Friction and Flow

He shows up late, knowing she’ll still be up. When she opens the door, he’s leaning an arm against the frame. He’s wearing desert camo fatigues. Sweat has tightened the little starts of curls at the back of his neck. Natasha knows he moonlights (or daylights) as a SWAT medic. A hobby, he’d claimed. Though she’s never seen him in uniform, he has a look she does recognize.

Adrenaline. Arousal. Confidence. All rolled into something there’s not quite a single word for. She recognized it the moment she met him, his fingers inches deep in her partner’s guts. She knows this look because she’s worn it too. When a lead she’s been chasing finally pays off, when the ride-along starts to slip sideways.

He’s had his version of fun.

Natasha’s stomach drops just then, not just because he looks so right in uniform, but because she knows the kinds of things she’s done on this high. She can only imagine, breathlessly, what he might do. He registers her eyes drinking him in.

“Wore this just for you.”

As he slips by her in the doorway, Natasha gives herself a beat alone in the hallway. It has been a few weeks since she’s seen him, since they fought each other in trauma 2. But seeing him now, the distance has done nothing to dampen their tether. She’ll do what she knows best, watch, listen, want. She had an editor tell her once that restraint was her superpower. It’s amazing what people will tell you if you can stand the silence.

When she enters her kitchen, he’s shedding his long-sleeved camo half-zip. Black tee underneath. She swallows. He’s made himself a makeshift drop zone in her kitchen. His tactical jacket with blood-soaked sleeves is draped on the back of her chair. His go bag is splayed open on her counter. He’s taking inventory.

Natasha wordlessly grabs a beer from the fridge and sets it in front of him. An opening play. It’s one of those encounters where anticipation suffocates everything.

Something is going to happen.

Natasha knows it. And thinks he knows it too. The only question is how far it will all go.

“Warehouse robbery went bad.” He says finally. “Geniuses didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” long pulls of beer separate his offerings. “They panicked, all hell broke loose.”

“Anybody get tagged?” Natasha asks, leaning against the counter next to him.

Abbot nods, “One. My buddy Hiro took a bullet to the neck. I was able to get him intubated under active fire.”

He strips off his t-shirt now. Fingering the frayed hole in the back shoulder. He finishes the beer and steps in front of her. He puts his arms on the counter, on either side of her body. “You got anything harder?”

Natasha cocks her head gently to the side. He still wants to play.

“How hard?” she asks, leaning toward his mouth. He’s just about to meet her when she swerves him, “I’ve got some vodka but nothing to mix it with, or,” she moves under his arm and hops up to stand on the countertop, “I have some rakia my uncle made. It’s…rocket fuel more or less.”

Natasha looks down at him, shirtless and staring up at her. She clocks the small bandage on his shoulder. He’s one of those rare people where his aura, his demeanor, is made manifest in his entire body. His neck, his arms, his chest, are all simultaneously taut with muscle and slack with confidence. Something to be appreciated.

“Blasting off sounds nice.” He says.

She nods and grabs the unlabeled bottle and two small glasses from the top shelf, handing them down to him. When she’s ready to hop down, he offers a hand. She pours them each a snifter.

He throws it back like a shot and scrunches up his face, “Jesus.”

“It’s for sipping.” Natasha corrects. “Slow.”

She pours him another glass. Abbot pulls a fresh, identical black t-shirt from his go bag, but Natasha’s not quite ready for that. She puts a hand on his arm, letting her fingertips linger on crisscrossing veins.

“How’d Hiro do?”

He stares down at her hand. “He made the ride, but started slipping. We were diverted to work. Robby and I got his airway back. Transected trachea. Got to show the newbies a few tricks. But, I’m glad I got out of there when I did, a cyberattack threat had the hospital’s whole system down.”

Natasha’s eyebrows go up in recognition of a newsworthy story.

He clocks her interest, “Allegedly.”

“I see someone’s fixed you up.” She nods to his bandaged shoulder.

“Yeah,” he nods, his eyes on hers now, “just a graze.” He says it like a challenge. To gauge her reaction.

“That’s why you wear the vest, right?”

“Right.” He sips a little more.

He might be starting to come down now. His shoulders have dropped, his voice is getting quieter, his eyes are going darker. She knows this moment too, where you start to consider the absurdity of the risk you’ve really taken.

And for what?

She knows he at least attempts self-reflection. He talks about a therapist. About dealing with demons. About finding purpose in the work. But the night shifts, the SWAT stuff, the constant flirtation — Natasha sees it for what it really is, performance.

It doesn’t make her want him any less.

She leans into his side.

“Did it work?” she asks.

He side eyes her, questioning.

“Did tonight make you forget for a little while?” Her fingertips brush the ring still on his left hand. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t answer.

Instead, he lifts Natasha so she’s sitting on the countertop. He pushes her legs apart. His hands move to her hips, sliding her closer to the counter’s edge, against him. Natasha doesn’t resist, doesn’t say anything, just watches him. If he were another man, another soldier—if she hadn’t witnessed his unwavering ability to find command in the worst kind of chaos, this encounter might be terrifying. She’s suddenly aware that despite how little she really knows about him, there’s already an explicit, alarming trust.

He leans into her, trying to initiate a kiss, and Natasha leans away. She holds his face in her hands, keeps his body in place with her legs.

“Where are you right now?” She asks with care. He doesn’t answer.

Her thumbs graze the stubble coming in on his cheeks. His gaze is nearly too much for her to hold.

There it is. He's still mad.

She kisses him then, absorbing a sound he can’t control from the back of his throat. His mouth is deep and relentless. Anywhere he can find her skin. His arm snakes around her, under her top, gripping the back of her neck to keep her right there.

Natasha presses her hands on his chest, and pushes him back. She slides off the counter, creating just enough space to find his belt. He breaks away to stare down at what she’s doing.

“You sure?”

Natasha nods. He leans across the counter for his bag. He fishes out a condom from one of the inner pockets. She doesn’t want to think too hard about why he carries them.

“Then turn around.”

Natasha holds his stare for an extra beat.

Oh, that’s the mood he’s in.

She takes the condom out of his hand. Tosses it back on the counter behind him. Shakes her head no.

“Turn around.” He says again.

And perhaps against her better judgement, she does. His hand on her back forces her chest down against the counter. She registers her shorts hitting the floor, his hands, one on her hip, the other guiding himself into her. As he pushes into her, his hand rubs along her ribs, helping her take it. A tiny gesture of who, of what, they were before.

The countertop is cool against her cheek, a contrast from the searing heat she feels everywhere else.

Already, she can feel herself building. She can hear him fighting his own charge back. He’s going too fast. She wants it to last. She reaches back to try and push him away. He grabs her arm, twisting it behind her back, so he can lift her toward his chest.

A cop move.

She hates that it makes a little gasp escape her.

With his mouth in her ear he says, “This is what you like, isn’t it?”

It is. That’s what makes Natasha furious. That he’s right. That he knows.

9 months earlier, PittFest

People always say, you never know how you’ll react in the moment. Fight, flight, or freeze. But really, Natasha thinks, there are so many interesting options in between. Who people are becomes immediately, infinitely clear in crisis.

“You need to tell Kelly that I haven’t finished setting up the trust for the kids.”

Mark thinks he’s dying. And he might be, but Natasha shakes her head anyway.

“Mark, you’re going to be fine. We’re here, we made it to the hospital.”

Natasha has both hands firmly pressed into the gunshot wound in her partner’s stomach, an iota of release sends forth gushes of blood and bile Mark really can’t afford. He’s shot in his upper arm too, but Natasha’s camera strap has made a makeshift tourniquet that, she thinks, is holding.

They’re in the back of someone’s van and Natasha can see the hospital bay now through the fogged up windshield. Civilian cars are strewn haphazardly, most still running. When the van door is thrown open, she’s met by two triage doctors, their white gowns already soaked crimson at the cuffs. They start to pull Mark from the backseat onto a gurney and they just take Natasha with him, straddled over his lower body.

“He's been shot at least twice,” Natasha calls out in as calm a voice as she can summon. “Upper left arm and lower abdomen. If I let up at all, blood just pours.” She lifts a hand for a fraction of a second to show them.

An Asian doctor pushes her hands back down and slaps a red bracelet on Mark’s wrist. “Keep your hands there for now, okay, we’re pushing you right inside.”

As they roll into the hospital proper, Natasha has to wince from the bright light. She sees a swirl of white and red, of blood-soaked gowns and trailing orange vests. The sounds are nearly deafening. She’s trying to focus on Mark’s face, trying to remember if she knows his wife’s phone number. Trying to remember how long he’s been down.

Someone calls out, “What do we have?” And Natasha just answers.

“His name is Mark Freeman, he’s 46 years-old. He’s been shot in the arm and stomach. It took us maybe 20 minutes to get here. He’s lost, I dunno, he’s lost a lot of blood. He was just talking.”

Suddenly, gloved hands replace hers, firm not forceful. A steady voice cuts through the noise.

“I’ve got him now. It’s okay to let go.” Natasha looks up to see a male doctor, orange vest, safety glasses on. He looks into her eyes, gives a single nod. “You did good. I’ve got him.” Natasha slips her hands out from underneath his, they’re so stained they don’t even look real. Arms come up under Natasha’s shoulders and lift her off the gurney. There’s so many of them, doctors, working on Mark’s airway. They’re about to wheel him into a room, when Natasha snaps into the present. Someone releases her camera-strap tourniquet from Mark’s arm. She takes a quick step forward, reaching towards Mark’s side, and nabs her camera off the gurney.

For a few moments, Natasha just stands there, scanning for a place to land. Mark is out of view now. There are gurneys crisscrossing the central halls. There are pools of blood and piles of spent supplies on the floor. Bits of tattered clothing and lost souvenir lanyards, shorn from the bodies of victims, make a sick kind of ticker tape.

Natasha sees an opening, a little corner beside a patient room. From there she can see the ambulance bay doors and the central desk without feeling like she’s in the way. She can watch without feeling watched. She takes a second to assess herself. If she were bleeding, she’d have no way to know. She recognizes the amphetamine-like flow of adrenaline coursing through her. She won’t be able to feel any pain for a while. She turns over her forearms, veins plump with exertion. Her sweat-wicking long-sleeved shirt feels oddly heavy—saturated with Mark’s blood. She knows she hasn’t been shot at least, and that’s good enough for now. A supply cabinet a few feet away, errantly left open in the melee, yields a couple large gauze pads. With those and a few handfuls of hand sanitizer from the automatic dispenser, Natasha is able to form a makeshift wet wipe for her hands. Not good but better. She turns to examine her camera — the LCD screen is cracked to hell, but the lens looks okay. She points it at the linoleum floor and presses the shutter. Click.

