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At 10am, a gurney knocks Robby onto the floor. He steps into its path without looking and it hits his hip, crushing the small of his back against the nurse’s station before he falls to his hands and knees. The EMTs don’t stop, they know better than to apologize— it was Robby’s mistake, and a rookie one: the type of embarrassing collision usually caused by nervous med students who don’t have their wits about them just yet.
Groaning, Robby accepts Dana’s hand when she extends it and gets to his feet. Princess eyes him curiously from a nearby computer, while Doctors King and Mohan, just across the open space of the Pitt, stare at Robby in surprise. When he looks in their direction, their jaws snap shut and they continue walking.
“Jesus Robinavich, your parents never teach you to look both ways before crossing the street?” Dana pats Robby’s arm, her jovial expression tinged with concern.
Robby offers a noncomittal grunt in reply and rubs his back, leaning heavily against the nurse’s station. From across the department, Mel glances curiously over her shoulder, but Robby doesn’t catch it.
Two days later, a thirteen year old begins to seize in the middle of an intubation and the shard of glass embedded in her collar slices down the side of Robby’s forearm. There’s a moment of uproar in the crowded trauma room as Robby backs away from the girl, blood dripping through his fingers.
It’s not like he hasn’t gotten injured at work before— he has, plenty of times. Staples in his forehead and several broken toes have attested to that over the years. Twice in one week, however, borders on embarrassing, and he doesn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of concerned looks, despite the frequency with which he aims them at other people.
Robby watches from the side of the room, holding his hand over the cut on his arm, as the thirteen year old finally stops seizing. McKay gets the intubation tube down her throat and the commotion of the room calms, the heartrate monitor slowing its rapid alert to something more acceptable.
“Whitaker,” Robby barks. The younger man meets his gaze with familiarly wide-eyes. He’s gotten more confident as the weeks pass, but only by so much. “Stay and help McKay with debridement,” Robby pauses and glances at McKay. “But get the glass out of her neck and shoulder first.”
“Fine,” McKay nods, but her eyes— as wide and anxious as Whitaker’s— stay glued to Robby’s arm. “Are you gonna do something about that?”
Robby glances at his arm, and then the floor. A small puddle of blood has begun to form. Not that the floor isn’t used to worse.
“Yes,” he sighs. “I am. It’s fine. Come and get me if her pressure drops.”
Robby grabs a roll of gauze off of a tray before leaving the trauma room, wincing as the skin around the gash shifts with his movement. Leaning against the opposing wall, he tries to wrap the gauze around the wound, but it’s difficult. The cut is on his dominant arm, and he has to use his teeth to pull the roll around. More than anything, he’s bothered by how much blood has soaked into his hoodie. The navy has stained a dark purple he knows won’t come out. And he can’t exactly walk around an emergency department covered in bloody clothes. It gives a bad impression at the best of times.
“Doctor Robby?”
“Yes?” He raises his head immediately.
“Do you want some help with that?” Mel asks, eyes widening behind her glasses. She clasps her hands together, polite and expectant.
The truthful answer is no. Robby thinks King is a damn good doctor, but she’s young and earnest, and he’s tempted to tell her that he’ll wait for Heather or Dana. But neither of them are here today. Collins never came back, and Dana only comes in every so often. He has, at this point, very little doubt in Mel’s ability to practice medicine, but it’s not a want for competent medicine that he’s suddenly struck with. He wants Dana’s soft hands or Heather’s firm ones moving his arm into place before taking a look at the wound, deft and familiar against his skin. He wants someone he can relax in front of for a moment, whose idea of him won’t be shattered when they spot just how tired Robby is.
“Yes, actually. I can’t reach it very well with my left hand.” Reason wins over. Robby gestures at the wound.
“There’s no one in South 4,” Mel chirps with a nod.
After Mel pulls the curtain closed behind them, Robby shrugs off his hoodie and the bloodstained scrubs top beneath. He’ll keep the grey undershirt despite the blood speckling its sleeve— it gets too cold for him in the Pitt without an extra layer. The movement involved in taking the two layers off brings fresh blood to the hasty bandage job and Mel lets out a hiss of sympathy when Robby sits down. He throws his hoodie over the back of the bed and leans against it.
“What got you?” Mel asks, her tone clinical. She perches on the rolling stool and slides closer, examining his arm.
“Glass. From the car crash they just brought in.”
