Chapter Text
i.
Montgomery Adamson whistled a jaunty tune as he made his way to work. It was a beautiful spring day, a little chilly, but promising to be clear and warm, according to the weatherman. He was just making his way through the park, was almost to the hospital, when he noticed an odd shape on the sidewalk ahead of him in the early dawn light.
Next to a pair of crutches.
Fear spurring him on, he ran as fast as he could to the huddled form that had fallen off the bench. A young man, white, mid-thirties, below-knee amputation of the right leg that looked fairly recent, judging by the scar tissue, eyes open but unseeing. Clearly still in his sleepwear and a hoodie. There was a small puddle of blood under his head where he had hit the sidewalk. He was breathing and had a good pulse, at least. Pupils were equal and reactive, no pinpoints. No obvious fever. A quick sternal rub proved he was unconscious. A cursory look didn’t provide evidence of a medical alert bracelet or any quick identification of what might have happened.
Montgomery fumbled for his phone, flipping it open and pressing 2 for the ED.
“Emergency—”
“Dana, hi,” Montgomery said in a rush. “I need you and at least one other nurse to meet me at the park across the street with gurney and a C-collar. Straight shot from the front doors. I have a male, mid-thirties, head injury and unresponsive. He’s breathing and has a strong pulse. I don’t know how long he was down.”
“Overdose?”
Montgomery scanned the area, just in case, but all signs pointed to— “No, I think he might have had a seizure or passed out or something.”
“Gotcha. You want a trauma room?”
“For now, yes. But we’ll probably move him into a Central room pretty quickly.”
“Got it, Doc. Be right there! Jesse! Come with me! Karla—Clear a room! Trauma—”
Montgomery hung up, focusing back on the man. He set about getting him on his back after gently checking his neck for injuries. There was a scrape above his temple where he had hit the sidewalk. Didn’t look like it needed stitches, but he would definitely need a CT and possibly an MRI. Montgomery checked his pockets, quietly apologizing as he pulled out a phone and a wallet.
Michael Robinavitch, 34, lived just a few blocks away. Nothing in his wallet suggested he had any medical concerns. He pressed 2 on the keypad and prayed he had set up a speed dial.
“Hello?” answered a sleepy, grumbling voice.
“Hi, this is Dr. Montgomery Adamson from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center,” he said quickly, but calmly. “I found Michael unconscious in the park on my way to work and you’re his first speed dial. Who am I speaking with?”
The man on the other end of the line was instantly awake. “Michael Robinavitch? Robby? Fuck me, man. Yeah, this is—I’m his roommate, Jack Abbot. Fuck. I didn’t notice he left—”
“Jack, everything’s fine. I have nurses coming now to help me. Do you know if he has any medical conditions that might cause him to be unconscious?” Montgomery asked gently, hoping to soothe Jack’s worry. It didn’t help if the patient’s primary contact was panicking, too.
“Uh—Uhm. PTSD, but, like, I dunno why he would be unconscious because of that,” Jack mumbled. “Amputation was about six months ago? He hasn’t been sick, so no infection. Shit—unless.” There was a flurry of movement on the other end. “Fuck. Ow. It was amputated because of infection. But six months later—”
“Unlikely, but we can run tests,” Montgomery assured him. “No history of seizures? Diabetes?”
“Uh—No, I don’t think so. He—Uhm.” Jack grew oddly quiet. “We were prisoners. Of war. Uh, rescued about six months ago. I don’t… I don’t know if any of that would have to do with this? If—If there were, like, long-term consequences…?”
Montgomery bit back a sigh. That made things immensely more complicated. “Okay. Thank you, Jack. I’ll take that into consideration when I do my work up. Thank you for telling me.” He looked up as Dana and Jesse approached. “We’re going to transport him into the hospital, now. When you get here, tell the front desk your name and—Robby, you said? Robby’s full name and they’ll let you back, okay?”
Jack agreed and hung up without a goodbye. Which was understandable. He sort of wondered if they were roommates or roommates. Of course Montgomery would treat him either way, but he still would like to know so he could protect them if they needed him to.
