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“Ms. Kaveltsky, please do not call the fire department!”
Robby is already on a chair, broom in hand, trying desperately to turn off the blaring fire alarm. He’s on the verge of just knocking it off the ceiling, beyond frustrated that every time he hits the small button to turn it off it pauses for only five seconds before continuing the blaring. Why had he wanted the unit with twelve foot ceilings, anyway? If he had a normal apartment, he’d be able to reach the fire alarm with his hands, not be playing at a comedy routine, trying to balance on a chair and swat it down at 50 years old.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Robinavitch,” Ms. Kaveltsky is yelling. “I’ll call the fire department! You’ll be okay,”
“No!” Robby shouts. He finally manages to spear the exact middle of the alarm, resulting in blessed silence. “See?” he yells to his neighbor. “It stopped! It’s fine! No need to call anyone!”
A moment later, however, he’s proven wrong when it begins blaring again. Robby swears, claps his hands over his ears, and almost falls off his chair. Why do these things have to be so damn loud?
Okay, Plan B, Plan B. He hops down and runs to the windows at the back of the condo, opening them as wide as they go. He continues running from window to window, opening each of them and turning on all the fans as he goes. His eyes are beginning to sting a little from the smoke.
From the street, he can hear the blaring of the fire sirens. As embarrassed as he is, he’s also a little impressed by the response time.
“Here they come, Dr. Robinavitch!” Ms. Kaveltsky yells. “You’re going to be okay!”
There’s a harsh knocking on the front of the door, a voice yelling out, “Fire department!”
“Hold on, hold on,” Robby says. He looks around the apartment frantically. The smoke is clearing out, maybe they’ll just pop their heads in and then leave? Another harsh knock.
“We’re going to have to take the door down.”
“No, no,” Robby says. “Please don’t do that, I’m coming!”
He dashes across the hallway, skidding a little in slippered feet as he arrives at the door.
This. This right here is why he doesn’t cook.
He opens the door, steps aside to let two firefighters enter. They aren’t fully kitted out, he’s relived to see, just in their t-shirts and fire retardant pants, though they’re both wearing those ridiculous hats. The one in front passes by and Robby takes a moment to gape at his absolutely enormous biceps. That has to be steroids, right? Definitely steroids.
“Everything ok in here?” he asks. As the words leave his mouth, the alarm finally stops screaming, and Robby nearly slumps against the wall in relief.
“Sorry,” Robby says. “Overexcited neighbor. Everything is fine.”
“Doesn’t smell fine,” the other firefighter says, and Robby deflates even further.
He knows that voice. He definitely knows that voice.
With a sense of intense dread in his stomach, he slowly turns his head, meeting those familiar mossy green eyes.
“Hey doc,” Jack Abbot says cheerfully. “Funny running into you again.”
Here’s the thing that’s important to know. Michael Robinavitch is not a damsel in distress. He doesn’t need rescuing. He is a talented and capable Emergency Department Attending – in fact, the Chief of the Department. He’s well-educated. He’s competent. He’s extremely good under pressure.
He is not good at baking.
He is also not good at reacting to having a gun pointed at his head. Which is the position he’d been in when he first met Jack Abbot.
It is important for the narrative that it be recognized, however, that he is not a damsel in distress. So he swooned a little during the bank robbery when a very solid, very confident man suddenly threw himself over Robby’s body, protecting him from the risk of flying bullets and shrapnel. That was a normal response to a stressful situation. The fact that his pulse stayed fast even after the police had subdued the robbers was a normal reaction to an adrenaline-fueled, highly stressful situation. The fact that it was further aggravated by insanely strong forearms and hazel eyes that were dancing with mirth in the middle of said stressful situation? Only to be expected.
