff room, closing the door and leaning on it to prevent intruders. He’d apologized. He was good at apologizing. He told Whitaker he’d fucked up, that he’d acted horribly, and that they needed to forget it ever happened. “Can you do that?” he’d asked, and Whitaker nodded, but the spark behind his eyes was gone. Slowly, over the weeks and months, it had mostly come back, but Robby knew something had irrevocably changed.
So: Whitaker. His one good thing, ruined. They’ve mostly returned to normal, maybe not their normal, but a normal. Not like they used to be, when Robby couldn’t quite stop touching him, and Whitaker looked at him with adoring eyes, and ducked his head at praise, and made Robby feel like maybe he wasn’t the burned out, scum of the earth he felt like most mornings. He made Robby feel capable, impressive, if not good then something adjacent.
Robby avoids his eyes this morning, just as he does every morning. He plays the mental game of How Many Times Can I Assign Whitaker To Other Doctors Before It Looks Weird? Before he has to pull Whitaker for his own team. Before he has to be within heat-radiating distance, and look into those eyes, and remind himself he’s a piece of shit.
Today is the day his Bubbe died, so he gives himself a break. He pawns Whitaker off on Mohan, then McKay, then sends him off with Santos. Robby knows Whitaker and Santos live together, and he feels confident Whitaker never told her about what went down after the Christmas party, because he’s pretty sure he’d be dead by now if Santos knew.
Then it’s time for the bed check brigade, and Robby looks up from a tablet McKay just passed him to see a line of old women on gurneys. If there was a god, this would be him pointing and laughing. “Shit,” Robby mutters.
“Hm?” McKay asks.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, send him to CT. Call Ortho for a consult once you get the results.” Then he takes a step back, surveying the incoming patients. “Javadi, Santos, Whitaker, gilvie, Quan, team up, grab a patient, present once you’re ready.” He can still detect Whitaker’s little inward cringe when he hears Robby call his name. Usually it makes him feel awful; today he feels mad.
Over the next half hour they come to him to present their patients, all of them old women, all of them reminding Robby at least in some way of his Bubbe. The hair of the first patient; the way the second clutches her huge purse to her chest; the knit sweater of the third. Robby looks at them as little as possible. He keeps his eyes on his students and interns, until it’s Whitaker and Javadi’s turn, and then he stares at Javadi.
“No, always send up for tests first,” he says when Javadi’s done, skimming the chart.
“Oh.” Javadi’s eyes somehow get even wider and she turns to Whitaker. “Dennis actually said that, I um, forgot. But he put the order in.”
“Critical step, Javadi,” Robby says. “Find me when results are back.” He lets his eyes skate right over Whitaker and heads back to the hub, dropping into a chair and looking around for his coffee.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Dana asks.
“Medical incompetence,” Robby mutters, pretending to edit a chart.
“Right.” But the phone rings then, so Dana doesn’t have time for a more colorful rejoinder. “Go ahead medic command. Uh-huh. Gotcha.” She hangs up. “Gsw coming in hot, ETA 5 minutes.”
“Got it.”
Robby’s ready when the EMTs arrive, and he’s got Santos and King with him, leaving Mohan and Whitaker to look after the grandmas. The gunshot is to the stomach. Santos listens to the lungs, King asks the patient questions; she’s barely conscious. Robby directs them to Trauma 1 and gets on the phone with Garcia. Santos is typing in orders faster than Robby is giving them, and King is asking for a unit of blood, and Robby’s fumbling for the ultrasound to check how much shrapnel is in belly because there’s no clean exit wound.
For a little while the chaos works for him, as it always has. His mind is blessedly clear. He can only concentrate on what is exactly in front of him, because nothing matters more than making sure the patient doesn’t die on the table. A dead grandmother and a fucked up R1 relationship are no match for a plummeting pulse ox.
The patient lives, they send her up for surgery, and Robby heads to the break room for another round of coffee. It’s noon. He’d made it through 4 out of 12 hours, ⅓ done. Just as he’s snapping the lid on his thermos and thinking he might actually have a minute to sit at the table, the door opens and Whitaker’s there. “Uh, Dr. Robby?”
“Yep.” He fiddles with his coffee so he can ignore the kid’s eyes.
“I need a patient consult.”
“Where’s Mohan? I thought you were with her?” He turns and does a quick sweep, taking in the eye bags, the pallid complexion, the hang-dog expression.
“Yeah, I was. This is a new patient from chairs.”
Robby nods. He keeps his tone level, if not kind. “What’s up?”
“Four-year-old male, Luca, 103.5 temp and conjunctivitis.” Dennis hands him the tablet.
“Sounds like what every 4-year-old in the world has.”
“I know. But during the exam I saw white spots in the mouth. They kind of looked like Koplik spots.”