Rock and roll.

Natasha takes a steady breath and looks out over the floor from her corner perch. There are clearly small teams of 2-3 doctors working together. Some look impossibly young, she thinks.

A teaching hospital, she remembers.

A special few wear orange vests—these must be team leaders of some kind. A blonde vest-wearer runs back and forth behind the central station. The boss nurse, Natasha thinks. She’s throwing supplies, directing traffic, and squeezing blood bags all with an ever-blackening eye.

Natasha twists the manual dials on her old faithful Fujifilm. She’s adjusting for the inevitable motion blur and the cool-toned overexposure of the fluorescent lights. The formal bark of police presence shifts Natasha’s gaze back to the triage doors. A downed police officer is coming in with an escort of 4-5 comrades. Blonde nurse keeps asking them to step back. A team of three doctors settles around him, two older men and a young woman. They look absolutely calm, like they’re trying to fix the jammed office printer. It’s such an incongruent scene, their calm amidst this chaos, Natasha barely registers lifting the camera’s viewfinder to her eye.

Snap.

Natasha can’t help but stare. These three are moving with a kind of practiced ease that feels almost like a dance. One of the male doctors, an orange vest, pulls something — some kind of tool — out of what looks like a personal knapsack. Natasha keeps watching. The work of their hands is totally foreign to her, so she starts to watch their faces. The taller of the two men is letting the frayed ends of his nerves show, just a bit. He’s moving just a little too quickly, there’s an almost imperceptible friction to everything he does. But this orange vest dude is operating on another, lower frequency.

Snap.

What at first she sees through the viewfinder, requires verification by her own eye. The doctors, they’re smiling now. Something like stabilization has been achieved for the patient. It’s not quite fun they’re having, no that’s not just it, Natasha thinks. But they’re definitely activated. Hitting a higher gear. There’s maybe 10 seconds of celebration before the doctors break apart again. These three seem to keep each other in a loose orbit, branching off to treat incoming patients, then grafting together again when a real bad one comes through the doors.

Natasha lets her lens wander to the other end of the hall. This is where most of the babyfaced doctors are scurrying back and forth. These must be the not-so-criticals. Where she belongs. Natasha registers a feeling of weakness creeping into her extremities. Coming off the adrenaline, she thinks. But there’s also a deep pain settling into her left thigh.

With all beds and bays full to the brim, Natasha scans the chairs lined up against the walls. Maybe she should sit for a minute. There’s a sad clown, a catatonic woman, a bro in a blood stained gray hoodie. Natasha’s eyes narrow on this last one. In a room where everyone is desperate to be seen, he’s trying really hard not to be noticed.

You and me both dude.

A realization. You and me both. Natasha watches as the guy makes his move. He sidles up to the glass door separating the not-so-criticals from the about-to-dies. He pulls out a phone and starts recording.

Fucking hack.

Natasha raises her camera to catch him in the act until a hand pushes the viewfinder away from her face.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t take photos in here.”

It’s the tall fraying-at-the-seams doctor. Natasha steals a glance at his badge — Robina-something—before he crosses his arms over his body, blocking her view.

“My name is Natasha Kos—

“I don’t care who you are, you’re not taking photos in my ED.”

My ED. Interesting.

Natasha works to defuse. “I’m happy to pause. I’m legit press. I came in a little while ago with my injured colleague.” She instinctively reaches for her event press pass and holds it out for him to see.

“I know the rules. No faces, no identifying patient information, not that I’ve seen a patient chart of any kind.”

Robinasomething scoffs. Natasha continues.

“This is a public hospital and the free press has a right to photograph incident sites. Besides,” Natasha gestures over his shoulder, “I’m not the kind of press you need to be worrying about right now.” The doctor turns to see hoodie bro trying to get video of the makeshift morgue in the room with kiddy painted walls.

“HEY! Security!” The tall doctor runs after him and the interloper takes off. But it’s over as soon as it begins. Hoodie bro slips in a smear of blood and knocks himself clean out.

When the doctor turns back to address Natasha, she’s already gone.

Over one hundred patients, only six lost. The crush is over. But Abbot knows better than to say anything like that out loud. He runs through the night’s highlight reel in his mind. Airways and air embolisms, a handful of through and throughs, a carotid bypass that impressed even Langdon. Tonight was like waking up from a long sleep, like one of those time-freezing cryogenic tanks in every sci-fi movie. Abbot came to and had to quick-draw skills he hasn’t used since Baghdad. He sits on a stool at the central station counter and shakes off a bout of light headedness.

Back to back blood donations might have been a little much.

Now that there’s a second to breathe, the secondary crush of charting can begin. Abbot opens the digital patient record interface and stares at the blinking cursor. Into the “diagnostic details” field he types in, “ER cowboy shit.” Then erases it. He’s too amped to sit here. That’s when he hears a woman’s voice coming from the other side of the hub.

“I’m sorry to bother you all,” she says to Dana who looks her up and down from over her glasses. “I’m looking for an update on my colleague, Mark Freeman.” Abbot clocks her but doesn’t get up from his seat just yet. Long dark hair, strong build, like an athlete, gray cargo pants soaked with blood. A camera draped across her chest. Then he spots it. The strap. She’s the woman on the gurney. He’s up.

“He was shot in the shoulder and abdomen.” She winces and sways slightly. “I’m…I’m trying to get a hold of his wife.”

“You feelin’ okay honey?” Dana asks.

“I’m fine,” the woman steadies herself against the desk, “but I think I might have cut my leg.”

Before Dana can even call him over, Abbot’s there, holding this woman by the elbow and guiding her onto a gurney at the side of the hallway.

“I’m Dr. Abbot. I remember you coming in with your friend.” He points to her camera strap, “Pretty impressive field tourniquet you put on him. Now let’s figure out what’s going on with you.”

Abbot holds her wrist for a pulse, raises an eyebrow to Dana. “No wristband.”

Dana shrugs, “You get to tell Shen he missed one.”

Abbot takes another look at her blood soaked pants, he lifts what’s left of a cargo pocket to reveal a deep jagged gash.

“I’m okay, really,” the woman protests.

“You can be okay and still need some stitches. Javadi!” Abbot calls over his shoulder, “Why don’t you come assist?”

“Alright, where do we start?” Abbot coaxes. Javadi opens her mouth.

“Um, where are you feeling—” Abbot cuts off the intern.

“Name. Ma’am what’s your name?”

“Natasha Kostova.”

“Can you spell that?” Javadi uncaps her sharpie for the makeshift paper charts.

Abbot detects the tiniest lilt of an accent on her consonants. Just a wisp.

“Ukrainian?” he asks.

“Bosnian” she corrects.

“Not fresh.”

“Came over when I was 12.”

In turn, Natasha takes in Abbot’s tactical watch. Physique built by real work rather than a weightroom.

“You military?” she asks back.

“Not anymore.”

“A cop?”

Abbot makes a face like he’s deciding, “Not exactly.”

Javadi’s eyes bounce back and forth before she remembers she’s there to learn. “Any idea how you cut your leg?”

Natasha looks down at the 4 inch jagged laceration on the inside of her thigh. “I’m not sure. We hopped a metal barricade to get out of the press pool. Maybe then?”

“So let’s add a tetanus shot to Ms. Kostova’s PTMC menu.” Abbot calls out as he collects suture kit materials.

“Now Natasha, I want you to know I don’t normally introduce myself this way,” he turns back holding a pair of medical shears, “but I’m gonna have to cut your pants off.” Over the years he’s found his flirtations disarm stressful situations. He waits for a blush or a nervous laugh, but instead Natasha counters with,

“Not how I was expecting our first time to go.”

Abbot smirks and Javadi lets out a little squeak.

“Javadi, I can take it from here.”

He hooks a rolling stool with his foot and slides over to Natasha’s airspace.

“Prop your leg up on the table here. Foot flat on the bed. Think you can stand for me?”

He offers his arm to steady her. Natasha complies, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Javadi comes whizzing out of the room with red cheeks, paper chart in hand. Robby and Dana track her path backwards to the room. Abbot’s head is at just the right height. Shoulders hunched in concentration. The angle is compromising. Robby yells a chiding, “Abbot.”

From inside the room, Abbot’s head lolls back, revealing the suture kit in hand. Robby waves him off. “Jesus. I live in a circus.”

Abbot begins the repair. He could do this with his eyes closed, so instead he lets them wander, just a little. Despite the dirt and blood and hours of exhaustion, he can see the contours of a stunning woman. And a built one. Her thighs are muscular, powerful.

“You a metal band roadie?”

“No.”

He tries again.

“Girlfriend of a Bond villain?”

“Why can’t I just be the bond villain?

After a beat, she takes pity on him.

“I’m a photojournalist.”

“Ah, a rock and roll reporter.”

Natasha flinches slightly on the first stitch. “Usually no. I’ve been a foreign correspondent for more than a decade. Finally gave in to my family's requests for a break back home. Took an “easy local job” covering PittFest for Rolling Stone. My lucky day I guess.”

“Foreign correspondent, huh? Where you been?” Abbot asks.

Natasha lets out an exhale,

“Mexico City, Tunisia. I was a combat embed for the Times in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

His ears perk up. “No shit?”

“Mostly Baghdad and Kabul 2009-2012.”

“In the shit.” He says. “You don’t look old enough for all of that.” Then, after a beat of silence, “I was deployed from 2006-2012.

“In the real shit.” She mirrors.

For a moment, their eyes lock. There’s a silent revision happening between them, a rewriting of a first impression. He finishes the suture job. Covers the area with a bandage. He pulls out a pair of hospital issue black scrubs from his go bag and sets them next to her.

“No strenuous exercise for a week, minimum. Don’t rip this thing open. It’s deep enough to really bleed. Got it? You can come back in a few days to get the stitches checked.”

Natasha nods, “Anything else I should stay away from?”

“Trouble,” he says with a wink.