So yes, Robby left the bank robbery – hours later and after having given an extremely detailed account to the investigators – with a firm crush on the combat medic who had swooped in and saved everyone’s life. He had no intention of ever seeing the medic again. He did not relish the hand that patted his back, telling him “good job, doc,” as a congratulations for having done the bare minimum of applying pressure to a gunshot victim’s shoulder during the heist. He did not spend his evening jerking off to the memory of that sharp chin and tousled grey curls. He did not repeat the man's name - Jack Abbot - repeatedly and wonder idly if they'd hyphenate as Robinavitch-Abbot or Abbot-Robinavitch. And if he did, in fact, do any of those things, it was a completely normal reaction. It was not because he was a damsel in distress, falling for the knight in shining armor.
It’s important that this be recognized, to fully understand the gripping humiliation that Robby felt when that same medic entered his condo to the acrid scent of smoke and burned birthday cake.
“Everything’s clear,” The first firefighter, who Robby had now not-so-affectionately nicknamed “Biceps,” says after rummaging through all of Robby’s rooms. Jack Abbot doesn’t seem to feel the same compulsion to look for the source of the smoke, since he spent the entire time leaning against Robby’s kitchen table, arms crossed, a small, wry smile on his mouth.
“I told you,” Robby sighs. “Just poor ventilation over the oven and an overly enthusiastic neighbor.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Kavelsky,” Jack says. “We love her. Gives a call at least once a week.”
Biceps rolls his eyes and heads toward the door. “I’ll go check on the old kook,” he says. “Can you handle closing this one out?”
Without looking at the other man, Jack shoots a thumbs up, his eyes remaining on Robby the entire time.
“So,” Robby says awkwardly. “I thought you were with the police department.”
“I volunteer with the fire department in my free time,” Jack says. He finally uncrosses his arms. “I mostly just go out on calls like these – low stress, or possibility of injury. When we don’t have a paramedic to spare.” His grin widens a little. “Guess I’m the next best thing.’
Robby chuckles awkwardly. “Yeah,” he says. “Well. Sorry you had to come out for this. It really wasn’t an emergency.”
“I think your cake would beg to differ,” Jack smiles. He gives Robby a small salute, ironic and yet somehow still devastatingly hot. “See you around, doc.”
The third time Robby meets Police Department Medic Come Fire Department Volunteer Jack Abbot he is finally not the one in distress. That dubious honor goes to Frank Langdon, once the ED’s golden boy, now it’s life-disaster recovering addict. Also to Dana and Baran, who decided that a good-natured relay race between the nursing staff and the doctors would be good for morale. When they’d suggested it, Robby had been thinking of a relay similar to those he’d done in grade school – a lap around a track and lots of silly dime store ribbons.
It turned out that they’d signed the staff up for a marathon relay.
Robby had immediately volunteered to staff a medical tent and thereby avoid running. Unfortunately, he had been assigned to the very first medical station, and Baran had drily noted this meant he could get in the relay van and run the last leg. So he’d volunteered to hand out paper water cups at the last pit stop.
Overall, he likes handing out cups. The fall Pittsburg weather is lovely, the leaves are changing colors, and it’s a good reminder that he should really spend more time outside. Plus, there’s an infectious energy to the runners – at least in the first few waves, when most of the runners are young and filled with energy. Mateo breezes by, grabs the Gatorade from Robby’s hand, and winks cheekily. Dana laughs.
“Looks like the nurses are kicking the doctors' butts,” she says.
“It’s not a fair competition,” Robby grouses. “You have an ultramarathoner, two runners, and Mateo on your team. We have. . .Shen.”
“If you would start hiring staff that could contribute to the hospital softball team instead of focusing on academic credentials, you’d probably have some more athletic doctors,” Dana says. “Don’t worry, Cap, you’ll learn how to stack a roster one of these days.”
Robby sighs and scans the runners, now beginning to thin out. He hadn’t expected his doctors to finish in the first wave, but he sincerely hopes that they are able to finish before the nursing home residents who are walking the race show up.
“Uh-oh,” Dana says. She shades her eyes with her hands, squinting down the road. “Is that Langdon?”
Robby follows her line of sight, and lets out a long sigh, pinching his nose. Indeed, there is Langdon, limping and gasping down the road, Mel propping him up under one arm, Parker Ellis under the other. Dana quirks an eyebrow. “Think I should call for medical?”