Robby goes cold but his expression stays the same. “Have you ever seen Koplik spots?”
“No, but--”
“It could be herpes, canker sores, Leukoplakia.” Robby shakes his head. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“I’m not.”
“Coming in here and telling me you think we have a measles outbreak, that’s a conclusion.” Robby’s already shoving his coffee in the fridge and reaching for the nearest hand sanitizer. “Who else has seen the kid?”
“Just me.” Dennis looks even paler than before, if that were possible.
“Christ. PPE: go suit up.” Robby heads to the hub. “Dana? Need something with a door.”
She must hear his tone because there’s no wisecrack. “Central 8.”
“Yep.” He heads for the nearest supply room, and finds Whitaker there, N95 in place, working on his gown. Robby finishes tying it for him with a few jerks, rougher than he needs to be. “Move the kid to Central 8, get him and parents in masks immediately. Don’t say anything yet.”
“Got it.”
Robby gets into his own PPE, letting the closet door bang behind him.
“What’s going on, Cap?” Dana asks, eyes tracking him as he beelines for Central 8.
“Tell you as soon as I know.” He bumps his hip into the door, hands up to keep them sterile, and grabs fresh gloves as soon as he’s past the threshold.
The kid, Luca, is on the exam table, and a woman Robby presumes to be his mother is hovering nearby. They’re both wearing masks, and the mother’s eyes are wide, while Luca looks like he could fall asleep at any moment.
“This is my attending, Dr. Robinavich,” Whitaker says.
“You can call me Dr. Robby. Can you tell me about your son’s condition?”
“What’s going on?” the mother asks instead. “Why do we need to wear masks? What does Luca have?”
“We’re just being extra cautious,” Robby says, trying to slow his speech, to sound patient.
“Ms. Haddad,” Whitaker cuts in, “I know it’s scary. You did a good job bringing Luca here. Dr. Robby’s just going to another exam, and then we can give you more answers.”
“Okay,” she says, shakily.
Robby wants to roll his eyes, and he knows that makes him an awful person, but he does. Why does everyone need to be comforted all the time? Why can’t they just bypass the step where someone tells them they’re going to be okay and just believe it for themselves?
Robby steps up to the bed. “When did the symptoms start?” he asks the mother, keeping his voice low. “Luca, I’m going to take off your mask for a second, okay?”
The boy nods sleepily, his forehead is sweaty and his pupils are a little dilated. Robby lowers the mask and shines his penlight down the kid’s throat, then side to side. Whitaker was right. The dots are there, blue-white and tiny, speckling the inside of the kid’s cheeks. Christ.
“Two days ago,” the mother is saying, which perfectly lines up for the measles timeline. “At first I thought it was a cold, but his fever kept getting worse and wouldn’t go down.”
“Okay.” Robby clicks off his penlight and raises Luca’s mask. “We think your son has measles. We’ll do a blood test to confirm. Whitaker, what questions do you have?”
“Measles?” the mother asks.
“Has he been vaccinated, Ms. Haddad?” Whitaker asks while Robby bumps his way out into the hall, chucking his gloves in the trash and reaching for hand sanitizer.
Dana’s on the phone but hangs up when she sees him. “What?”
Robby motions for her to step away with him into the stairwell. “Measles.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Because that would be so funny,” Robby says.
Dana’s shaking her head. “What do we do? Call the CDC?”
“Yeah, so they can tell us to put some raw beef on it?” Robby rubs his forehead. “Fuck. I don’t know, I guess the state board of health? To start?”
“On it. What about you?”
“I’lllllll check on Whitaker.” Robby spins and heads back to Central 8.
In the room, not much has transpired. The mother is saying, “You mean he’s sick because he wasn’t vaccinated?”
“That’s usually the outcome,” Robby says, striding to the supply cart to find two blood-draw kits and two PCR swabs. “We’re going to test both of you, to confirm the diagnosis and to see if you contracted it too.”
“But I had the vaccine.”
“Then you probably don’t have it,” Whitaker says. “But in very rare cases you can get it even when vaccinated.”
“So then the vaccine doesn’t matter!” The mother’s eyes are glistening, and Robby really can’t take this.
“Whitaker, find me when we get the results.” He leaves. It seems wrong to stand in the hall, even though he’s been near the kid for approximately two minutes and was in full PPE the whole time. He feels contaminated, even though he’s definitely not--not yet. Still, he goes to the family room and finds it thankfully empty. He strips off his gloves and gown, hand sanitizes, keeps his mask on.
For one blessedly quiet moment he sits on the edge of a chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
The door opens. Robby looks up, his vision blurry and sparkling. It’s Dana. “Just got off the phone.”
Robby raises his eyebrows.