Abbot turns toward the nurses station, mischievous grin firmly in place, snapping off his gloves. Robby’s there, and meets his expression with upturned brows.

“Do I wanna know why a senior attending is spending precious time fixing a simple lac?”

“It’s all about the fundamentals.”

Dr. Ellis, curious, takes a peek into the exam room as Natasha slides the gifted scrub bottoms up and over well-rounded glutes.

“Abbot, what would you even do with all of that?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Whatever the fuck she tells me to.”

Robby answers with a marine-style “OORAH.”

Abbot’s dropping his pack in the hospital locker room when Robby pops his head in.

“Ah good, you’re here. Admin has informed me that you and I get to sit for an interview on our response to the PittFest mass casualty last week. A reporter is waiting for us in South 15.”

Abbot drops his head and lets out an annoyed grunt. He’s still clipping his hospital ID badge to his scrub pant’s waistband when he sees her. He was right that night, she is stunning. Her long dark hair is pulled back. She has her sunglasses tucked into the collar of her black t-shirt. No blood this time.

“Dr. Abbot,” Natasha extends her hand for him to shake. “Nice to see you again.”

He meets her firm grip, “Likewise.”

“I was telling Dr. Robinavitch that I’m writing a feature for The Post about the night of PittFest, about what I saw out there.” She juts her chin toward the doors to triage. “The brass upstairs tells me you two run the show down here.”

Abbot looks to Robby and shrugs, “Well, they get one right every now and then."

Robby notices Natasha’s eyebrows lift. “Dr. Abbot’s speaking off the record.” Abbot bites his lip and Natasha deftly moves right on by.

“Speaking of, I wanted to ask you both some questions about that night. Dr. Robinavitch, I know you’re about to hand off the shift to Dr. Abbot, so maybe we can chat now?”

“You know our schedules?” Robby asks with an amused smile. Natasha throws a look at Abbot,

“I know a nightcrawler when I see one.” Abbot crosses his arms, gives her an incredulous look.

Natasha gives a little laugh and relents, “I came by earlier today and talked to a sweet little day shift doctor…” flipping back through her notebook, “a Dennis Whitaker.”

Abbot sighs and Robby rubs his face with his hands.

Natasha continues looking through her notes. “He was quite forthcoming. I know that everyone calls you Robby, that you’re long overdue for a vacation, and that Dr. Abbot has christened the night shift doctors, ‘the weirdest and wildest of them all.’"

If this were someone else, anyone else, Abbot would be annoyed—Robby definitely is—but instead, Abbot finds himself drawn in, wanting to play the game. Natasha flips her notebook closed,

“You could consider adding a little media training to your resident curriculum. Emergency staff are likely to encounter a reporter at some point.”

Robby jumps in. “I can give you 15 minutes right now. That work?”

Dana pops her head in, “MVC two minutes out. 17 year-old went through a windshield. Which one of you is on?”

“That’s me.” Abbot says, and makes his way to the door. He turns back to Natasha, “If he doesn’t give you everything you need,” Abbot says gesturing to Robby, “come back at 8am tomorrow. Find me.”

It’s 8:53am and Abbot’s finally off shift. An extra two hours of charting and he only just made a dent. The night is a bit of a blur, but it started with a bang. That MVC brought in three teenage criticals, one—a 17 year old girl—didn’t make it. Probably dead in the ambulance for at least 15 minutes, but they always want a doctor to call it. Such a privilege. The rest of the night was the usual mix of patch it, pack it, send it up. Rinse and repeat. He’s thinking about a shower beer and solid nap when he sees her. She’s leaning on the hood of his truck—a lovingly beat-up 90s Ford—looking like a dream he’d like to have. He cocks his head to the side a little, not even trying to hide his top to bottom assessment.

“This feels a little like stalking.” He calls out.

Natasha smiles. “You told me to find you.”

As he approaches, she pushes herself off the truck, revealing two takeaway coffee cups.

“Time to chat? I’ll be quick, I’m sure you’re ready to go home.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re still sitting on his folded-down tailgate, words moving between them with suspicious ease. So often, Abbot finds himself to be underwhelmed by people who aren’t doctors, who aren’t soldiers. But then, he supposes, who else is he really talking to these days? With Natasha though, there’s flow. She’s not from his world, not exactly, but she can keep up. It doesn’t hurt that she’s also beautiful. Somehow hard and soft at the same time. Dark slavic features, big eyes, angular jaw. Visible triceps. The whole package.

“There was an officer you were working on with Dr. Robinavitch and a female doctor—”

He nods, remembering. “Dr. Mohan, an R3. M-o-h-a-n.” Abbot spells.

Natasha writes it down. She’s taking notes while her phone sits on the truck bed between them, recording audio.

“I noticed you pulled something, some kind of equipment from your personal bag. Can you tell me about that?”

“It was a control cric kit. Made for use on the battlefield, it helps you get an airway through the neck when you’re not able to intubate, like In the pitch black, under fire. Could probably do it with my eyes closed at this point.”

“Seems handy.”

Abbot nods, “Helped that officer.”

“But, it came from your…personal supply?” Natasha prods gently.

Abbot nods. “The hospital doesn’t stock those kits.”

Natasha leans forward, her face a question mark.

Abbot answers, “No room in the budget.”

“I noticed you and Dr. Robinavitch working closely with residents like Dr. Mohan and interns throughout the evening, on what looked, at least to me, like some pretty intense procedures.”

Abbot wonders if his flirtation with Mohan is really that obvious or if Natasha is just paid to notice things. She continues,

“Can you talk about your approach to teaching student doctors under circumstances like these?"

“Robby and I have different styles for sure. I start from the baseline that the doctor knows what to do, they just need my guidance to access it. Robby likes to make sure the residents know what they don’t know. Two sides of the same coin."

“Robinavitch seemed more…I don’t know…affected? And I don’t mean that as a critique. But you, you never flinched. It was something to watch.”

Abbot winces a little, the attention on him is both welcome and uncomfortable. For a moment he goes back to that night. Watching Robby dump four units into Jake’s DOA girlfriend. He knows better than to talk about that.

“It’s just about reps. I was a combat medic. A medical corpsman in the Marines. I’ve been deployed to natural disasters. I’ve just seen more.”

“Was there ever a discussion about benching the interns? Especially it being their first day. I imagine that could create more chaos.”

Abbot shakes his head. “No, the experience they got that day is unmatched. No drill, no amount of individual trauma is going to add up to everything they learned that night. We needed every hand who knew something about medicine and I’m damn proud of how they rose to the challenge. Dr. Mohan performed a procedure that’s only been done a handful of times, and saved a guy's life. She’s an incredible doctor, probably the smartest in the room.”

“And she’s stunning.” Natasha adds.

Abbot nods and keeps it tight.

“That too.”

A silence drifts between them as Natasha looks back over her notes. He’s sensing the end of their conversation and isn’t quite ready to let her go. So he knocks her knee with his,

“How’s your colleague recovering?”

Natasha stops the recording and slides her phone and notebook into her bag.

“He’s…alive. Starting rehab next week. Gonna be a long road.”

"That camera strap tourniquet you put on him, keeping pressure like you did. . . you saved his life.” Abbot says, sensing there’s more she wants to say.

“Yeah?” Natasha asks.

“100%. I can tell this wasn’t your first time in some shit.”

“No, not my first time.”

Then, a moment later, she offers more. “I asked him to come with me to cover the festival.” Natasha squeezes her hands on the edge of the tailgate.

“Mark had all but retired from the field. He mostly shoots weddings and corporate events now.” She looks to Abbot and offers an explanation, “He’s got kids almost in college.”

Abbot slides off the tailgate and moves to stand in front of her, crossing his arms across his chest not in defense, but in concentration.

“I told him it would be fun.” Natasha adds a small smile. “Now his whole life looks different.”

He bends down a little to find her eyes. “That’s not on you.” He offers. “Shit happens. The universe makes some sketchy calls.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a while then. Something shared passes between them. Natasha breaks first,

“Thank you. For talking to me. For staying up.”

Abbot waves her off then shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Is this the last I’m gonna see of you?”

Natasha nods, “I’ve got everything I need for this story. A longer-form piece like this will probably be published in a week, maybe two. If a question comes up, one of our fact checkers will reach out to the hospital admin.”

Abbot twists his mouth to the side. He doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Let me try that again,” he says, taking a half a step closer to her. “Can I see you again?”

Abbot watches Natasha closely. Her eyes flick from his eyes, to his mouth, to her shoes and back again. Now he knows the chemistry he’s been sensing isn’t one-sided.

She gives a half smile, takes a beat, “I make it a point not to fraternize with sources. Especially married ones. It gets gray real quick.”

Abbot thinks she says it like she doesn’t want to mean it. It doesn’t feel like the right moment to drop the dead wife bomb.

“Spoken from experience?” he teases.

“Yeah.” She says, plain as day and her candor surprises him. “Goodbye Dr. Abbot.”

He grabs their coffee cups, puts the tailgate up, then turns to watch her walk away. Natasha takes about five steps before turning back to him.

“Once the story is published. Come find me.”

Abbot gives a half smile and throws a nod her way.

Probably trouble, he thinks.

When she’s out of sight, he exhales with a smirk and a little frustrated grunt.

How’d she know this was my truck?

A week and some change later, Abbot feels the unusual energy the moment he steps into the ED. Something is up. There are suspicious clusters of residents and interns, whispering, phones out. He recognizes these not as consult clusters, but gossip clusters. He ambles up to Robby to take a look at the board.

“What’s got the kids buzzing tonight?”

Dana slaps a physical newspaper across the desk. “You two are famous.”

Javadi looks delighted, “Ooh I’ve never actually seen one of those!”

Abbot and Robby make a mirror image of disgust. Dana carries on,

“I haven’t read all of it yet, but the photos are really something. I didn’t even notice that woman—what was her name, Natasha? I didn’t even notice her taking pictures.”

Abbot turns the newspaper to face him. In the center of the page is a large photo. It’s him, Robby, and Mohan working on that officer. The airway has just gone through, the fellow officers in the background are cheering. Dr. Mohan looks elated. The caption reads,

Drs. Abbot, Mohan, and Robinavitch (left to right) use a control cric kit to create an airway for an injured police officer. Their smiles represent a momentary victory in an otherwise brutal evening. With the airway secured by Dr. Abbot, the officer was stabilized enough to proceed to surgery. The kit, a tool meant for the battlefield, is not normally stocked by the hospital’s emergency department.

