Chapter Text
The Hub is jam-packed, the departing night shift crammed in around the day shift as they filter in. It’s rare to have all of both teams in one space; usually a few have already left by the time the next arrive, but apparently there’s some sort of announcement to be made. You hurriedly stuff your bag into your locker and slot yourself into a space near the back of the crowd. The already vibrant life of the ER becomes almost overstimulating, the usual cloud of disinfectant and beeping machinery mingling with warm bodies holding fifteen different conversations and the scent of stale coffee and cooling sweat.
“I heard it’s about the annual charity event,” Whitaker murmurs beside you.
You frown. “The what?”
McKay, on your other side, leans in knowingly. “Management organises a fundraiser every year. It’s always something fun - we did one of those paint runs a couple of years ago, then last year was a bake off thing where each week someone brought in homemade cake or cookies for the team, and everyone who donated got to try some and vote for their favourite. It went on for like 3 months.”
That sounds amazing, and you begin to hope last year’s success means they’ll choose that again this year. You’re not the best baker, but you’ll throw your hat in the ring if it means weeks of fresh cake. You scan the room, already trying to decide who is harbouring a secret culinary brilliance, when your gaze lands on the trio of night shift menaces: Ellis, your best friend; Shen, her partner in crime; and Abbot, the enigma. You worked on nights not long after you started at the Pitt, quickly becoming good friends with the three of them, but when an opening came free on days and you transferred it was only Ellis and Shen who carried on like nothing had changed. Abbot, without warning, went from gentle encouragements and playful remarks to silent stares across the room during handover. Kind of like the one you're receiving now. The other two give a nod of acknowledgement when they catch your eye, and Ellis winks. Almost like she knows something you don’t.
Gloria sweeps into the room with all the grandeur of someone about to announce the next president. “Good morning, all. Thank you for taking time out of your days to be here, so I’ll make this quick.” She goes on to explain what you’ve already started to know: the time has come for the annual charity drive, with the staff as participants. However, this year is going to be a little different. Murmurs ripple through the crowd. “Some of you may be aware we have our own social media star, Dr Javadi, or Dr J as I should say.” Victoria steps up beside her with a bashful wave. “As well as your donations, she will be filming this year’s event and contributing any earnings produced, so the bigger you go with this the better.”
“Okay, but what’s the event?” a voice in the crowd asks, maybe Santos.
Gloria claps her hands together. “Oh, of course. Those of you who were here last year will remember our Great British Baking Show theme. This time we’re turning once again to television for inspiration, with PTMC’s Dancing With the Stars.”
The murmurs turn to gasps ranging from interest to horror. You bite the inside of your cheek. This is going to be far too easy.
“Also,” Gloria raises her voice over the hubbub, “to encourage team cooperation, pairs will be drawn at random with one night shift and one day shift member.”
Your gaze flickers back to the trio. Shen looks faintly amused, Abbot looks mortified, and Ellis… has her eyes trained on you with a wicked grin. Oh no.
She speaks up, all heads swivelling to her, and your stomach drops. “Y/n, aren’t you a professional dancer on the side?”
The heads snap around to you. If only the ground would swallow you whole. “Competitive dancer,” you correct quietly. “Not the same thing.”
“Still,” your best friend grins, “I think there should be some sort of penalty. Who here has two left feet?”
Almost as if they've planned it, which you realise isn't outside the realms of possibility and in fact is rather likely given Ellis’ expression, she and Shen both turn and look at Abbot. This cannot be happening. They cannot be conspiring to pair you with a man they know full well will barely even speak to you on shift unless he has to.
“I only have a left foot, it's not the same,” he huffs, but there’s a good-natured edge to it. For a second it seems like his gaze flickers to you before he glares at the other two.
“Any objections?” Gloria asks. Silence follows. You and Abbot both open your mouths, but neither of you seem to be able to form words. “Very well, Dr y/l/n and Dr Abbot can be the first pair. All others will be drawn today, so please put your names forward by this afternoon. You’ll have a little under four weeks to prepare - filming will be done at the Board of Directors’ gala dinner, so those who volunteer will have the hours paid and those who don’t will have the option to cover the night shift.” Oh, so it’s optional. That would have been nice to know thirty seconds ago. Still, how are you supposed to object without telling the entire department that your ex-boss stresses you out because you’re pretty sure he loathes your very existence?