“Thanks,” said Montgomery, grabbing the C-collar to place while Jesse lowered the gurney. “Okay. Careful of his leg. On my count. One—two—three—”
Michael Robinavitch was deceptively light, Montgomery thought as he transferred Robby by gripping the hoodie at his shoulders, using his forearms to brace his head with the help of the collar. Once on the cot, he was absolutely swimming in the hoodie—just a plain black thing, looking sort of new. Nothing special about it, just something he probably picked up from Walmart. He stashed the wallet and phone into his backpack so he wouldn’t drop them and scooped up the forearm crutches.
“We’re good,” he told the two nurses, ushering them onwards.
Once inside, he sent Jesse to registration to tell them Jack was coming. They set up in Trauma 1 and Montgomery stashed his backpack out of the way, grabbing the wallet and phone before he could forget and giving them to one of the nurses that came in, followed by his intern, Sarah. He set the crutches next to his backpack and got to work, snapping on gloves as Dana started cutting his shorts and hoodie.
Someone gasped as the sheared clothing fell away. Dana’s face was a little too neutral as they rolled him from side to side to check for injuries on his back and so she could pull the ruined clothing away. It was hard, looking at his wan, thin skin, stark against the floral chest piece tattoo, the slight protrusions of his hips and ribs and collarbone, how thin his wrists were. The fading scar across his back. There was a Star of David around his neck. His eyes remained open, but unseeing.
Six months was not a long time for healing, after all.
“Alright, folks,” Montgomery said solemnly, trying to stay calm, trying to exude calm. “His name is Michael Robinavitch. He goes by Robby. He was rescued as a prisoner of war about six months ago, which was when he had the below-knee amputation due to infection. His roommate does not have knowledge of any other known medical conditions other than PTSD. I found him unconscious, unresponsive to pain, with a head injury about ten minutes ago, with an unknown downtime. Let’s get a head and neck CT—”
He listed off the labs he wanted, moving towards the phone to page neuro. With any luck, Dr. Mehta would just be starting his shift. He was their newest attending and Montgomery appreciated his humor.
“Go for Mehta,” he answered cheerfully.
“Just the doctor I wanted!” said Montgomery with a grin. “Hey, I have a case we just brought in. Male, 34, completely unresponsive but eyes open. Head injury from a fall but I’m not sure if he had a seizure or not. I’m sending him up for a CT and getting labs.”
“Good, good. Let’s wait on an MRI until he regains consciousness and I can do an exam, but go ahead and get an EEG started when he gets back,” requested Mehta. “Call me when you get the CT results?”
“Will do. Thanks,” said Montgomery, lips already quirking.
“Hey, why do brain cells grown in a dish attend the ballet and opera?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because they are very cultured.”
Montgomery laughed, full bellied and loud, head thrown back. “That’s a good one!”
“I thought so, too.”
Montgomery chuckled, turning back to Robby. They’d put a gown on him while he’d been talking to Mehta. His necklace was missing, likely in the bag Jesse was putting together with the rest of his belongings. Dana had started an IV and already had a liter of saline going after drawing blood for labs. He noticed Robby’s eyes shaking. Maybe he was waking up?
“Hey, Robby,” Montgomery said gently, moving closer so Robby could see him. His eyes… sort of tracked him. Still shook oddly. Nystagmus? No, it was intermittent, not constant, and his eyes rolled back before trying to focus on Montgomery again. Was he conscious again? “Hi, Robby. Can you follow my finger?”
That would be a no. His eyes shook worse, rolling back, then focusing on something to his left before lazily sliding back to him. Which was… weird. “Hey, that’s okay. Can you tell me where you are?”
His eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t speak. Did try to roll his head, though, but the C-collar prevented that. “That’s okay. You’re at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Can you tell me what happened?”
Totally unresponsive again, eyes still open but no longer tracking movement. No longer shaking. Didn’t respond to the sternal rub again, either.
Strange. Very, very strange.
“Dana?” he asked, keeping his eye on Robby. “Can you… stay with him? Take him up to CT, babysit him until his roommate gets here? Maybe talk to him, but keep an eye on if he starts tracking movement again like just now.”