Mel hums and snaps a pair of gloves on with efficiency. “Well, just a few stitches will be enough. I’m sure you’d rather do them yourself, but it would be difficult with this placement.” She taps two gloved fingers against the back of his arm, as if reminding Robby where the injury is.
Her tone is apologetic, so Robby offers Mel a smile that he rather hopes doesn’t come across as a grimace. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”
Robby focuses on the floor as Mel bustles around, ignoring the throbbing in his arm, and back, and head. He feels too stiff and sore all across his body. The rest of the Pitt isn’t exactly quiet, but it all sounds more muffled in this corner of the department, shuttered off from the commotion. He silently thanks the Heavens that no one has come looking for his input yet, though he realizes they might just not know where he is.
He raises up with a sigh just as Mel swivels back around holding suturing thread.
“Doctor Robby?”
“I’m just going to tell Perlah where I am.”
Mel cocks her head, frowning. There’s only sincerity in her tone, and no hint of sarcasm, when she says: “The faster I’m done with the stitches the sooner you can be back out there.”
She has a point. Someone will yell for him if it’s an emergency. Hopefully, anyway. Robby reluctantly slumps back against the head of the bed.
With the bleeding reduced to a slow ooze, Mel delicately wipes the dried blood from around the cut on Robby’s arm, and then arranges it into a more workable position.
“Okay, I’m— um, I’m going to start now.”
Robby closes his eyes, and sinks a little further into the stiff pillow. At least this gets him a brief break. Not that he’s ever really yearning for a break; usually, the constant ebb of his department lulls him into a state of comfortable distraction that he misses when he’s at home. This week, as occasionally happens, the lull has ceased its effectiveness and begun to grate. Robby doesn’t want to be elsewhere, but he doesn’t want to be here, either.
His thoughts flounder for only a minute or so before Robby notices that the sting of a needle has yet to pierce his arm. He squints up at Mel from the bed.
“Doctor King?”
The younger doctor frowns at his arm like it’s presented a particularly unusual set of symptoms, and Robby just asked her for a differential.
“Are you still good to do this?” Robby asks.
“Yes. I just— uh, it’s easier to help regular patients, you know? You’re my boss. More pressure.” Mel lets out a nervous giggle. She’s so focused and competent until something inside knocks loose. Robby knows she can do what’s asked of her, only sometimes she seems to add extra steps between the starting line and her goal— steps that no one else needs to take. Usually she walks herself there, but ocasionally, he’s observed, she needs a push.
“You’ll be fine.”
“I just want these to be really good sutchers, you know?”
Not even gaping wounds keep Robby from teaching. “I don’t need your best work, I need to get back to the floor. Just treat me like you would any other patient.”
“Oh. Okay.” Mel moves to start, grasping a pair of tweezers, but abruptly sits back with a worried smile. “Was that— I mean, I would want a patient to get my best work too. I hope you don’t think I was… that I don’t try as hard with patients as I would with a colleague—”
“I’m not playing mind games with you,” Robby interrupts, trying to keep his tone gentle. “I just mean to say you don’t need to overthink this.”
This explanation seems to do the trick, and Mel, focusing intently, begins to adeptly sew up the gash. Her stitches are well placed in proximity to the wound, and not tied overly tight. Her hands don’t have the years of confidence of Heather’s, perhaps, but they’re steady. Robby is so off-kilter, so unused to touch, each time her gloved fingers brush his skin he feels a wave of guilt crash and drown the butterflies that flutter excitedly in his stomach. After a few minutes, she ties off a final small suture with ease.
“Alright, I’m just going to get a dressing on there now,” Mel says, setting the needle down. Robby almost laughs at her explaining the process to him, but stops himself. She’s following his advice and treating him like any other patient, narrating the next steps just as she supposed to.
“Good job,” he says quietly, as Mel carefully places the plaster. “Double wrap for me?”
Mel obliges, wrapping gauze tightly around the plaster and then tugging his undershirt over the wound.
“Should stay in place fine, just let it breathe after work.” She moves her fingers briefly to his wrist, and frowns. “Your pulse is rather fast. And— well, you’re really quite warm. Are you feeling okay? Is there anything I can get you?”
Robby feels a flash of something in his gut. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“How’s your back? You got hit pretty hard on Tuesday.”
Robby just shakes his head, though he feels somewhat bad doing so. Mel’s face is so intensely earnest that it’s hard to tell her no, but she’s done all she needed to by stitching him up.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“If you were a patient, and I knew you’d hurt your back, I’d ask to take a look just in case. What if your back injury made it more difficult for you to maintain balance, and that contributed to you hurting yourself today?”