Robby sighs and closes his eyes. “Definitely call for medical,” he says.
Mel must see them then, because her face lights up and she starts waving, gently pulling Langdon off course.
“Don’t you dare be a loser,” Ellis yells, loudly enough that Dana and Robby can hear her over the cowbells and pulsing music. “I’ll hook you up with some oxy or gabapentin if you make it to the end, no charge.”
“Ellis,” Mel hisses. “You can’t offer a recovering addict drugs just to get him to finish a race.”
Ellis frowns. “I didn’t say he had to take them.”
As the residents are still limping toward Robby and Dana, there’s the sound of heavy boots running toward them – the opposite direction from the rest of the runners. Robby turns around to see. . .
“Oh fuck,” he says. “Not you again.”
Jack’s mouth quirks a little. “Well, fuck you, too, doc,” he says, sounding weirdly happy about it. “You called for a medic? I’m beginning to think you might not be a real doctor after all.” Dana snorts.
The residents have finally reached them, and Ellis reluctantly lets Mel help Langdon to the ground. The young man’s eyes are closed, forehead sweaty and even paler than usual.
Jack crosses his arms. His sleeves are rolled up, and Robby takes a moment to appreciate the strength of his forearms, the constellation of freckles scattered across them. He hadn’t had the opportunity to really look at Jack the first two times they’d met, what with the being afraid for his life and then being outrageously embarrassed.
“How are you feeling?” Jack asks.
“Alright,” Robby says absently. Dana snorts and Ellis stares at him, one incredulously lifted eyebrow nearly in her hairline.
“Uh,” Jack’s face is deadpan, giving away nothing. “I was talking to the patient.”
Robby instantly feels his face flame. “Right, of course,” he puts a hand behind his head, realizes he’s doing so, drops it to his side again. For the love of God, what does he normally do with his hands? He tries to put them in his pockets before realizing he’s wearing the pants with shallow pockets and his giant paws don’t fit. Maybe if he just. . .
“I think it’s just a sprained ankle,” Mel says anxiously, still kneeling before Langdon.
“Keri Strug won the Olympics with a sprained ankle,” Ellis says.
“Jack Youngblood played with a broken femur,” Jack agrees. He goes down to one knee beside Langdon, a little less graceful than usual, and unslings his med bag. “How you doing, champ,”
“I’m alright,” Langdon says. “I think Mel’s right. And I could use some water.”
Jack politely asks if he can examine the ankle. He rolls up the cuff, takes off Langdon’s shoes and then, for some reason, looks at Robby.
Robby, for some asinine reason that he will have nightmares over, gives him a thumbs up.
Dana begins shaking beside him, and he just knows if he turns around he’ll see her face trying desperately to contain laughter.
“You, uh, got some water for the patient here?” Jack asks. He returns to his ministrations, taking out some bandages and tying up the ankle. Robby flushes even redder, and turns back to his table filled with water cups. He hands Langdon a cup, hesitates a beat, and then hands some to Mel and Ellis as well. Should he give Jack water? He picks up another cup, notices that Jack still has his hands full. He turns to try to hand it off to Dana, but she is clearly having the time of her life and completely ignores his attempts to hand her anything.
“Alright,” Jack says. “I agree with the esteemed Dr. King – a mild sprain. If you don’t mind waiting, I can grab you a pair of crutches from the med tent.”
“I can grab them,” Robby offers. Ellis frowns.
“Since when do you offer to fetch anything?” she asks.
“Since when do you know where the med tent is?” Jack follows up.
Robby really wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.
It’s been almost three weeks since the Langdon incident, and Dana still won’t let him live it down. She and Ellis, the little shit, have taken to just randomly offering him cups of water. When Perlah and Princess begin offering him cups of water as well, he can’t tell if Dana told them, or if they’re just being instigators for the fun of it.
He’s completely loss control of his own ED.