“What do you think’s goin’ on?” she asked, shuffling closer to take Robby’s hand gently in hers, her other hand coming up to brush his short hair from his sticky, bloody forehead.
“I honestly have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He turned to Sarah. “Can you clean his wound? I don’t think he’ll need stitches, but he might need a bandage at least.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shit!” Dana lurched forward, hurriedly turning Robby onto his side. “He’s seizing!”
Had he had a seizure earlier? Montgomery shook his head with a frown as he watched Robby start convulsing. This wasn’t making any sense. That hadn’t looked like a postictal state…
He pushed diazepam, waiting… waiting… And nothing happened. What the actual hell was going on? Pushed more, and that didn’t do anything either. Called Mehta down, and he didn’t even joke, just promised to hurry. Montgomery set up the EEG while they waited.
Mehta watched Robby, frowning, confused, nearly five minutes later. “Didn’t react at all to the diazepam?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t give him anything else, did you?”
“Nope.”
“And his eyes were shaking but kind of tracking you?”
“Yup. It wasn’t any postictal state I’d ever seen.”
“Huh.” Mehta scratched his head. Looked at the EEG. “I’m wondering if this is a nonepileptic seizure. See?” He pointed at the lines, which… The lines were normal. “No epilepsy activity. I think he’s got conversion disorder. I’ll call Dr. Schumer—he’s our neuropsychiatrist. He’d be the one who would know for sure.”
Unfortunately, that’s when Jack Abbot walked in.
“What the fuck!” He hurried forward on crutches. Huh. Interesting, Montgomery thought vaguely. He had the same amputation as Robby. “How long has he been seizing? Why are you just standing there?”
Oddly enough, the seizure was… slowing? Robby was whining, eyes shaking again as he tried to track movement. Track Jack. Jack crowded Dana, getting as close to Robby’s face as possible. “Hey, brother. Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay. We’re out.” He reached out a hand, leaning his forearm crutch against the bed so he could tap an odd rhythm on Robby’s shoulder. “Pittsburgh. We’re safe.”
Robby’s hand moved slowly, waving floppily until Jack grasped it. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on Jack’s hand.
“Yes. Safe,” Jack repeated.
Robby’s eyes slipped closed. And then Jack rounded on them, eyes hot and furious.
“What the actual fuck! Just—fucking standing there, like fucking morons—”
Montgomery held up his hands. “Sir, I assure you—”
“Bull fucking shit!”
“Please, I don’t want to have you removed—”
“You’re just fucking standing there while he’s having a seizure!”
“It’s not an epileptic seizure,” Mehta said quietly.
Jack paused, opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at Robby, still trembling but no longer seizing. “What?”
“He didn’t react to diazepam,” Montgomery told him gently. “And his EEG shows no epileptic activity.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I watched him seize.” Jack frowned down at Robby, his hand still tapping out a rhythm on Robby’s shoulder. He rolled his shoulders, looking over at them tiredly. “We’re both doctors. It’s why we were…” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “You don’t have to sugarcoat shit with me. What does this mean? What do we do?”
“Robby is next in line for a CT,” Montgomery told him, glad he was no longer yelling. For now, at least. “And they might want an MRI. We’re going to consult with a neuropsychiatrist.”
“Neuropsychiatrist?”
“Dr. Schumer will know better if this is conversion disorder or not,” said Mehta, sounding a little shaken. Montgomery wondered if he’d never come across someone as angry as Jack had been. He took a deep breath, steadily keeping Jack’s intense gaze as it bore through them. “Conversion disorder is a psychiatric and neurological disorder. Dr. Schumer will be able to explain it better, since it’s his specialty.”
“Fine.” Jack frowned down at Robby. “I’m—Sorry. For yelling. I just—” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Centering himself. “We went through a lot of fucking shit and I can’t—I can’t lose him, okay? We didn’t go through two years of—” He cut himself off with a swallow. His voice was thick, shaky, as he added quietly, “I can’t live without him. Please.” His eyes were red as he looked back up at them. “I need him to be okay.”