“That’s quite the long-shot. And if I were a patient, I could tell you no,” Robby counters. “But I suppose it’s best practice.” He slides out of the bed, stands up and turns around, trying not to flinch when Mel places a hand on his side.
“Can you hold your shirt out of the way for me? Or you can take it off. Whatever you’d prefer.”
Robby grabs the hem and pulls his shirt up to his ribs, holding it at the front. Mel slides his scrubs down his hips, only by an inch, and then begins to examine his back.
“You’ve got a sizable bruise. Is it tender here?” She presses down carefully on his lower spine, and Robby grits his teeth.
“Yes.”
“And here?” This time his tailbone. He grunts an affirmative, and Mel stands up from the stool, touching around the bruise with increasingly uncomfortable pressure. She stops poking for a moment, and Robby hears her rustle in a drawer.
Before he can turn back around and offer her a thankful pat on the shoulder, an excuse to segue into leaving the curtained room and escaping back into his department, Mel presses something cold against his lower back. Robby startles at once, and one of Mel’s hands darts out to hold him still, her thin fingers steadying his hip.
“I’m just applying a lidocaine patch. And you should get some ibuprofen from the staff room when you get a chance.” Mel’s fingers press against each edge of the patch, her thumb digging into the tender skin as she makes sure it's affixed. The gel tingles, cold and sharp on his aching back.
The weariness throughout Robby’s whole body seems to come to a head with a heady throb, and an uncomfortable sensation swoops through him once again. He squeezes his eyes shut and grips the bundled fabric of his shirt, still holding it out of the way even though Mel doesn’t need to examine his bruise anymore, even though she’s standing expectantly behind him, one hand soft on his hip.
“Doctor Robby? Is that okay?”
He swallows.
“Do you not want the patch? I’m sorry, I didn’t ask. You’re not, uhm— allergic to it, are you?”
“The patch is fine,” he croaks, still with his back to her.
“Oh. Okay.” Mel hesitates, voice wavering a little. “Are you alright? You can let go of your shirt if you want, I’m all done.”
“I’m fine.” He says roughly, and drops his shirt, turning to face her. The awkward smile that meets him is clearly suppressing Mel’s nerves. “Thanks. I’d better get back out there.”
“Yes, umm, but can I just—” Mel hurriedly pulls off one glove and reaches out, letting her hand hover just in front of his face. “You really do feel warm…” Robby freezes, and Mel presses the back of her hand against his forehead. She has to look up at him and stretch onto her toes in order to reach.
“If you’re concerned about my temperature, Doctor King, use a thermometer, not your hand.”
“Several studies have shown that mothers can accurately ascertain a fever in their children without using a thermometer,” Mel counters immediately.
“Sure. But this is a hospital. We have plenty of thermometers.” Robby takes her hand in his own and lowers it from his forehead. “And you’re not my mother. Besides, it’s hormonal. Not viral. Nothing to worry about.”
“But you’re very warm,” Mel emphasizes. The concern on her face is evident, and it’s hard for Robby to summon up real frustration with her when he knows it’s coming from a place of sincerity. Sincerity nearly always works on him. Cynicism begins to chafe after a while, he’d long since learned; Robby makes a point to try and keep earnest people around to balance it out.
Mostly bemused, Robby guides Mel’s hand under the front hem of his shirt and places it just under his navel. “Palpate.”
The younger doctor looks surprised, but carefully presses her fingers into the plush fat cushioning his abdomen. It would be easier on a thinner man, certainly. Mel’s eyes narrow in concentration and she uses her other, gloved hand to press and feel as well, then pauses, thinking.
“What’s body heat, non-emergent tenderness and swelling around the lower stomach, and an elevated pulse tell you?” Robby asks.
“Well— oh.” Mel’s face drops. “You said it was hormonal, but I… they’re typical signs of a heat cycle. Nothing viral you can pass on to other people. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. You didn’t have the opportunity to ask me the usual intake questions,” Robby says kindly. Her fingers are still resting on his lower stomach, tense against the soft skin she had been palpating. The pressure of Mel’s touch is soothing despite her warmth. He becomes aware of an ache in his chest, tender with need.
Robby knows they stay like that for long. Someone across the Pitt lets out a pained yell, but no one calls his name. He can’t make himself pull away, looking down at Mel, whose own gaze is still anxiously fixed on his stomach.