“Hang on,” Robby interjects, waving a hand to stop everyone from leaving for home or getting back to work. “I'm all for raising money, but this seems like a lot of work. People will have to give up their time to practise.”
“Yeah, last year we at least got cake out of it!” Donnie nods emphatically. The rest of the room mutter their agreement.
Gloria considers for a moment. “I see your point, Dr Robinavitch. How about this? Whichever couple garners the most engagement-” she pauses, turning to Javadi to check she's understood the concept, and receiving an encouraging smile, “-will each receive an additional paid day off.”
The room explodes with cheers and noises of approval. Nothing like the prospect of a day away from here to motivate people. If nothing else, it'll keep morale up for the next couple of weeks.
In the ensuing hubbub, you drift towards the desk, trying to keep your focus on the board and not the way a certain attending steps into the space beside you. He smells like hand sanitiser and blood and exhaustion as he leans dangerously close over the counter to grab a piece of paper and a pen before scribbling something down. You reread the same name on the screen three times. A warm hand taps its knuckles against your arm.
“Here you go, Twinkletoes,” he says, voice low and steady against the unfurling chaos of the shift starting around you. You glance to the side to see him holding the paper with a hint of a smirk. There's a number scrawled hastily across it. “For planning rehearsals.”
You raise an eyebrow, which feels far too natural for an expression you’ve not been in a position to even consider making towards him for months. “Someone’s eager. Didn’t have you down as a dancer, Dr Abbot.”
“I’m not, but I could do with a day off. Seems like I might stand a chance at getting it thanks to you.”
Warmth creeps into your cheeks, an annoyingly common occurrence in his presence. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“You won’t,” he replies, simple and to the point, as he turns and slings his backpack over his shoulder.
—
The whole of the Pitt is abuzz after the announcement. Patient satisfaction scores must be through the roof with the way people are smiling, being more chatty, working together with barely a quibble. You have to hand it to Gloria, she knows exactly what she’s done. People even seem to have overlooked the fact that they’re going to be recorded and put out to however many thousands of followers Javadi has, that’s how much of an incentive PTO is. Even Santos is less sullen than usual.
The list gets pinned to the notice board in the break room shortly before 5pm. The pull of coffee has drawn you in, but it’s forgotten the moment you spot the crisp white sheet among posters for food shelter donations, an upcoming gig that one of the night shift nurses is playing in, and a reminder about the pedes’ knitwear campaign. It’s straightforward, a little too matter-of-fact, but someone has at least taken the time to drop a photo of the Dancing With the Stars trophy in the top corners, either side of a date, a Saturday just over 3 weeks away. Your name is at the top alongside Abbot's. With no small amount of curiosity, you scan the rest of the pairings: Ellis is with Mel, Shen and Emma are a duo, then there’s Robby and Walsh, Whitaker and Henderson, Santos and Mateo, McKay and Toomarian, and Dana and Lena (you don’t doubt for a second that there was some sort of bribery to make that happen). You’ve seen the way Dana twirls around the center when she thinks nobody is looking. If anyone is going to be a challenge to beat, it’s her. The slip of paper that has been burning a hole in your pocket all day returns to the light as you check the number against the one you still have saved. At least some things never change. Then, you snap a photo of the list and hit send before you can give yourself time to think about it.
The reply arrives faster than you expect. Looks like I got lucky.
You roll your eyes. Abbot has always been a bit of a flirt, and far from exclusive about it. In fact, you think you might be about the only person in the Pitt who isn’t frequently subjected to it. You don’t know what exactly makes you different or when the change occurred, but there must have been something you did to make him like you less or feel the need to keep things professional. Until now, when there's nothing professional about texting him to plan dance rehearsals. Old habits clearly die hard. Still, the words rattle around your mind as you pick up the coffee pot, when your screen lights up again on the counter beside you. My night off tomorrow. Strategy meeting at my place after your shift?
How very military of him. You should have known that him getting in the spirit would come with a strict regimen. Still, you can’t complain, the process will give you a distraction from constantly wondering what is going on in that man's head.