Abbot scans the article for more.

PTMC is a teaching hospital, and for a handful of young doctors, the day of the PittFest massacre was their very first in the emergency department. What could have been a recipe for disaster became a kind of baptism by fire for these interns—led by seasoned attendings Michael Robinavitch and Jack Abbot. They have a particular kind of tensioned calm that doesn’t come from training alone. It comes from repetition of the worst kind.

There’s a photo of Santos, Mel, and Whitaker working together—Abbot remembers that REBOA they never should have tried. In another shot, Dana and Robby share a look. Calling TOD on Jake’s girlfriend. The article continues,

Where Robinavitch is friction, Abbot is flow. It's a pairing that keeps people alive. A pairing that creates exceptional new doctors. It's also tantalizing to watch.

It’s almost painful to read about himself in this way, but he also can’t stop.

As I witnessed these physicians, nurses, and support staff clear airways and comfort people on the worst day of their lives, I wondered about what it costs them. To be this good under this level of terror. I would’ve asked in the moment, but there wasn’t enough time. And there never really is.

Abbot pushes the newspaper away. He’s feeling exposed. Raw. But also, proud. Mostly of his team, himself a little, but, he realizes, he’s proud of Natasha too. She gets it. She got it just right.

Shen comes in then. “There are even more photos in the online article. Look at this one of me and Ellis in triage. We look fucking cool.”

A gaggle starts to form around him. Shen calls out “Abbot there’s one of you donating blood while getting an airway. Badass old man.”

Abbot yells an insulted “Heyyyy” over his shoulder.

Robby grabs the newspaper and yells, “Alright everyone, Your calls to Hollywood can wait. Phones away. We’ve got patients waiting in South 15 and North 10.”

When everyone finally disperses. Robby leans over to Abbot’s station,

“We do look fucking cool though.”

Without a beat Abbot responds, “Never doubted it.”

Robby continues, “This should keep Gloria off my back about talking to the press for at least 6 months. I might need to buy this reporter a beer.”

Abbot throws a look that must be a bit more pointed than he meant to give away.

“Oh,” Robby points at Abbot, “something there?”

“Something is the right word for it.” Abbot rubs his hand across his jaw.

I guess we’ll find out.

He found out she was giving a guest lecture for the journalism department at the university. He slipped into the small auditorium late, still wearing scrubs—handover had been a fucking mess. He’s a little surprised to see the room is at capacity, so he stands against the back wall. He almost wouldn’t recognize this version of her. He’s only seen her in the role of outsider, but here, she’s running the room. She’s wearing this olive green turtleneck dress. Hair pulled back, with dangling pieces carefully plucked out at the front. She looks incredible. He looks at the projection screen behind her.

Natasha Kostova — Political Science & Journalism, Pitt Class of 2012.

2012. Abbot’s doing some mental math. That makes her at least thirty-five to his forty-nine. An age difference big enough to raise an eyebrow but not an inquiry. They’ve made it to the Q&A portion of the lecture and immediately, a ton of student hands go up. Natasha calls on one, a young woman in the front row.

“How do you go about trying to remain objective while photographing these intense, troubling scenes? I imagine it’s—”

“I don’t.”

A few students laugh, but Natasha doesn’t.

Jack knows that look. It’s an “attending correcting a naive resident” look.

Here it comes.

“There’s nothing objective about what I do. There’s choice in everything: where I stand, when I shoot, what I choose to keep in frame, and of course what I choose to exclude. Then one photograph, one choice, is selected out of hundreds. That’s an enormous amount of authorship.”

The room goes silent. Natasha shifts forward in her chair.

“And if I’m asking that one photograph to stand in for a whole person, or a place, or the worst day of somebody’s life, I’d better be damn sure I understand what I’m asking it to say.”

This Jack understands. Assess the situation, make a decision, and be able to defend it. It’s not dissimilar from how he operates in the ED. Natasha advances the projection to show a photo from the MCI. A photo of him and Mohan, where Mohan is beaming over the intubated cop.

“Smiling during a mass casualty incident, strange no? But for this young doctor, she’s accessing skills and knowledge she’s never used before, to save lives. For her, it’s joyous.”

He remembers that moment. He didn’t register Mohan’s joy, just the energy of operating at that higher level. Jack scans the room. It’s clear the audience is at attention.

“So I’m much more interested in honesty than objectivity. Have I spent enough time there to know whether the moment I captured is representative, or just dramatic? Am I showing this because it communicates something true or because it dares you to look? As a journalist, my obligation is to be able to justify the choice.”

She looks across the room and Jack can tell the moment she’s spotted him. Her shoulders straighten just a little, a twitch of a smile appears momentarily. He sits in the simple pleasure of having affected her. Another student calls out a challenge.

“But isn't there something inherently exploitative about photographing human suffering?”

Jack leans in.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Yes.” She answers. “This is not a career for someone made anxious by moral ambiguity. This work is constant calculation. Does the potential for exploitation outweigh the potential for empathy?”

Natasha advances to another photo. To an image of an exhausted mother and child sitting on a mattress atop a pile of rubble.

“Sometimes the answer is yes. And I’ve gotten it wrong. I have many photos I’ve never shown. But ultimately, it’s about trust. Do you trust me to have looked carefully? To have understood the context? To have made my best effort to differentiate something shocking from something vital?”

Jack lets every last student file out of the room before he ambles up to her. Natasha’s waiting at the front of the auditorium. She takes in his scrubs, camo backpack, silver stubble coming in.

“You don’t look like a 4th year journalism student.”

“I was told to come find you.”

Natasha is busying herself, packing up her laptop and printed notes into a black canvas bag. “And you always do what you’re told?"

She looks up at him and lets the joke land. At least, he thinks it’s a joke.

He half-smiles at her, “Almost never.”

“Well, what did you think?” She asks.

“I think you’re an even bigger deal than I realized.” Jack adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. “You had everyone in the room hanging on your every word.”

Natasha laughs. “I meant about the PittFest article. What was the reaction from the ED crew?”

Jack recovers.

“Thanks to you, Mohan’s fielding calls from fellowship programs all over the country. Santos and Whitaker think they have a good cop/bad cop thing going, and Robby is back in the good graces of the big brains upstairs for the first time in…five years. Not bad, Kostova.”

Natasha walks around the lectern to close the distance between them some.

“And what about you? What did you think?”

Abbot waits a beat. He likes that she wants to know, and is not afraid to ask.

“I think you got it right. You got us right.”

Natasha nods. “Right is good.”

She shoulders her bag and turns toward the door, “I’m starving. You hungry?”

They’re seated across from each other in a beat up booth at the greasy-spoon diner just off campus. He’s got steak and eggs and coffee and Natasha is putting away an impressive stack of pancakes. She’d ordered a side of bacon too and for some reason that really worked for him. Just like that morning a few weeks ago on his tailgate, the conversation is flowing. There’s something a little different about her here, when she’s not hounding a story. Abbot thinks she seems a little lighter, a little more willing to play ball.

“So you went to Iraq straight out of school?”

Natasha responds,

“I left before I even finished my degree. I was desperate for the field. In retrospect, I was probably the only one young and dumb enough to request a Middle East assignment.”

“That’s a doozy of a first conflict zone.”

Natasha takes a sip of her coffee.

“Not my first.”

Abbot’s face becomes a question mark. Natasha explains,

“I was born in Sarajevo. The bombings started when I was seven or eight.”

Shit

Natasha goes on, “I figured out pretty quickly that the adults were lying to us about the danger, about the peril we were really in. I know they were trying to make us feel better, but… it didn’t make me feel better. So, I learned to read their faces and reactions. You could usually tell how bad things were by how hard somebody was pretending everything was fine.”

“And you came over here when you were…”

“Twelve. I had an uncle who lived here in Pittsburgh. He still lives here, actually. We moved in with him.”

Jack leans over his empty plate, elbows on the table.

“He liked to think he was some kind of Tony Soprano type. He was into some light neighborhood racketeering schemes. Petty shit, but still. It didn’t take him long to notice I was quiet, I was quick, a little nosy too.”

Jack’s trying really hard not to show how sucked in he is. He’s alternating between watching her eyes and the words forming and falling out of her mouth.

“He’d give me cash to check in on people. Who was getting lunch with who, who was flirting with the bank teller he liked, that kind of thing. Uncle Nico supplied my lunch money for all of 8th grade.”

Jack laughs, “The siren song of journalism saved you from a life of crime then?”

Natasha shakes her head back and forth like she’s deciding,

“More or less. What about you, how’d you end up as a Marine?”

Jack leans back against the booth then, “The usual way. Wanted to go to college. Didn’t have any money. I kinda always knew I wanted to be in medicine, so I trained as a hospital corpsman and deployed with marine units. Only took a few field saves to know trauma medicine was where I belonged.”

It’s Natasha’s turn to lean in, having cleaned her plate. Somehow also a turn-on. He's looking at her frame in that dress.

“When did you leave the service?”

Focus

“I was discharged about 12 years ago after I lost my lower leg in Iraq.”

“Seriously?” Natasha says.

“Yeah, you wanna see?”

He doesn’t wait for her response. From under the table, he puts his foot up on the booth seat next to Natasha, and pulls up the leg of his scrub pants to reveal his prosthetic. He studies her face, looking for any sign of recoil. He’s had many different reactions to this moment. But Natasha leans in. She even pulls up his pant leg further to get a better look.

“Ah, they saved your knee. Lucky.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. He supposes she must have seen some combat injuries during her embedded time.

“Well, not lucky,” Natasha stutters, “You know what I mean.”

Jack laughs, letting her off the hook.

“Yeah, I do. And you’re right, I’m pretty much able to do anything I could before, except make it through the airport without an extra pat down.”

A little silence stretches between them now. And the waiter drops the check. It’s the kind of old school place where you bring the ticket to the counter. Natasha snatches it and gets up from the table. He catches her elbow as she tries to get past him. Jack lowers his gaze at her.

“No. That’s not how I operate.”

“I invited you.” Natasha counters, “Besides, I wanna see if I can outmaneuver an amputee.” She heads toward the register.