“I think it’s cute,” Dana says to him one evening, nearing the end of their shifts. “Cap’s got a crush. It’s nice to see.”
“I do not have a crush,” Robby seethes. “I am a grown man. I don’t get crushes.”
“You deserve something nice,” Dana says. “And hoo boy, that medic is something nice.”
“Those forearms,” Ellis agrees, breezing in early for night shift rounds.
“Whose forearms?” Trinity asks, eager as ever to gossip and avoid work. Robby looks around desperately for something to do but it is, in fact. . .quiet.
“Robby’s boyfriend,” Ellis says, before saluting sharply and heading off to the locker room, presumably to put on some scrubs and hopefully to get a better attitude.
“I do not have a boyfriend,” Robby says. Charting. He can get some charting done. There’s always plenty of charting.
“But you could,” Dana says. “I think he likes you, too.”
“He does not like me,” Robby says.
“Aw, anyone would be lucky to have a man like you,” Princess says.
“Sure,’ Trinity agrees. “You’re tall, you make good money, you still have most of your hair. A guy could do a lot worse.”
Robby pinches his nose. The computer is being particularly slow about booting up. “He’s a hot SWAT medic who volunteers as a firefighter in his free time,” he says. “I don’t think he’s looking for a boring physician with anxiety and a dead monstera plant.”
“You killed Felicia?” Perlah gasps.
Dana leans an arm across the counter, forcing her way into her eyesight. “Robby,” she says firmly. “He may be a hot SWAT medic, but I guarantee you he makes shit money and doesn’t have half your smarts. You’re a catch. Ask him out. Let him surprise you.”
Robby shrugs ambivalently. It’s not worth responding to her. It’s not like he’s likely to run into Jack again, anyway. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
Which is why the universe is clearly conspiring against him when the phone rings to alert them of an incoming trauma, two SWAT members down, five minutes out.
“Could be your boy,” Dana says conspiratorially. Trinity frowns.
“Wouldn’t we. . .not. . .want that to be Robby’s boyfriend?” She asks. “Since, you know, we want him alive and everything?”
“Ooh, we got a trauma?” Ellis says, materializing out of nowhere, Shen at her elbow. “Perfect timing,”
The four doctors head to the ambulance bay, donning gowns en route. “Alright, well Santos and I are almost out for the night, so you two grab the more critical of the two.”
Shen shoots him two thumbs up, while Ellis just grins.
The paramedics roll in a moment later, immediately confirming that the first ambulance has the more critical patient – a GSW to the leg, but nothing arterial. Makeshift tourniquet and initial packing done on scene. Robby makes a mental note that he’ll have to reprimand Ellis later for the way she whines when she hears its non-arterial.
“The second inbound?” he asks the paramedic.
“I think just a graze and a mild concussion,” the paramedic says. A moment later the second ambulance arrives, and two SWAT members hop out before the paramedics can unload the gurney.
They rush at Robby and Santos. “Don’t listen to him,” one says. “He’ll talk real smooth, but he hit his head pretty hard when he was helping out Javier.”
“He’ll try to leave against medical advice,” the other agrees. “He always does that. Sarge will have our heads if he goes home and dies in his sleep.”
“Ok. . .” Robby says dubiously. “Well, let us assess him, and then we’ll see. . .”
“God fucking dammit.”
The stretcher is pulled down from the ambulance wheels unloaded, and a very cranky Jack Abbot is sitting on top of it, his arms crossed furiously. Trinity snaps to attention, grabs one of the rails and begins pushing. Robby follows a moment later.
“I’m fine,” Jack says huffily to Santos. He turns his head a little, spots Robby, and quirks his lip a little. “Hey doc, looks like you finally get a chance to show off your skills, huh.”
“Pupils are a little dilated,” Robby says clinically, beginning his head to toe examination. “BP?”
“BP is good,” one of the paramedics said. “Pulse a little thready but strong. Took a bullet to the back of his vest, so check for a graze.”
“No sign of head trauma,” Robby muses, and reaches forward to begin taking off Jack’s vest when he notices something very, very wrong.