“Should I…” Mel trails off, still avoiding eye contact. Her hands shift: she swipes her thumbs briefly across his stomach and hips, squeezing him almost reflexively. Robby almost chokes on the self-reproach that begins to fill his throat, but only a breathy whine escapes him. Her nails scratch through his dark stomach hair.
The younger doctor doesn’t lean forward then so much as apprehensively jerks her face towards Robby’s neck. She’s just barely tall enough to nose at the junction of his collar as Robby squeezes his eyes shut, feeling her breath damp against his skin. He waits for her to ask him something, anything. She always asks. She does her job. She clears everything with senior residents and reports to Robby before making big decisions. She’s responsible like that. She’s a dependable, moral doctor.
Mel suddenly pushes up against Robby’s back. Her palms go flat against him and she gropes at Robby’s stomach, nosing at his neck. She breathes in deep and slow, scenting him. He groans softly, and can feel a flush on his face alongside his throbbing headache. Mel’s firm grip pushes him around again and Robby goes willingly, facing the wall.
“I can help,” Mel murmurs, now against his shoulder, speaking into the fabric of his shirt. Robby doesn’t manage a verbal answer, and shakily reaches around to guide Mel’s hands back onto his hips. She blankets him as much as her smaller stature allows, sliding her hands from hips back to his stomach. She trails up and down, swiping beneath his undershirt from his ribs to the hem of his pants. Mel hesitantly cups his chest. Robby is still technically covered— each movement is felt, not seen, masked by his undershirt. But he feels suddenly bared and vulnerable, shielded only by the younger doctor’s protective embrace. He can feel sweat beading on his neck, beneath his arms, the crease of his thighs.
It’s a bit like seeing someone pass out, all in slow-motion. Or resetting a bone. Only gruesome comparisons come to Robby’s mind as he lets his subordinate doctor feel him up in a curtained compartment of his E.D. Mel scents him and lets out a raspy moan against the small of Robby’s back, and he shudders. Her hand presses and kneads against his exposed chest, nitrile catching against his nipple with too much friction.
Robby wants to crack a joke. He wants to ask: “Is this how you treat all your patients, Doctor King?” but he can’t, he can’t. He seems to be stuck in a perpetual bend, curving down as Mel leans over him. She nuzzles low on his shoulders and then shoves a gloved hand down the front of Robby’s scrub pants.
And they shouldn’t be doing any of this. This is crossing all sorts of boundaries, violating so many explicit and implicit rules of conduct that Robby has never been so much as tempted to cross before. He’s an old man and he’s in charge of this damn emergency department and everyone in it— everyone except, in the moment, for Mel, who Robby can do nothing to stop from pressing her fingers lower and lower.
“I’ve got you...” Mel whispers against his back. Robby can feel her lips form the words through his undershirt, and only grips the head of the bed tighter in response, a traitorous purr growing behind his ribs.
Distantly, someone shouts Robby’s name.
He immediately twists to face Mel, forcing her to pull away from his body. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and her glasses fogged up at the bottoms as she pressed against his shoulders. Robby can suddenly feel everywhere her hands had dragged, as if she had left sticky imprints over his chest, stomach, and between his legs.
“Someone’s looking for me, I have to go,” Robby explains dumbly. The words stick in his throat, at odds with his instincts that are screaming at him to apologize for letting any of the situation transpire.
“Yes, yeah, you should go. I’ll— me too, to assist. Since we’re working.” Mel stammers, hands hovering, not touching Robby but not entirely disengaging from his space, either. “No fun allowed on the clock,” she adds lightly, flashing her teeth in another awkward smile.
“…Okay, well—”
Mel reaches out again as Robby straightens up, adjusting his undershirt. He doesn’t have time to get clean scrubs, so he moves to put on the bloodied top thrown haphazardly on the bed, but she grabs his wrist, tugging him close again. Her nails bite through her glove as she digs them into the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It immediately becomes a rather wet exchange, much less soft than he’d have expected from her, buzzing with the same possessive undercurrent of her previous touches.
Robby kisses back, disgusted with himself: he likes the protectiveness cutting through Mel’s moralistic demeanor. He likes it enough to wish that it would happen again, somewhere more appropriate, like his couch. But there’s nowhere that this can be painted with any label of appropriateness.
The younger doctor’s lips mash against Robby’s jaw, pressing past his greying beard. Mel leaves a line of damp kisses down his throat, and then rocks back onto her heels and wipes her mouth with her wrist.
“I’m gonna go now,” Mel squeaks.
Pulling off her gloves and tossing them away, she hurries out of the room, not meeting Robby’s eyes.