While Natasha hands her card to the older woman running the counter, Jack slips up next to her, close. He’s about to argue with her about the check and make some flirtation about "maneuvering" something else when the cashier, seeing the two of them together, cracks off what she thinks is a joke directed at Jack. “Letting your wife pay for lunch, doc?”

His scrubs. His ring. For a moment, Jack’s stuck. He realizes he’s never told Natasha about his wife, about the end.

Natasha though, doesn’t miss a beat. She squints at the worker’s nametag. “Oh Brenda, it’s all coming from the same, big, account.”

Jack smiles at the clerk, who’s none-the-wiser, and follows Natasha out the door. She’s still talking over her shoulder, not really seeing the pained look that’s settled over his face.

“I’m sorry about that, the customer service is spotty, but the pancakes never miss.” She’s turning back toward him now.

Rip the band aid off Jack

“My wife died. Not quite three years ago.”

Natasha’s mouth drops open. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything. It’s not my business.”

Quieter now, Jack says,

“I just… it hasn’t felt right to take it off yet.”

Natasha shrugs, “Then don’t.”

The first time she sees his place, it’s just a little while before he has to leave for his shift. They’d spent the afternoon at a shooting range. He’d had to update some kind of field test certification and she’d been bored and tagged along. She’ll never forget the look on his face when she’d emptied the 9mm clip down the range and her target came back nicely, if not expertly, mottled.

“Solid work.” he’d said, clearly appreciating her.

It’s deeply unclear what they’re doing exactly. A date has never been called a date. Days stretch between their communications. But today, he’d been the one to suggest it.

“My place is right here, you wanna come up for a little bit?”

It’s an expensive but unpretentious one bedroom in the historic district. He’s locking his handgun back in the safe inside a closet. Natasha takes in the space looking for the details about him she has been craving. Somewhere between spare and exceptionally tidy, his place isn’t giving up much. His military backpack is on a hook by the entry, ready to go. She can see through to his bedroom where the bed is made with tight bootcamp corners. Still, Natasha spots signals of warmth. There’s good art he can’t have picked. A tall stack of vinyls. A neglected plant in the kitchen window.

Maybe her?

“How long have you been here?” She asks instead.

“About two years.” He gets a glass of water from the kitchen sink. “It’s close to the hospital.”

Natasha waits. He downs most of the glass and dumps the rest into the thirsty pothos. He gives her a little more.

“I own a house in Shadyside. My wife and I lived there. I’m trying to figure out what to do with it. This,” he gestures to the condo, “is working for me right now.”

So this is just a fraction of him.

She decides he’d probably like it better if she didn’t acknowledge the trauma part, “I like it.”

They haven’t slept together yet. And it’s not for lack of wanting—on either end. Natasha has deepened every kiss. Let her fingers slide into the gaps between buttons on his shirt. She’s sort of been waiting for him to take it further, but he walks away from the edge every time. And now Natasha is realizing, perhaps, despite his bravado, it has been awhile.

Oh, he’s nervous.

Natasha suppresses a little laugh. This man, nervous about something as benign as a crush?

She looks at the clock. 5:45. There’s time.

“Show me your bedroom?” But she doesn’t wait for him to lead the way. She steps out of her shoes. Drops her jacket on the chair and heads down the hall.

He follows her to the end of the bed.

“Look, I know we haven’t really talked about what this is yet.” He says gesturing between the two of them. “I get that it’s a little complicated, we didn’t really meet under normal circumstances.”

Natasha is only half listening. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that hits his shoulders in just the right way. If the veins in his arms look like this at rest, she wonders what they’d look like at full exertion. She reaches between them and pulls up the hem of his shirt so she can run a hand across his stomach, then get to his button and fly.

His little surprised sigh gives Natasha all the confirmation she needs. He stoops to kiss her then. “I have to leave for work soon.” He says against her mouth.

Breaking away, Natasha pulls her own t-shirt over her head.

“Then you had better stop talking.”

It had been a few weeks since she’d seen him last. She’d taken an assignment out in LA to cover the wildfires. She thought she’d be gone for just a few days, but it snowballed into a nearly two week gig when the winds changed. She’d been out all night on a ride-along with a CALFIRE hot-shot crew. She got back to her hotel room in the early morning hours wrung out from adrenaline, drenched in sweat, and coated in soot. She still had photos to cull, selects to send to her editor. But instead she took a scalding shower and put reruns of true crime shows on the TV, volume just below a murmur. When her phone rings, she’s startled at first to see his name on the screen. As she lays down in the hotel bed, still wrapped in a towel, she closes her eyes and lets him just be in her ear. She sleeps so deeply she almost misses her flight back home.

As she’s stepping into an uber from the Pittsburgh airport, her phone vibrates. He almost never texts.

You back?

Just landed. Heading home.

Mine’s closer.

Nice try. I need a shower and a coma.

I can help with both.

“Excuse me,” Natasha says to the Uber driver. “I actually need to go to a different address.”

They’re laying side-by-side on his living room floor. What started as a post-shift amputation-site massage had devolved into a strange but lovely mix of making out and hand-to-hand sparring.

“Where’d you learn to tussle like that?”

Natasha shrugs off a laugh, catching her breath. “My older brother was a wrestler in college. I’ve also taken quite a few self-defense classes over the years. Comes with the territory.”

“You’re strong.”

He reaches for his phone on the coffee table.

“Shit.” He says, “I forgot to give Robby the updated MCI triage protocol I worked on. We learned some shit after PittFest.”

“Like what?” Natasha asks.

He sends a quick message and turns back to see her flat on her back, shirt pushed up, legs splayed open. He settles on top of her.

“Like hot photographers sitting on top of gurneys might slip through the doors unassessed.”

He dips his head into her neck, trying to move this encounter to the next stage.

“It seems strange to me that you all just… move on after something like that.” Natasha says. “There’s no collective sensemaking with the residents? No team-wide debrief?”

Abbot lifts his head briefly, considers her questions.

“I mean, we—Robby, me, the attendings—we’ll meet with senior staff upstairs, but for everyone else, yeah it’s just one foot in front of the other.”

He turns back to her body, moving further south.

“It just seems like there should be some kind of immediate follow up, some way to assess how people are doing—”

Abbot drops his forehead to her stomach. He’s lost her now, he can tell her mind is sticking on something. He moves off her and lays flat on his back, giving up momentarily.

“They won’t really know how it hit them until later anyway.”

Natasha rolls over to her stomach, props her head up on her hand.

“What do you mean?”

“The repercussions of a night like that bleed out slowly. The next GSW that comes through, somebody’s hands are gonna shake. Somebody else is gonna realize trauma is exactly where they belong. Santos, for sure, is already there. Mohan, I hope. Somebody is gonna quit six months from now and won’t know this is why.”

Natasha feels a familiar pin prick at the back of her skull. The tiniest tendril of an idea is taking hold. “You’re saying a night like that can change trajectories.”

“100%,” Jack says.

He tries again, reaching up and pulling her face back down to his, initiating longer, slower kisses. Natasha pulls away accusingly,

“And makes some people look for distractions.”

“Not me. I’m totally focused right now.” His hand trails down the front of her and Natasha has to close her eyes and will herself to make him pause. She grabs his hand and pulls it away.

“Wait, I just need to jot something down.”

Natasha grabs her phone, opens the notes app.

Residents of PTMC follow along post MCI. Long-form embed. Exhibition or editorial.

Natasha is already locking her phone again when Jack’s hand grabs the back waistband of her pants and pulls her against him. She gets a proposition, but not quite the one she’s expecting.

“Can you show me that arm bar move again?”

Natasha’s place was nothing like his.

She lived in an old converted warehouse. High ceilings and soaring sash windows. The kind of place people said, “good bones” about. It wasn’t cluttered, but layered and warm. She had stacks of books. Objects and textures from far away places. Photographs in frames leaning in rows against a wall waiting to be hung. It was clear that a creative mind lived here. He had thought her place would be like his — easily condensed to a duffle bag whenever the next call came. But clearly, she had taken a different tack. She built a life here, even if she chose to leave it often.

Then he sees where she works. It’s a desk built into a picture window to the back courtyard. The desk, monitor, keyboard, mouse, headphones are all pristinely laid out. The built-in bookcases around her desk are meticulously arranged. Hundreds of identical black hard drives line the shelves, each with a keyword label and a year. Haiti2012. Ferguson2014. Paradise2018. In this way, he sees a bit of himself, little demarcation between work and everything else.

He’s scanning the names of the hard drives, hoping to construct a kind of timeline of her life.

“I’m cautious.” Natasha interrupts. “I’ve never quite understood what the cloud is. I keep hard copy backups of every photo I’ve ever taken. I run my own archive program.”

He nods, “Good girl.”

And that’s all it really takes now to get her in his hands.

Their time together always seems to have a deadline.

“Where are you going again?” Jack asks while examining his emerging stubble in Natasha’s bathroom mirror.

Fuck it, shaving can wait one more day.

From deep in her closet, Natasha responds,

“A National Press Club event. A frequent collaborator of mine won a Pulitzer this year for some of his work with The New Yorker. There’s a reception.”

Abbot puts his watch back on. She’d made fun of him for taking it off before the shower.

“Can’t you like, scuba dive with that thing on?”

Even with his leg off, sitting on the shower bench, he’d managed to shut her up. Now it was 6:32pm, he’d better hustle.

“You and this guy go way back?”

“Yeah, college. We met in film class and bonded over our shared hatred for Citizen Kane. I shot most of his feature stuff until a few years ago.”

Natasha emerges from the closet in an army green dress that fits so well it’s almost indecent. He sees her first in the mirror, then turns around to get a better look. A zipper runs the entire length of the dress front. A series of metallic buckles from nipples to navel cinch and crease the fabric in just the right places. Painfully his type.

When Abbot takes her in, his head lilts to the side, his mouth dropping open into a little “o.” Still shirtless, he leans against the bathroom counter and shoves his hands into his scrub pockets.

“You and him ever…?” He doesn’t really care if he sounds a little jealous.

Natasha steps in front of him. Wraps her arms around his neck.

“He is a brilliant writer.” Abbot’s eyes narrow.

“But I always thought he was kind of a pretentious blowhard.” She plants kisses on his jawline, relishing the friction she finds there.

Abbot smirks, but isn’t fully convinced. Natasha reaches up and tugs on his hair until his mouth is just an inch away. Hands out of pockets now.