Jack is covered in blood – that’s not surprising, Robby’s gathered that he was the one to do the field dressing on the GSW patient. What’s most concerning is the way the blood is concentrated around his knees. . .and that fact that one of his legs is twisted oddly, the fabric bunching, no shoe visible.
“Santos,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Any traumas to the left tibia or fibula?”
Santas has been looking forward the entire time, guiding them to a trauma bay. At Robby’s words she turns and glances down at the patient. Her face instantly pales, and she reaches out to touch his leg.
“Did you take any trauma to your extremities?” Robby asks. Confused, Jack follows his gaze and then blanches.
“God dammit, where’s my leg,” he says. He twists on the gurney a little, looking at the two SWAT members following them. “Did one of your take my leg?”
They glanced at one another.
“Please tell me that someone saved the leg,” Trinity says. Robby, meanwhile, has reached out to shove his hands against Jack’s carotid. The paramedics were right, his pulse is strong, even, his skin warm. This doesn’t make sense, he shouldn’t be conscious, should be in pain, shock at least, the loss of a limb. . .
But Jack seems perfectly fine, if mildly agitated and annoyed.
“I think I left it in the ambulance,” one of them says. Jack doesn’t even say anything, just levels a stare at him, and he makes a sound like a yelping puppy and runs out of the ED.
Robby barrels them into the trauma room, grabs a pair of scissors himself and begins cutting at Jack’s pants leg.
“Whoa, Doc, if you wanted to get me out of my clothes, you could have just asked,” Jack says mildly. Trinity frowns.
“Uh. . .Dr. Robby. . .”
The pants are sodden, still warm with blood, and harder to cut than usual. Robby’s trying to be gentle, but he has to stop the bleeding, has to stop. . .
He finally tears the pants apart enough to find himself confronted with Jack’s stump. A fully healed, clearly surgically amputated residual limb. A little red and inflamed but also clearly. . .not a new thing. He glances up at Jack.
“But you said they left your leg. . .”
The SWAT members arrives back in the trauma one, panting and holding up a prosthetic foot. “Found the leg!”
“Your boyfriend is a nightmare,” Shen says.
“Not my boyfriend,” Robby says.
“You’re sure hovering like he’s your boyfriend,” Ellis muses.
“I’m charting.”
“Everyone else from day shift left an hour ago.” Shen notes.
Ellis leans over his computer. “You’re not even logged in,” she points out.
“He keeps asking to speak to my manager,” Shen complains. “I’m pretty sure he means you.”
“I’m not technically on shift,” Robby says.
“And yet you’re still here. Please go home. And take your boyfriend with you.”
Robby sighs, pushes himself off from the desk, and heads into the bay where Jack is sitting, still wearing just a hospital gown.
“Why are you terrorizing my attending?” he asks. Jack raises an eyebrow..
“Your attending? jack asks. “You a big deal around here, doc?”
“And why do you keep calling me doc?”
“Well,” Jack drawls. “You never told me your name. And I take my annual sexual harassment training seriously, so I know I can’t just call you Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.”
Robby tries very, very hard not do a little jig. He succeeds. He also tries very, very hard not to blush. In this, he does not succeed. Jack’s hazel eyes light up.
“Or maybe I should call you that,” he muses.
“Robby. Everyone just calls me Robby. You. . .can you call me Robby.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Robby,” Jack says, holding out a hand. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot. And you can call me anytime.”
“Doctor?” Robby asks, glancing through Jack’s chart, not entirely sure why the other man hasn’t been discharged yet.
“Board-certified in emergency medicine,” he says. “I figure I’ll go back to hospital life when I’m too old for SWAT.”
“How old is too old?” Robby asks.
“Brother, I ask myself that every day,” Jack smirks. “Anyway, like I told Dr. Shen, I’m fully happy to leave, but being as his boss cut off my pants, I don’t really have anything to change into. And my buddies left with your two cute nurses, and took my cell phone with them.”