Mehta gave him a gentle smile. “I’ll call Dr. Schumer to come talk to you right away, okay? Get some information while we wait for him to come back from CT.” He waited a beat, then asked, “What kind of fish performs brain surgery?”
Jack stared at him, eyes wide. “What…?” he asked, confused.
“A neurosturgeon.”
Mehta looked incredibly proud of himself. It was a good one, Montgomery had to agree.
It took a moment for Jack to chuckle. “Yeah, okay, that’s funny,” he agreed, shoulders relaxing a little. “Why can’t a brain be twelve inches long?”
Mehta frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Why?”
Jack grinned, sharp and wicked. “Because then it would be a foot.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “And then I suppose you’d be out of a job because podiatry would take over.”
Mehta threw his head back and laughed. “Oh! You’re good! I like you,” he said, clapping a hand to Jack’s shoulder. They politely ignored his flinch.
“Let me go talk to Dr. Schumer and we’ll get him right up.”
Montgomery watched him leave, then motioned for the transport team. “Looks like Robby is headed up. I asked Dana to stay with him, make sure he’s okay. She’s my best nurse.”
Dana preened, lifting her chin proudly. “You spoil me, Doc.”
He motioned for Jack to step aside. He watched them leave before speaking up again. “I can get you settled into a room. Can I get you water? Coffee? A sandwich?”
“Oh. Uh.” Jack’s gaze caught on the crutches and bag of belongings in the corner. “Oh. I—”
“I got it. We, uh… cut his clothing,” he said apologetically. He held up the bag. “But his wallet, phone, shoe, necklace, and keys are in here.”
Jack snatched it out of Montgomery’s hand, face set as neutrally as possible as he awkwardly tried to hold the bag while also bracing on the crutch. “Coffee would be great,” he said shortly, eyebrow raised to get Montgomery moving.
Montgomery led him to Central 8, watching from the door as Jack settled himself, crutches propped against the wall, bag of belongings on the chair next to him. He dug around the bag, pulling out the necklace and promptly clasping it around his own neck. Montgomery set Robby’s crutches in the opposite corner, just out of the way. “I’ll go get that coffee. Would you like a sandwich?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Sure. Fine. I’ll eat whatever.”
When he came back—backpack finally put away, coffee and sandwich and a brand new chart in hand—Jack was staring blankly at the wall, gaze a million miles away, body unnaturally stiff. A soldier, through and through, he thought, watching him for a moment. Montgomery knocked gently, hoping not to startle him. The poor boy—man, a full-grown man, even if he was twenty-some years younger than Montgomery, but even then eons older—still startled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, juggling the items in his hands to try to close the door for some privacy.
“Don’t—” Jack sounded strangled, eyes wide and panicky as the door started to shut. “Don’t close it.”
Montgomery paused, watched him, slowly opened the door again.
Right. They’d been prisoners of war. Montgomery couldn’t even imagine. He didn’t say anything, just handed over the coffee and sandwich that Jack set on the remaining chair and pulled over the rolling stool. “Do you mind if I get a bit of history?”
Jack’s face did an interesting cycle of emotions, landing on carefully shuttered indifference. “I’ll give you as much as I can, man. I don’t know any family history or shit like that. I’m… I’m the only one he’s got. He doesn’t have any family left to ask…”
“That’s fine.” Montgomery clicked his pen. “Just tell me what you know.”
Jack’s breath shook as he inhaled. He closed his eyes, breathed for a moment until it steadied. When he opened his eyes again, he was back to staring at the wall, an ocean away, a lifetime ago.
Montgomery pretended his heart wasn’t breaking.
There was a note the next morning waiting for him as he got to the Hub. Robby was finally conscious again, lucid and talking and had gone through a whole slew of tests and was allowed visitors.