“He’s also exceptionally bald.” Natasha tries to move away to finish getting ready, but Jack keeps her there. He feels her smiling against his insistent mouth.

When she breaks away, she grabs his wrist off her waist to look at his watch.

“Running late for shift?” She prompts.

Without hesitation Abbot responds, “Nope.” He’s not willing to miss a minute of her in this dress.

“Good.” She says and drops to her knees.

“Shift starts at 1900 hours Dr. Abbot,” Robby chides while looking over the top of his readers.

“I got held up.” Abbot approaches the central hub rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck to the side, like he’s trying to shake off exercise-induced soreness.

“Your new reporter friend keeping you on your toes these days?” Robby asks suspiciously.

Abbot smirks, “There’s a little more…grappling…than I was expecting.”

“You need some ibuprofen hun? ” Dana offers, only hearing half the convo.

“Oh no, don’t feel sorry for him,” Robby throws over his shoulder while he moves to do final check on patients before clocking out, “that man is exactly where he wants to be.”

Abbot smiles, a faraway look in his eye when he remembers this morning. Then later in the shower. And again on the living room floor.

He might be in trouble.

For Natasha, covering PittFest had been a kind of fortuitous accident. Thrown together by bad luck and circumstance, she happened to be the one able to witness the work of the emergency staff that night and commit it to the visual record. But now she can’t stop thinking about what comes next.

She was fascinated by the chaotic choreography of it all. How the doctors and nurses moved together—how the attendings called out orders and the staff knew when to move in without being told. She remembers watching them with wrapt attention. She’s remembering them again now, looking back through her photos of that night. She realizes she has the whole ED ensemble captured at the moment of impact, and now she wants to see the spreading of the bruise.

She spends the weekend finding the contours of a new project. Researching, looking for analogs, writing and rewriting three lines of a pitch she hasn't sent to her editor yet. Somewhere in the middle of Sunday afternoon, she realizes what she's planning to do. She wants to spend a year in the Pitt.

She calls Mark.

“I think you’re circling around something that’s been done before.”

“Can you say more?”

“Tasha, we just spent five years looking at photographs of exhausted traumatized doctors. COVID covered this ground pretty thoroughly.”

Natasha deflates a little, but stands her ground.

“This feels different to me. COVID didn't have a day one and a day after. This does. I was there—we were there—” she corrects, “when it began.”

“You have the baseline.” Mark says, understanding.

“And it was the literal first day for some of the residents. You couldn’t write it this way, Mark.”

She arrows through her images, while on the phone with him.

“I got good coverage of the student doctors and the attendings—”

Oh.

Natasha’s breath catches. Of course, intellectually she’d known her connection to Jack would be a problem. But she hadn’t let herself consider the options yet.

Mark catches the silence. After something like 15 years together, he knows how to read her.

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s one of the attendings, Jack Abbot. He worked on you… I’ve been seeing him. For a little while.”

Mark’s pause is loaded.

“So leave him out of it.”

Natasha scans through a grid of her images. He’s not in every frame, but he’s so present in the architecture of the night. The more Natasha looks, the more she sees evidence of his impact. The control cric on the police officer. A blur of his orange vest at the edge of the frame. Mohan looking to him for confidence before putting her hands on a patient. His hand finding Robby’s shoulder.

“I can’t.”

“Then don’t do the piece.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, that’s about what I thought.” Mark says. “You should tell him before you pitch it.”

“I know.”

“How serious is it?” Mark asks.

“I haven’t told anyone else about the project yet—”

“No,” Mark interrupts, “Abbot.”

This might be a problem.

“You said something the other night about PittFest. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

She’s at his place again.

“Oh yeah?” He says, “Remind me.”

“You said the residents wouldn’t know how that night hit them until later. A lot later.”

He nods, pours two glasses of bourbon and pushes one toward her.

“I wanna be there when it hits them.”

He swallows hard. Side eyes her.

She looks away. He’s such a hound for eye contact.

“I want to go back to the Pitt. I want to follow the people who worked that night. The residents especially. Mohan, Santos, Whitaker. But the nurses and attendings too. See where they are in six months. Maybe a year.”

When she finally meets his eyes again, he’s looking at her like she’s crazy.

‘You want to spend a year in the Pitt?” He asks incredulously. He throws back the rest of his drink and refills his glass.

“If you want more time with me Kostova, all you have to do is ask.” His smirk fades slowly when he sees she’s not smiling back.

“Yeah.” Natasha exhales. “That’s the problem.”

They’re sitting at his kitchen table, laptop between them. She’s showing him the pitch deck she’s put together for her editors and the hospital administration. She’s got mood boards for each resident. A flow map of the ED. It’s clear to him she’s not asking his permission, she’s already made up her mind to do this.

“You’ve got something good here.”

“I think so.” Natasha says without any enthusiasm.

He’s reading her mood.

“So what’s the problem?”

She advances the deck to a page titled, Attendings. Images of him and Robby fill the screen.

“Me?” He asks.

“Us.” Natasha corrects.

Abbot slides his jaw back and forth.

“What if you just left me out of it? Could we…” he’s searching for the right word and not finding it.

“Jack,” Natasha starts, “You were the major player during PittFest, the work wouldn’t be honest without you, I don’t think it would work without you.”

He shakes his head,

“Robby is the Chief of the Emergency Department, not me.”

“But you were the center of the universe that night. You were the one running the show.”

He thinks back to her lecture at the university.

“You said it yourself — nothing you do is objective. So disclose it. Admit we're seeing each other.”

“You're thinking about whether I can be objective about you. That’s not the bias I’m worried about.”

He waits.

“If I'm fucking their attending, are the residents going to tell me they froze during a procedure? That they're scared they're not good enough? That they dread coming to work?”

“I’m not some kind of narc—”

“Doesn't matter. They don't know that.”

She gestures toward her laptop. An image of Javadi fighting back tears.

“I need them to eventually forget I'm there."

He steps closer to her. Pushes her laptop closed.

“And being with me keeps you from doing that?”

Being with me. Is that where we are?

“Sleeping with their boss does.”

She sees hurt momentarily cross his face, before he tries to get ahold of it. But he doesn’t step away. His voice is quiet. His hands find her waist.

“You don’t want to see where this goes?”

Natasha winces then. Because she absolutely does.

“I can’t even imagine where this goes.” She kisses him then, which might be cruel.

She knows if there’s one thing he respects in this world, it’s work.

“But I know exactly where to take a project like this. The kinds of things you all see, fix, deal with… people should know what it costs you.”

“What it costs me.” He repeats.

“Times photographer Natasha Kostova will be here for 4 days each month, two day shifts, two night shifts. Her days are marked on the schedule with a little camera icon.” Robby addresses the ED staff around the central hub. “We’ve developed a full protocol to protect patient confidentiality, there’s nothing you need to manage there.”

Natasha notices an unusual current in her system. There’s a low hum in her body, she can’t quite diagnose. Though it’s her first day back in the Pitt as part of this bigger project, she’s not sure she feels nervous about the work itself.

Point and shoot.

Robby continues, “If any of you have questions or concerns about the work Natasha is doing, please come to me or the lead attending on shift.”

Natasha steps forward then, wearing the same hospital-issued black scrubs as everybody else. “As a journalist, my goal is just to melt into the background here. If my presence is ever inhibiting your work, you just say the word and I’m out. This is all at your discretion. I look forward to seeing you all in action again.”

Natasha scans the gathered faces. Mostly quiet nods and exhausted indifference. Mel is smiling though. Then her eyes land on Abbot, hands gathered behind his back, smirk firmly in place.

There it is.

The source of the current.

As the group disperses for rounds, Robby and Abbot linger around the patient board.

“You’re really cool with this?” Abbot asks.

Robby glances over. “With what?”

Abbot gestures toward Natasha, already following Santos into a patient room.

“Look,” Robby goes back to the board. “All I know is that after her PittFest article ran, Gloria approved my budget without changing a single fucking line. Including your cric kits.” Robby points at him. “Kostova can move in for all I care."

Abbot scratches his face. Robby looks at him over his readers.

“What? You fuck something up with her already?”

Abbot’s eyes drop to the floor, his hands move to his hips.

“That's a yes then.” Robby says.

Abbot steps forward, quietly to avoid being heard by others.

“She ended it.”

“Because?”

“Ethical boundaries with sources.” He gestures to the room. “She chose this.”

Robby considers this for half a second.

“Getting dumped for journalistic integrity. That’s a new one.”

Abbot gives him a look.

Robby laughs a little as he rounds the corner into the next patient room, “Well, I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge.”

Abbot watches Natasha across the department. Then under his breath,

“Sometimes I wish I’d gotten my dick blown off in Iraq instead.”

Natasha rests her forearms on the central hub, scanning for her next destination. It has been a surprisingly slow day shift so far. The highlight had been a few broken fingers slammed in a mini-van’s sliding door. More patients than usual are not in a participatory mood. Natasha hasn’t made it into a patient room in 3 hours. She glances at the clock, 6:37pm. He’ll be here soon.

She makes her way to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. She heads to the one further down the hall, the one that no one uses because it’s tucked away and the automatic sink never dispenses water when you need it. As she pushes open the door, she sees Santos examining her leg in the mirror. When she registers another presence, Santos immediately turns away and pulls up her scrub pants. It was a split second look, but just long enough for Natasha to clock the thin, perfectly straight white scars layered across Trinity’s upper thigh.

“Oh, sorry” Natasha offers.

“Try knocking next time.” Trinity throws over her shoulder as she brushes past Natasha out the door.

When Natasha returns to the floor, she sees Whitaker and Javadi charting together. The way they’re slumped, it’s clear their guards are dropping as exhaustion settles in.

“You any closer to deciding what’s next for you yet?”

Javadi deadpans back to him, “I’m seriously considering law school.”

“What? What are you talking about? You’re going to be a great doctor.”

The fact that they’re speaking so candidly with Natasha nearby means her plan to melt into the background is beginning to work. She lets her camera rest on her hip, she pulls out her phone to eavesdrop with a cover.

“I mean, no offense but look at what this place does to you. Langdon’s an addict.”

Natasha’s eyebrows go up.

“A person with a substance use disorder.” Whitaker corrects.

“Mckay was on house arrest.”

That one, Natasha knew. Mckay had introduced her ankle monitor to Natasha on her first shadow shift.