“Oh,” Robby flushes, looking down at Jack’s bare legs. Strong. . .freckled, like the rest of him. . .the gown sits high, leaving those thick thighs exposed. . .Robby gulps. “I can, uh, have the social worker find something for you. Or if you want, I could loan you a pair of scrubs?”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Well,” he says. “I have been wanting to get into your pants. . .”
Robby does not flee the room, because he is a dignified, highly educated, highly competent physician. No, he just leaves at an. . .expedient pace.
Dana looks incredibly unimpressed.
“He told you he wanted to get in your pants,” she says.
Robby sighs. “Yes.”
“He called you tall, dark, and handsome.”
“Yes.”
“He said you can call him any time.”
“Yes.”
Dana groans. “He said all of that and you didn’t get his number?”
Robby rolls his eyes. “He was my patient, Dana. That would be incredibly unethical.”
Perlah and Princess exchange a glance.
“What is unethical is letting a beautiful piece of manmeat like that just walk away,” Dana says. “If I weren’t married, I would climb that man like a tree. Hell, I am married, and if he made eyes at me the way he was making eyes at you I would have climbed him like a tree.”
“You know,” Princess says slowly. “Dr. Robby may not have gotten his number, but the hospital did. . .”
Robby gasps. “That,” he says. “Is wildly unethical. I could lose my medical license. I think that’s a felony.”
“Is it really a felony if it’s for love?” Princess asks. Robby gapes at her. He. . .he thinks she might actually be serious.
“That. . .I am actually not going to even touch that,” Robby says. “My shift is over. I cleaned up the board. I finished hand-off. And I have had quite enough harassment from you all for tonight. I am out of here.”
“Seriously?” Dana asks. She glances at the clock. “It’s only 7 o’clock.”
“Are you feeling ok, Dr. Robby?” Perlah asks.
“I am fine,” Robby says, and ignores how his voice is getting a little high-pitched. “I am a professional. I am setting professional boundaries. I am leaving at a professional time. Adieu.”
“Um. . .” None of the women seem to know how to respond. Robby understands. He’s not sure why he ended with adieu. He slings his backpack a little higher on his shoulder and heads out of the hospital.
Jack is waiting for him across the street, in the park. Adorably, he has his residual limp propped on a small mobility scooter. It should look ridiculous. It does look ridiculous. Despite that, Jack still manages to look incredibly hot. Robby can feel a stupid little smile forming on his face, and is gratified to see that an equally stupid smile is stretching Jack’s own lips.
“Hey, handsome,” Jack greets him.
“Hey handsome, yourself,” Robby says, a little stupid. Jack makes grabby hands at him. Not entirely sure what he’s motion for, Robby steps closer, until he’s close enough for Jack to put his arms around him, pull him in for a hug.
Jack smells sexy. Because of course he does. Robby is sure he smells like antiseptic and urine, with maybe a healthy dose of vomit thrown in there. It’s been a rough day.
“Feel like dinner,” Jack asks, his face still smushed against Robby’s neck. Robby hesitates, because as much as he wants to take Jack out on a date, he’s also not sure he wants to deal with all the people in a restaurant. Jack pulls back a little, still steadying himself with hands on Robby’s shoulders. His eyes can Robby’s face.
“Or,” Jack says. “My place is a block away. We could grab pizza, some beer from my fridge, and just watch the game.”
Robby collapses a little in relief, before realizing how incredibly unromantic that sounds. “That sounds amazing,” he says honestly. “You’re a man after my own heart.”
“Now he gets it,” Jack says, his words warm. “Also, you should know; when all it takes to get a man back to my place is a promise of pizza and beer, it gives a man ideas.”
“Is that so,” Robby says mildly. “Then I think it’s fair to give you a heads-up as well. I’m a huge slut for pizza and beer.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Well,” he says. “Let’s hope that six pack is chilled."
Dana immediately spots the hickey on his neck first thing the next shift.
She is gracious about it – she only crows “I told you so,” three times before helping him to the bathroom to apply concealer.
All in all, Robby thinks it’s about as much as he could ask for.