Montgomery released a sigh of relief. He’d been so worried for the kid—man. Worried for both Robby and Jack. The horrors that they had faced… locked in a small room at the hospital for two years, forced to heal others, shackles leading to infection and matching amputation, starvation, punishments if someone important enough died, Jack being used as a continuous blood donor… Robby being just a civilian, just a doctor with MSF, who would have gladly helped if he had been asked but instead had been kidnapped. Jack a soldier, who had been kidnapped once someone realized how important he was. Taken around the same time, Jack just a few months later when he had been taken while trying to negotiate Robby’s freedom, tossed together with another MSF doctor who hadn’t made it, Jack had told him and Dr. Schumer, Robby’s hand clutched tight as he stared through the walls.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” Montgomery told Mark, the charge nurse. “I need to go check on a patient upstairs. Let Lisa know I’ll be down soon to do handover?”
“Got it.” Mark sent him a lazy salute, inputting data onto the computer. The hospital had finally adopted electronic charts and was sluggishly making the transition.
Montgomery hated it, but took it in stride. Medicine and society advanced every day and he wasn’t Chief by being stuck in his ways.
He knocked softly on the open door after reaching the neurology department where Robby had been admitted for observation. Jack looked dead on his feet, but kept his shoulders straight as he kept watch. He was still wearing Robby’s necklace. Robby looked sleepy, tired, but finally had the C-collar removed and the wound on his face had a clean bandage. Robby blinked sleepily at him, making a soft, confused noise.
“That’s Dr. Adamson,” Jack said softly, thumb gently stroking over the back of Robby’s hand. “He’s the one who found you and brought you in.”
“Oh,” Robby replied, soft and unsure. He frowned. “I… sort of remember?”
Montgomery made a noise, confused. He sat at the rolling stool, curious. “But you were unconscious?” He hated how he sounded so unsure, but… He didn’t really understand.
“Kind of?” said Robby, shrugging. “I don’t really get it. I was sort of conscious but I couldn’t see or respond or anything.” He paused, then said softly, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, even though he didn’t think he needed thanked for doing his goddamn job. “It’s what I live for. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Robby’s face twitched. Interesting. “You are?”
“Yeah, kid, I was worried about you.” He laughed at Robby’s scandalized, affronted scoff. “Is there anything I can—”
His face went steely and cold. “I’m fucking fine. I don’t need your pity.”
Montgomery paused, reflected, adjusted. Remembered that Robby was traumatized to hell and back and that he shouldn’t take his anger personally. Jack was carefully neutral on the other side of the bed. “It’s not pity,” he said softly, keeping his voice calm and even. Tried to smile gently without it coming off as condescending. Watched curiously as Jack’s thumb started tapping out a rhythm. Watched with fascination as Robby started to ease. “I’m sorry I came across that way,” said Montgomery, keeping a careful eye on Robby’s twitching face.
“N-No. I’m sorry,” Robby said, ashamed, turning away. “I shouldn’t have—”
“You’ve been through a lot, Robby.” Robby looked up at that, tears making his dark, hurt brown eyes shiny. “It’s okay that you’re not okay.”
Robby nodded slowly, as if unsure.
Montgomery winced at his watch. He was running late for his shift. He hoped Lisa would forgive him. “Listen. My shift is about to start. Do you know when you’re getting discharged? I’ll come visit again before you go.”
Robby’s head tilted to the side. “You’re not on shift?” he asked, sounding small, awed a little.
What was that about? “No.”
“You’re visiting me because you want to?”
Montgomery stared at him for a moment. Was that not… obvious? “Yeah, kiddo. And I know Dana was pretty worried about you, too. Do you mind if I give her an update? I know she’ll ask.”
Robby was starting to look a little overwhelmed. “Uhm. Who?”
“The nurse who helped you yesterday,” said Jack, surprisingly. “She stayed with you for your CT.”
Robby frowned, trying to remember. “Yeah… She was… sweet,” he said eventually, slowly. “She played with my hair and held my hand. You can give her an update.”
“Good. She’d bully me until she got an answer,” Montgomery said with a little laugh. He stood, looking at Robby expectantly. “I’ll come visit again when my shift is over, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah… Yeah, that’s cool.” Jack’s mouth twitched into a small smile at the response, and he brought Robby’s hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss across the knuckles. Robby turned to face him, face starting to turn red.
Montgomery left with a private little smile. They were a cute couple.