“Dana’s a time bomb. Santos is one of the angriest people you are ever going to meet. Samira has no life. Abbot is an adrenaline junky that gets shot at for fun.”

Natasha nearly drops her phone.

Gets shot at for fun? What could that mean?

“And Robby has like PTSD or something way fucking worse.”

Most definitely.

During her day shifts, Natasha can’t help but be drawn to Robby. He’s always a blur, always in motion. Not out of necessity, Natasha thinks, but perhaps by design. When Abbot leads nights, he spends lots of time circling around the board. Watching his residents. Offering them freedom to act and call when they need him. Robby is not like this.On her way into the hospital one morning, she’d seen him riding his motorcycle on the bridge. No helmet.

Natasha’s impressed, frankly, with Javadi’s assessments. Perhaps she should consider journalism.

Whitaker breaks in again, in his quiet farmboy kind of way,

“Maybe that’s what you should focus on, mental health.”

Natasha looks to Javadi, a little light returning to her eyes.

“Oh my god, you might be right.”

Natasha swings the camera to her front.

“Dennis, you’re a genius.” Javadi pulls him into an unexpected hug.

Snap.

A change in trajectory.

//////

Natasha joins Robby’s orbit when he leaves a patient room, feverishly lathering his hands in sanitizer.

“I’ve heard Abbot likes to get shot at for fun, what can you tell me about that?”

Robby scoffs, “Yeah, not the best attribute for your emergency contact.”

Natasha’s chin lifts a little, putting some pieces into place. She’ll file this bit of knowledge away for later. Robby continues.

“Dr. Abbot is a SWAT physician. He accompanies police units on raids in case there’s an injury in the field.”

Natasha lets that information land silently. Robby picks up on it, knowing the history between them.

“Not something he told you about when you were…?” His voice trails off.

“Not something he told me about.” Natasha confirms.

Natasha’s sitting at one of the computer stations in the central hub, feet perched on the legs of a rolly stool, her own laptop perilously crammed on the counter’s cluttered surface. She hears his voice before she sees him.

“Who’s our senior resident tonight?” It takes all of her available will power not to turn and look for him.

“Ah, the night shift is on Cruz control.”

So hot, so corny.

Suddenly she’s rolling to her right. He’s in his own chair, using the force of his body to shift her sideways.

“You’re in my spot.”

She counters with her new information.

“A SWAT medic, really?”

He smirks at her, tilting his head to the side a little, amused she managed to pick up a bit of intel on him. He shrugs, “My therapist said I needed a hobby.”

When she scoffs, he doubles down, leaning in to whisper,

“I bet you’d like the uniform.”

“Goodnight Dr. Abbot.”

She starts to gather her things to leave.

“Come on, you don’t wanna stay for a double?”

He reaches across her to scan his badge into the computer. His arm brushes across her front. “I do it all the time.”

He leans back in his chair now, reattaching his ID badge to his hip, purposefully drawing her eyes down, down, down.

“Explains a lot about you.”

With speed, she puts a foot on the bottom of his chair and pushes it away. He startles from the force of it and flails back just a little. Satisfaction blooms in Natasha’s chest.

As Natasha exits the ED through the ambulance bay doors, Santos calls out from behind her.

“Hey Kostova,” Natasha turns. “You know how to keep something quiet?”

Natasha makes a face of nonchalance. “Nothing to keep quiet about tonight. Pretty slow shift.”

The scars were pale. Healed. From another time.

Natasha turns toward home.

—-------------------------

Howard had come in an hour or so earlier, morbidly obese and clearly in a lot of pain, but managing to endear himself to everyone in the room, Natasha included.

When she introduces herself and her project, Howard has a moment of revelation.

“Natasha Kostova? Really? I have your 2021 photobook on my coffee table at home. I’d be honored to be included, though I wish I weren’t meeting you quite like this.”

Abbot, Robby, and McKay all look at Natasha. McKay breaks in, “I didn’t know you had written a book, Natasha. That’s incredible.”

Ogilvie interjects, “Is it really writing a book if it’s mostly photographs?”

Abbot steps forward then, body-checking Ogilvie to the outskirts of the room.

Robby breaks in with a quiet urgency.

“Howard, we need to open up that passageway now so we can pass the tube.”

Abbot circles around to Howard’s head, holding up his gloved hands.

“I’m going to start with my pinky. Going slowly over a few minutes I’m gonna go deeper all the way to the back of my knuckle.”

Natasha pushes down a memory of those same fingers as she preps her camera settings for Howard’s case.

Watching Abbot and Robby work together to place the tube is bringing Natasha back to the night of PittFest, just a little. When the tube is placed, Howard can’t speak. McKay gives him a quick tutorial on a digital communication tablet. Later, when it’s clear Howard is too big for their own CT machine, the doctors huddle. Natasha settles herself nearby and captures a few frames.

“He’s not that much over 450…” Mckay offers.

Robby shuts it down. “No, we can’t risk breaking our CT on a holiday weekend.”

“Since he’s over 450, do we send him to the zoo?” Everyone throws a rough glance at Ogilvie, and Jack’s face makes it clear he thinks this kid is from another planet.

“Stop being a fucking weirdo.”

“What?” Ogilvie says defensively, “I heard they have a large animal CT.” Natasha has to stifle a laugh at his cluelessness.

“Presby’s machine can handle 650.” Robby corrects.

Whitaker asks, “Will the medics take him while he’s intubated?”

Jack volunteers. “If I go along for the ride.”

They turn back to Howard with Robby leading the charge.

“Howard, our CT machine can’t handle your weight, but we’re gonna take you over to Presbyterian hospital.”

“I’ll keep you company the whole time.” Abbot offers.

Natasha pops her head around Abbot’s shoulder.

“Howard, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ride-along with you and Dr. Abbot. I want to make sure I’ve captured your whole journey here today.”

“That’s okay with me,” the device answers back.

Abbot turns away from Howard, so only Natasha can see his expression. She hates that it makes her breath catch, but she hates more that he notices.

He gives her a wink.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

/////

In the back of the ambulance, Abbot is sitting on one side of Howard and Natasha on the other. She really wants to capture the warmth and ease Abbot has shown Howard this whole time, but now with Natasha so close, his attitude has changed. She really just needs one shot.

She wonders what it is about Howard’s story that’s hitting Jack this way. It’s not that Jack doesn’t have a great bedside manner, he makes sure to flirt with everyone, men, women, the elderly. But he rarely sacrifices expediency for charm. With Howard, he keeps taking the extra minute.

Jack’s arms are crossed.

He’s playing it cool.

Natasha registers this as a performance. Because, normally he never has to act cool, he just is, effortlessly. She wonders if she’s miscalculated coming on this ride-along. Perhaps they’re not in a good enough place for him to let her disappear.

Jack alternates from looking at Howard’s monitor, to Natasha, to the twenty-something paramedic that’s clearly trying to get Natasha to notice him.

Paramedic boy boldly leans into Natasha’s side with a move that’s probably worked on a lot of sorority girls.

“What kind of camera do you have? I’m thinking of getting my little sister something like that for Christmas.”

Jack straightens up in his seat.

Natasha has decided to play nice.

“This is a vintage Fujifilm kit. How old is your sister?”

“Fourteen.”

“Probably not the right option for her then.”

“Why not?”

“Because this camera could cover her first year of tuition at Pitt.”

He laughs too eagerly, clearly not reading the energy in the room or the daggers Jack is throwing his way.

“I’m Charlie, by the way.”

“Natasha.”

They shake hands.

“Any chance I could get your number Natasha?”

Jack lets his head thud back against the wall of the ambulance.

Natasha smiles.

“No, Charlie. You’re a little young for me.”

He persists.

“Aw come on. Age is just a number, right?”

She looks pointedly, obviously, to Jack, “I guess that’s right.”

Jack jumps in then, “Alright loverboy, we’re 5 minutes out, why don’t you prep the guest transfer paperwork.”

Charlie begrudgingly moves to the ambulance cab, leaving the three of them — Natasha, Howard, and Jack — alone.

Howard’s looking back and forth between them.

The device calls out. “Do you two know each other?”

Even through the automated voice, it’s clear what Howard means.

Abbot makes a face, like it’s Natasha’s call to answer. She smiles at Howard, conceding.

“Yeah.”

He nods knowingly, and mercifully ends his inquiry. Abbot leans over to Howard and loudly whispers,

“I hit that.”

They both smile and Natasha rolls her eyes. After a little silence, the automated voice calls out again.

“I’m sorry for all this trouble.” Howard offers Abbot sad eyes.

It’s then that Abbot lets his front fall momentarily. He leans in close to Howard again, puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, “You’re all good man, this is what we do.”

There it is. She gets the viewfinder to her eye in one deft movement.

Snap.

Natasha sits back, satisfied with finding the moment. The ride was worth it now.

An hour or two later, the three of them are heading back into the Pitt, CT scan secured.

“How was the ride?” Robby calls out, and Howard answers with his device, the breathing tube still obstructing his vocal chords.

“Dr. Abbot is funny.”

“Trust me, his charm wears off.” Robby quips while grabbing the transfer paperwork.

“No it doesn’t.” Jack deadpans to Howard before his eyes flick to, and stay on, Natasha. Like a dare.

////

Walking out of the hospital at sunrise has that supernatural feeling, like a scene most people will never see. Like a secret. The night shifts are treating Natasha well. There’s only one problem.

“Do you wanna get breakfast with me?”

His presence is relentless.

He’s leaning against the brick wall of the hospital exterior, waiting awhile.

Natasha doesn’t even turn around, just stops. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

It’s not even that he’s working that hard to pursue her. He flirts openly with everyone. He hasn’t let her presence disrupt his working flow. But there’s always a moment. A look. A comment. That she recognizes as just for her. And it’s slowly hollowing out her ability to keep him at arm’s length.

“But I want the privilege of watching you take down a stack of pancakes.”

She fights off a grin.

“With a side of bacon.”

He remembers.

“I will.” Natasha answers, “If you tell me why Howard’s case hit so close to home for you?”

His face falls then, chewing over her answer silently. Natasha advances on him.

“Maybe because you know what it’s like to be alone?”

There’s something about the way her question hits him, it was too much, too hard. But he doesn’t slip.