Sure, I’ll come over after dinner, you reply with slightly trembling hands. Blame the lack of coffee. You take a sip.
I’ll cook. It’s not a negotiation. Stir fry? In spite of yourself, you smile as you return to the last 2 hours of work.
—
Every ounce of anticipation that has carried you through the next day's shift dissipates the moment you pull up outside the address that haunts your memories, a smart bungalow just outside of the centre of town. Everything about it screams Jack Abbot, even if you’d deny knowing him well enough any more to know what that means - neatly maintained, a small wooden deck with a coffee table and two chairs, a black truck parked out front. There’s absolutely nothing about it to put you on edge, nothing beyond the perfectly ordinary act of going to a coworker’s house for dinner, yet you still find yourself tense and on the verge of turning heel when the door opens. Abbot leans against the frame in a faded band T-shirt and dark sweatpants, muscular arms folded across his chest.
“Are you coming in, Twinkletoes,” he says with a hint of amusement, “or are you planning on loitering on my path all night?”
“I thought I might loiter for another hour or so at least,” you reply dryly, even as you step up onto the deck.
He shrugs as he steps back from the doorway. “Suit yourself, but your food’s gonna go cold.”
A small breath of a laugh escapes you before you can remind yourself that you’re not supposed to be getting invested, and you follow him through the house into the warmth of the familiar, well-lit kitchen, filled with the low hum of a classic rock radio station and the enticing scent of hoisin sauce and cooked vegetables. Abbot nods for you to take a seat at the table while he turns the heat back on under the pan on the stove and finishes cooking. You drape your jacket across the back of a chair and sit, a little awkwardly, and take in the small stack of recipe books and the ocean blue backsplash. It’s homier than you remember. A pair of crutches sit against the wall by the opposite chair; he must have refitted his prosthetic just before you arrived.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, more to have something to do with your fidgeting hands instead of sitting in the static sizzle from the pan and the crushing weight of the we’ve-barely-spoken-in-three-months tension sitting on your chest like a stubborn cat.
“You’re good, it’ll only take a minute or two.” He pauses, glances back over his shoulder. “You, uh, remember where everything is? If you want to grab yourself a drink.”
He sounds almost hesitant, like he’s expecting you to have deleted every memory of the place that you’re still clinging to in spite of everything. Being invited round for a small get-together with some of the night shift not long after joining the team; hanging out here before heading to staff drinks between Christmas and New Year; game night with him, Ellis and Shen where you laughed so hard you were in tears on his living room floor. Standing outside on your day off a couple of weeks after everything fell apart, wondering whether to knock and ask to talk about whatever you’d done to drive him away; walking away without a word. Deciding it was for the best to keep things restricted to half-glances during handovers and full glances when you knew he wasn’t paying you any attention. Look how well that’s worked out, you think to yourself as you fetch a glass and fill it with water.
“How was work?” The question interrupts your thoughts, far too mundane for how bizarre this situation is, yet somehow it feels right. Personal disguised as professional. Figures.
“The usual,” you remark. No. You can’t just leave it at that. None of this is ever going to work if you insist on keeping your walls up around him, even if that's exactly what he does around you. “People are really fired up about this competition, it’s all anyone is talking about.”
He gives a small scoff. “Hope you’re as competitive as Ellis says. Seems we’re going to be up against it.”
You groan. Of course Parker has been hyping you up; you’d appreciate it were it not for the circumstances her support has landed you in. You’ve been competing for years, something you’re immensely proud of and yet haven’t been able to bring yourself to mention to anyone at work besides her. Maybe it feels too much like bragging, maybe you don’t want any judgement, or maybe you just want to have one thing that’s not smudged by the all-encompassing grip of the Pitt. “I get by,” you say as casually as you can.
Abbot must see right through you, giving you a skeptical look as he sets a dish down on the table. It smells incredible, rich and fragrant. He’s full of surprises. “Oh yeah? How many trophies do you have?”
“...Six,” you admit quietly.
He lets out a low whistle, somewhere between amazement and approval.
