Chapter Text
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Trinity Santos knew about the hot new labor and delivery nurse, which meant everyone in the Pitt knew about the hot new labor and delivery nurse. Robby liked to imagine himself above the gossip; he liked to imagine it, but that didn’t make it true. How did Santos put it? A messy bitch who lives for drama? She was self-describing, but secretly… Well, there he was, leaning over a counter of the hub, pretending to read his tablet while Santos held court, spinning tales of a nurse so legendarily gorgeous, so undeniably fuckable, that there was already a betting pool going with the nightshift. It was up to $500. First one to get her number wins the pot.
None of them knew he was listening. Robby’s hearing was sharp. Preternaturally sharp. A fact that annoyed and fascinated his students. How did he hear that, anyway? I swear I was whispering and he was halfway across the ER—
The truth of why was the same truth that meant this situation, ultimately, had to be none of his business. It didn’t matter if this nurse was every single one of his fantasies rolled into one—he was off market. Indefinitely.
Eternally.
“That’s…kind of weird, actually. Certainly not ethical,” Mel was pointing out, adjusting her glasses as she tried to verbally shimmy her way out of the tight spot that had become this conversation. Her gaze drifted toward Robby; could he hear them?
He scratched his beard, letting his eyes move back and forth as if he were deeply engrossed in what was on the tablet. And he heard Dr. McKay coming from down the corridor before she ever eased into view. Santos perked up at her arrival, waving her over. The human embodiment of a sigh, McKay scrubbed her eyes with both hands. “What’s up?” she asked. “Nothing serious, please. Just had to tell a mother her kid is definitely losing his foot…”
“It’s stupid,” Whitaker warned her with a shrug.
“It isn’t, you’re just whipped. Mr. Domesticated without any of the benefits,” Santos spat back.
Whitaker groaned. “Amy actually makes a really unbelievable hotdog casserole—”
“Stop talking right now or so help me your new nickname is Hotdog Casserole,” Trinity said, slicing her hand across her throat. Whitaker balked and backed down, which was probably the right call, considering she would absolutely make good on the threat. Huckleberry was bad enough. “The adults,” Santos began, canting her body toward McKay, inviting her into their circle of trust, “were just talking about the new L&D nurse. Don’t you know her?”
“I…do,” McKay’s eyes swept the group. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Uh-oh.” Javadi spoke up, hugging a clipboard to her chest.
Santos barreled on, undaunted. “She into women?”
McKay stared, frosty. Robby knew it was time to tell them to break it up and get back to work, but these lulls were so rare in the ER, and this was sort of like morale boosting if one were to squint. And if he was never going to feel the touch of another ever again, he could at least live vicariously through those who might.
“Considering she moved halfway across the country and took this position at my recommendation to get away from her dirtbag ex, I don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Santos sighed, cutting McKay off. “I don’t need her life story.”
A beat.
“But was that ex a girl or--”
“Drop it,” McKay told her, making herself subtly taller. Even Santos withered at that.
Santos threw up her hands in surrender. Javadi and Whitaker shared a glance and a laugh.
“Fine. Sure. Might wanna tell that to the night shift goons, they’ve got a bet going, trying to get her number.”
With a wince Robby felt in his chest, McKay clapped her hands over her face. “I’m going to kill them.”
Robby heard the ambulances tearing into the bay; something bad was coming. Time to break up their little powwow and prep for whatever nightmare approached. And now he had something to rib Jack about, which was always welcome. Get that nurse’s number yet? No? Bet I could get her to soften up. Yeah, yeah, I won’t but I could. He was striding across the hub, slapping his hands together, waking himself back up. The others saw him coming, springing apart like naughty children.
“Just don’t be fucking weird when she’s at my birthday party next week,” McKay was warning them, paying special attention to Santos.
“Okay, kids,” Robby said, with a flick of his head back toward the ambulance bay. “Play time is over.”
“Can’t believe I’m about to say this,” McKay grumbled, pushing past him. “But thank God. She’s got enough on her plate without you freaks trying to date her.”
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It was exhausting living like this, never knowing if the next buzz on your phone would start the whole fucked cycle over again. New number. New hair. New apartment. New friends. New town. I just need to start over. One more time. One more try. You didn’t even like thinking his name, increasingly convinced that whatever cursed power fueled his obsession with you could also spontaneously summon him.
And the worst part is, you’re starting to like it here, even if you’ve never been this cold in your entire life. I can get used to it, you tell yourself, as long as I’m free. Your apartment is small but already filling up with the little touches that make life bearable—postcards your childhood friend sent you from Paris, recent Christmas gifts from Mom (fuzzy robe, chenille house slippers, pink salt lamp, a tarot deck from your favorite curio shop in Portland), a hand-me-down but decent coffee machine from Cassie. At least you weren’t alone. Christmas had been dreary, but you were so busy with the move it was straightforward to ignore the loneliness and just focus on unpacking, doing, organizing. And Cassie brought you dinner on Christmas Eve, even invited you out for brunch the next morning, but you demurred—she should be with just her kid, not bother having you tag along. You were very good, it turns out, at making yourself small.
Maybe that was why everyone at your new job warmed to you right away—you kept your head down, listened, melded into the surroundings, just one more particle joining the stream. The commute to the hospital was brutal with the ice and snow. You had thrifted a decent set of woolly mittens and a scarf, but your fingertips were still going numb as you waited for the bus. Cassie had warned you ahead of time to choose your neighborhood carefully; public transit wasn’t the best in Pittsburgh, and the wrong location could turn your commute into a major pain in the ass. When she wasn’t swamped with Harrison, Cassie would swing by your place, give you a lift.
You never put in your earbuds. Head on a swivel. There was a can of mace and a switchblade in your bag, and you absolutely knew how to use them. The young man next to you bobbed and rocked, breath pluming in white dragons as he danced to the beat in his headphones, eyes glued to his phone. You tried to imagine living like that, worry free, utterly oblivious to your surroundings, confident in your right to live unbothered, unwatched, nobody’s fixation.
Nobody’s prey.
The guy noticed you staring, glanced at you shyly, then winked.
Nice try, buddy.
He wasn’t your type. You weren’t even sure you had one anymore. Love, romance, sex…you couldn’t remember the last time you fantasized about any of those things.
Two days later, you were paged into his life.