“Quarantine the kid while he’s here. Send the mom home if she’s negative. Once the kid is stable, send him home to quarantine. Contact tracing, yada yada.”
Robby nods. “And us?”
Dana sighs. “Whitaker was exposed?”
Robby nods again.
“Best if he stays here. We can test him every 24 hours.”
Robby massages his temples. “And best if he stays with the patient.”
Dana nods.
“And he can’t do that alone.”
“Robby--”
“What a fucking day. Fuck.” Robby thumps his forehead against his fist.
“It doesn’t have to be you,” Dana says, but Robby sees that she knows that’s not true.
“Of course it does. I’m not pawning measles babysitting off on someone, Christ.”
Dana sighs again. “We wait for the results. Send mom home if possible. If the kid’s positive, we move all three of you somewhere with an ensuite bathroom.”
“Luxury.”
***
They fast-tracked the labs. Robby had a blissful half hour in the family room before Dana got him. Robby knew he should have been in there, should have checked on Whitaker, should have been the one to deliver the news to the mother, but he couldn’t. Whitaker would do a better job, anyway. The mother was negative. Robby can hear her yelling, hear Dana trying to calm her and Perlah and Princess jumping in to get her out the door.
They double-mask the kid. Robby grabs his and Whitaker’s things from the locker room. The three of them are moved to the fourth floor, a big empty room with windows that look out onto the park. Dana’s arranged for three hospital beds, and there’s a bathroom with a shower, a mini fridge, and Dana even found an electric kettle somewhere.
The first task is getting the kid stable. His temp is still too high--not ice-bath high, but 103, and Robby swears he can see the beginning of a rash on the kid’s forehead. They hook him up to fluids, push more tylenol. He stirs but doesn’t wake.
Robby sits heavily in a chair. It’s only 2:30 in the afternoon; he wishes it were midnight. He wishes he had an excuse to go to sleep.
“Dr. Robby, I’m really sorry--”
“Don’t,” Robby interrupts. As if this is Whitaker’s fault. As if being here isn’t literally Robby’s own job.
He gets to work charting on a laptop Dana sent with them. The kid wakes up after a little while, and Whitaker goes to him. Robby half listens to his soothing words. “I know it’s scary. Your mom had to go home, but we’re going to get you better as fast as possible. Hopefully you can see her tomorrow. Want to watch TV?”
Whitaker grabs the other laptop, also meant for charting, and somehow pulls up PBS. He tugs a chair over to the hospital bed and he and the kid watch something called “Bluey” together. The kid cries and laughs and coughs, and Whitaker soothes, and Robby wants to punch something.
He gets up and goes to the bathroom. He locks the door, grabs a towel and buries his face in it, lets out a sort of half-muffled yell, and wrings it like someone’s neck. Then he throws it onto the ground and yanks on the cold water, splashing his face. He’s being such a piece of shit. Why did he even sign up to do this with Whitaker if he was going to make him do all the work alone?
Robby’s good with kids--he likes kids. He’s never felt this angry at one before, and honestly, it scares him a little. Is this what his mother felt like, before she left? He pushes that thought away as fast as it comes. Jesus fucking Christ. He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, head in hands.
He stays that way for a while. Finally there’s a light knock on the door. Robby remembers he locked it. His face burns a little, because either Whitaker thinks he’s having the type of distress that necessitates a toilet, or he knows that Robby’s just a fucking coward. Robby opens the door.
Whitaker’s face is worried.
“Everything alright?” Robby asks, beating him to it. As if he didn’t spend the last half hour on the floor of the bathroom.
“Yeah, he fell asleep.”
“You gotta go?” Robby steps out and holds the door open, gesturing for Whitaker to go in.
“No. Um. What’s wrong?”
Robby arches an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
“Something was wrong before all this,” Whitaker says, squaring his shoulders a little.
“This certainly didn’t make it better.”
Whitaker looks at him. “Robby.”
“You have charting to do?” Robby sits back in his chair, pulling the laptop toward him.
Whitaker just stands there, staring at him.
Robby wants to ignore him, but he can’t quite manage it. “Hopefully we get the kid well enough by morning so that he can go home. You get a negative test in 24 hours, they’ll probably let you go home too, and then we’ll move on with our lives and both be able to forget this day ever happened.” He shoves his glasses onto his face and pulls up a random chart.
“If that’s what you want,” Whitaker says quietly.
This time, Robby does ignore him. He has to. Because on the other side of that sentence is all that sits between them, and Robby hasn’t let himself go there since the morning after the Christmas party. He’s an Olympic-level compartmentalizer, a gold medalist. When he told Whitaker they needed to forget about it, he dumped all his Whitaker-related trauma and locked it into a chest and threw it into the ocean, where it stayed.
It’s just 24-ish more hours. Robby has survived thousands of those. He can do one more.