You drop your gaze, overwhelmed by the feelings that are the exact reason you never told anyone at work about this, and pointedly turn your attention to the steaming bowl in front of you. The first mouthful hits your tongue and you let out an involuntary, contented sigh. The noodles are cooked just right, the vegetables are lightly charred and there are small chunks of chicken, golden brown and tender. “If you can dance as well as you can cook, we should be alright,” you remark by way of a compliment, something that feels too personal to say upfront. That's not how you two work, never has been and especially not now.
“Maybe if we had more than a month.”
Right. There is a deadline on this. That’s the only reason you’re sitting in the kitchen of your former attending who has spoken to you more in the past two days than he has in months, having a strategy meeting that thus far has involved precisely no strategising, instead of being at home catching up on sleep. What a perfectly ordinary way to spend your evening.
You help Abbot clear the dishes after dinner, ignoring his protests about it being his house. It’s the least you can do.
He’d asked more about your experience while you ate, a palatable attempt at small talk, so you explained that you mostly competed in ballroom dancing but occasionally dipped your toe into the Latin world. Hours of rigorous training from childhood, taking a break when med school got too much, finally returning to your roots when you felt more settled in your residency. You’d let it slip about the competition you entered back in December, and watched the realisation dawn across his face about the real reason you’d been so much less energetic than usual and why you were cagey about why you were so eager to get away from your shifts on time or needed cover for a weekend. He made a small comment about how it must be easier to keep up with now you were back on days, and you’d agreed confidently. It was easier to find time to practise with your usual dance partner when you didn’t have to try and match up your nocturnal habits with his nine to five. The more you spoke, the more intently he listened despite it being abundantly clear that every single piece of information was news to him.
“So,” he begins as he places the pan on the draining board and settles back at the table, fingers steepled in front of him, “the first thing we should do is pick a dance.”
You nod. The relief of the evening finally veering in a direction you can handle washes over you, and you grasp at the measure of control it offers. “I think we should stick with ballroom, it’ll be easier - for me to teach, I mean.”
He tilts his head, hazel eyes glimmering with the challenge that falls from his lips. “If you don’t think I can handle Latin, you can just say so.” Ever the stubborn type. You should have known he’d call you out on that. Fine, if that’s how he’s going to be then you can play the game.
“I don’t even think there’s enough room in here for me to demonstrate the jive, let alone teach it to you.”
He takes the bait. “What the hell is a jive?”
You smirk as you pull out your phone and call up a contest clip, one of the only pieces of media you've allowed yourself to keep. Most times, you spend so long analysing your form in photos and videos that you end up hating them and sticking them in an archive folder or deleting them entirely - you've got so far in your own head about it that your dance friends have started affectionately referring to sending you footage as ‘burning the negatives’. The dance is upbeat, set to Crazy Little Thing Called Love, all fast spins and flicking feet. Jive is one of your favourite dances even if it is exhausting, but as you expect Abbot’s eyes widen beside you.
“Okay,” he huffs, “ballroom it is.”
“How about a waltz?” you relent. “We can start out with the basics, it’s pretty straightforward, and then depending on how that goes we can jazz it up.”
“Please don’t bring jazz into this.”
You laugh properly this time, not noticing the way the sound eases a fraction of the tension in his shoulders at being so out of his depth. “Figure of speech.”
“Waltz is the… the three-step one?” he asks uncertainly after a moment.
You beam. This might not be so unbearable after all. “That’s it!” You stand, moving into the space between the table and the stove, and he swivels to watch. “So it’s kind of like moving in a square, or rather two triangles. You start at one corner, then go forward, out, together…” Your feet move instinctively: left up to the corner, right following the diagonal, left shifting to meet it. It’s as easy as breathing for you. “Then back, across, together. And that’s all it is, just changing the angles a little if you want to turn.” You demonstrate again, keeping your movements small so you can twirl slowly around the small space.
Abbot’s eyes never leave your feet, and you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he tries to follow your steps. His own feet twitch in time with yours, visualising each movement. You almost feel self-conscious under his careful scrutiny; even though this meeting was his idea, even though he said he wanted to win for the day off, you never expected him to actually be this invested.
“Do you want to try?” you offer, holding out your left hand. He hesitates, brows furrowing, before taking it loosely with his right and standing at almost arms length. You give him a soft, encouraging smile as you take his other hand to guide him. His ring is slightly cool against your skin, and it takes a moment for his touch to settle. “Okay, we’re both going to do exactly the same thing I just showed you, but you’ll start with the forward step while I go backwards. Sound good?”
His gaze flicks from your feet to your interlinked hands and back, without meeting your eyes. “Slowly.”
“Of course,” you assure him, “this isn’t a fast one, don’t worry. I’ll talk you through it.”
You take in the way his throat bobs nervously, but he nods.
“Tell me if you need me to stop at any point. So you’re going to bring your left foot forward…” He does so tentatively, and you move your right foot back the same distance. “Good. Then right foot across to the other corner, not a very big square. That’s it. And almost slide your left to meet it.”
When his feet meet again, he finally glances up at you. “Like that?”
The sincerity in his tone and gaze makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. You’ve taught kids before, the odd class between shifts to earn a bit of extra cash, but this is your first time teaching anyone older. It’s an effort not to seem patronising with your praise, but this is the first time you’ve ever seen Abbot look unsure of himself, and the knowledge that you hold his confidence quite literally in your hands is a daunting prospect. “Exactly,” you murmur, smiling again. “Now right foot straight back, small step, left back to where it started, bring the right across.” You follow him through the next movement, quietly impressed by how close he takes you to your original position. “There you go! It’s always left right, left right, you don’t have to worry about switching or anything. Again: forward, right, together; back, left, together; forward, right, together; back, left, together.”
A faint hint of a smile begins to tug at the edge of Abbot’s mouth as the two of you move in unison, swaying towards his sink and away again. You’re still leading, but with each step and each twitch of his lips you can see him grow more proud of himself.
“Forward, right, together; back, left, together; one, two, three; one, two; three.” He doesn’t need the instructions any more, just the beats in place of any music. The more you count, the more you gradually increase the tempo, still slow but closer to an actual dance. He keeps up without faltering.
After a while (you honestly can’t say how long), his hand twitches in yours and you slow. He scrunches his lips, eyes narrowing as he hastily releases his grip. “I- I think that’s my limit for tonight.”
“That’s fine. It's a lot to take in for the first time, but you did really well.”
His smile creeps back in again. “Feels weird being the one getting taught for a change. You explain it very clearly.”
You fight down the blush working its way up to your cheeks. Even now, he can’t resist switching back into attending mode and offering words of support. It would be sweet if he hadn't just dropped your hands like they'd burned him. To think you've got another three weeks of this.
“When’s your next day off?” he asks to fill the chasm of space that has opened up between you. It sits bigger than the room somehow, wide and yawning and threatening to pull you in. You try not to think about the time when he’d have known your schedule as well as you.
“Monday.” It’s Thursday now - you’ve got a whole weekend to survive until then, yet this feels more urgent.
“Okay,” he says decisively, strategising again. “Your place or mine?”
This is absolutely not the scenario for him to be using that phrase, and you are absolutely not close enough to him to be thinking of that context. “Um…” you falter, trying not to be so obvious in how you glance away, “I can try to get a room in my friend’s dance studio near work? Might give us a bit more space. Not that your kitchen isn’t great - I can’t judge, I practically have to sit on the opposite counter to use the stove.” You’re rambling and you know it. There’s no way he wants to hear about your shitty little flat - he only asked about your dancing because it's relevant, and about work because it's relatable; you're not here to make friendly small talk.
He makes a small sound, glancing at his own counter and the two bowls you stacked neatly to dry. “Sounds like a plan.”
You nod. A thought flashes across your mind, swift and bright. You catch it before it can slip away. “Do you… Is morning or afternoon better? You’ll need to sleep at some point between your shifts.”
“Sleep’s overrated,” he quips, before softening. It feels a little like he just came too close to admitting something you’re not supposed to know. You won’t ask. “Whatever works for you. Just catch me over the weekend to give me the time and place. Or, you know, text me,” he adds as an afterthought. You’re too busy shrugging into your jacket to process why that feels significant.
When he leads you to the door to see you out, you hesitate on the threshold. “Thanks again for dinner,” you say softly, “and for putting up with this whole thing.”
He gives a dismissive shrug. “It’s no problem.”
You tell yourself he just means the cooking as you give a small wave over your shoulder and head towards home, the one corner of your life that isn't once again inhabited in some way by Abbot.