“Nice try. But coming with me could be an opportunity for you, for your project. I’m meeting up with Robby and Baran before they roll in for day shift. We get monthly planning time. No one ever said it has to be onsite.

/////////////

Natasha can tell by the looks on Robby and Al-Hashimi’s faces, her presence was unexpected.

Natasha immediately notices the two day-shifters are sitting next to each other, rather than across from one another.

Interesting.

It also means she has to sit next to Jack.

He reaches the table first, but stands by to let Natasha enter the booth, trapping her against the window.

“I found Kostova in the ambulance bay. After spending all night with the residents I figured she could use a little time with other grown-ups.”

“Fine with me. As long as the details of what we discuss don’t leave the table.” Robby clarifies. Al-Hashimi offers a tight smile.

The waitress drops two more coffees at their booth and waits until Natasha takes a big sip before asking what she’d like to order. With her mouth full of too-hot coffee, Jack answers for her.

“She’s gonna want pancakes with a side of bacon. I’ll have steak and eggs please.”

Natasha looks at him. So do Robby and Baran.

He just smiles.

//////////

The attendings start by reviewing agenda items from the big bosses upstairs, confirm supply orders, and discuss shift change requests before turning to status updates on the interns and residents. Al-Hashimi kicks it off.

“I’ve been impressed with Whitaker’s progression since I’ve come on. His confidence seems to be catching up to his ability.”

Robby chimes in, a softer look in his eye, like he’s remembering something. “I agree, he’s more resilient than he looks.”

They look to Jack for anything to add. “You both see him more than me. But I’m not getting a sense of leadership potential from the kid.”

Jack’s feeling makes sense to Natasha. He operates on, and manifests in himself, a certain kind of overt masculinity that Whitaker certainly doesn’t possess.

Al-Hashimi turns to Natasha.

“Would you be open to offering what you’ve observed, Natasha?”

Tread carefully here.

Natasha considers her options before answering, deciding to offer observation over interpretation.

“The other residents trust Whitaker. They confide in him. You all can decide if that’s what signals a leader.”

Jack leans against the back of the booth then, taking her in. He lets his legs splay open a bit, his knee touching hers and making no attempt to move away. Natasha shifts a little in her seat.

Robby forges ahead. “Got it. Moving on. Santos.”

Al-Hashimi breaks in. “Trinity is falling behind on her charting. I’ve told her she just needs to keep chipping away, but I’m concerned she doesn’t take annotation seriously. No one else is having the same level of charting backlog.”

Jack waves her off. “She’s tough, she grit through it.”

Natasha thinks back to those pale, straight scars.

Tough.

But keeps her mouth firmly shut.

“I’ll keep an eye on it and try to give her a little extra time before handoff.” Robby says. “What about Javadi, are we thinking of trying to recruit her to the darkside of emergency medicine?”

“She’s clearly very bright.” Al-Hashimi offers, “I think she’s finding her place in the ED.”

Natasha takes a barely perceptible pause chewing her pancakes. Of course he notices,

“Kostova, anything to add?”

“I think you should ask her about her interest in psych.”

“Psych?” All three attendings ask in unison.

Natasha holds her hands up, “That’s all you’re getting.”

Jack is laughing a little to himself. Robby continues,

“Let’s talk about Mohan.”

At the mention of her name, Jack straightens up.

Natasha knows there’s something there. Something more than colleagues, something more than just learning going on, but she’s never asked him. She’s not sure she wants to know.

“We’ve been circling around this for months— she’s just too slow.”

“She’s not slow.” Jack says and Robby throws him a look.

“Okay, sometimes she’s fucking slow, but that’s her superpower. She’s thorough.”

“Are you okay? Do you hear yourself? Robby pokes at Abbot. “Being right 20 minutes later doesn’t help if your patient died 10 minutes ago.”

Al-Hashimi cuts in, “Boys. The fact of the matter is that she’s an R4 who’s stuck. She isn’t remotely close to finding a specialty or fellowship. That’s a problem.”

“Put her on nights with me for a while.”

Everyone looks at Jack.

“Why?” Natasha asks, surprising even herself.

“We work well together. She responds to me. She does better when you project confidence in her direction rather than testing her all the time.”

This Natasha knows to be true. She’d seen it at PittFest, captured it with her camera. She’s seen it in the way he approaches procedures with her — not taking over, not demanding answers, but talking her through what she needs to do and then letting her do it. Something unpleasant begins to coil in Natasha’s stomach just then.

Robby’s hand slaps the table. “All right then. The night crawlers get Mohan for the next three months.” He steals a piece of hashbrown off Jack’s plate then deliberately steals a quick glance at Natasha before turning back to Jack,

“You’ve always had a soft spot for her anyway.”

////

When the check has been paid and Robby and Al-Hashimi head in the direction of the hospital together, Jack and Natasha linger out front.

“Look, that stuff with Samira…she’s a resident. I’m an attending. That’s a line I don’t cross.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, not quite believing.

He concedes.

“I didn’t say I don’t think about the line.”

An uncomfortable heat seeps low in her body.

“But I don’t cross it. We need doctors like her.”

Natasha considers the motivation behind this confession.

“Doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

Jack nods, disbelieving.

“Sure.”

—----------------------

“What’s all the commotion about?” Natasha asks Princess and Perlah. There’s a noticeable hum in the air. Al-Hashimi is wearing eyeliner. Robby appears from the stairwell in a navy suit a size or two too big.

Princess answers.

“Tonight’s the trustee dinner. The hospital's biggest fundraiser of the year.”

Perlah jumps in, “All the department heads and senior attendings have to schmooze donors.”

Then she sees him, following Robby out of the stairwell. Classic black suit and white shirt. Fits like a dream. Except for the slightly misshapen bow tie at his neck.

He and Robby approach the board, giving one last look before Shen and Ellis take over for the night. The former waltzing up to them, Dunkin in hand.

“I didn’t know it was prom night at the nursing home.”

Robby and Abbot share an incredulous look.

“I know they’re not talking about us.” Robby says.

Natasha and McKay are sitting near the central hub, feet propped up on the desk. Princess and Perlah pass a pack of red vines back and forth. The evening has been strangely slow, and they’re all just about done for the night anyway. Abbot approaches, using his ID card to scan into a computer there, checking a chart.

“Dr. Abbot, you clean up nice.” McKay throws out.

Natasha likes Cassie. The two have found a kind of quiet working friendship, with McKay being both the only real adult out of the residents and the most down to earth—while still being ready to lean into a little gossip.

“I hate this shit.” Abbot’s twisting his neck, pulling at his collar. It’s clear he’s uncomfortable with the bow tie.

“What? Free crab cakes and decent champagne?” Princess deadpans.

“Just imagine it’s a kind of uniform for the night.” McKay offers.

Natasha leans back a little in her chair to better take in his whole outfit.

“Take it off.”

Jack and Natasha’s eyes meet. Everyone else’s eyebrows go up.

“The tie,” Natasha clarifies. “You’ll look better without it.”

He thinks about it for a beat, before loosening the knot around his neck. He slides the tie out of his collar all without breaking her gaze.

McKay, Princess, and Natasha’s heads all lean a little to the side.

“That is better.” McKay offers.

“Okay ladies, shows over.” He says, clearly feeling all the eyes on him.

Al-Hashimi glides over,

“Natasha, I’m glad you’re still here,” she says with a relieved exhale, “Could you do me a favor?”

/////

“We’ll see you in there Abbot.” Robby calls over his shoulder as he and Al-Hashimi hustle back inside.

Baran had asked Natasha to capture a few quick portraits of the dolled up attendings for her digital newsletter.

“We’re never NOT looking like the undead.” She’d said.

Robby went first, so camera shy it was painful.

“Try putting your hands in your pockets,” she tells him. It’s an old trick, but one that works, he immediately looks more at ease. Baran was next, a natural.

“Chin down for me,” was all the direction she had to give.

Natasha had taken them outside to catch the last few minutes of natural daylight, her preference over the Pitt’s fluorescent overheads.

Now, Natasha squares Abbot up in her viewfinder. They’re alone together for the first time in…months? He’s squirming under her gaze against the exterior brick wall.

Something’s still not quite right.

She drops the viewfinder from her eye.

“Lose the top button.”

“What?”

“Just do it. It looks like your shirt is strangling you.”

He blows out some air and complies. Natasha lets her camera drop to her hip. Taking all of him in again.

“One more.”

He laughs a little to himself and takes a step or two towards her. He reaches up with one hand and flicks the next button open.

“Better?”

Natasha’s eyes drop to the newly exposed skin where his chest meets his neck. His shoulders settle. His chin lifts slightly. Something in him loosens.

She did all that with words.

He takes another step toward her, sensing an invitation.

“Back to your mark Dr. Abbot.” She warns, and he dutifully retreats back to the brick wall.

She captures a few frames then checks the preview.

“Okay, I’ve got it. Do you want to see?”

He ambles over to her, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the small LCD screen.

“That’s me?”

She laughs a little, “That’s you.”

They’re so close now. They’ve never been this close and not touched. It would be so easy, she thinks, to put her fingertips just there, just along his open collar. But she keeps her hands on her camera body.

“My work here is done.”

He steps back away from her then, but doesn’t look away.

“Then go home Kostova.”

Abbot’s amped.

He and Robby just performed a successful resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds. He’d never done one before and probably never will again.

This woman had wanted a wild pregnancy. A free birth.

More like a double mortality narrowly avoided.

When both mom and baby get sent upstairs he wants someone to share his high. He looks around for Robby, but the chief is already pushing out the trauma doors. If this had been five years ago, they would have celebrated, talked about it for a week. But it’s not five years ago, they’re both changed now.

Abbot turns to see Natasha. Her back is to him, he thinks she’s fiddling with camera settings, but then he takes a second glance. Her chest is heaving. She’s trying to get back to equilibrium.

She’s rocked.

This is an intense procedure, maybe the most intense she’s seen since she’s been here. But he’s never seen her shaken like this before. Surprised, a little grossed out maybe, but never affected like this.

He rips off his gown and gloves and moves to drop them in the disposal bin. By the time he turns back, she’s gone too.

He finds her at the little makeshift work station she’s made for herself in a nook by the locker rooms. It’s just big enough for a tiny rolling desk to fit her camera and laptop. He’s learned she does her own version of charting with each shift she shadows, to keep a record of what her photographs depict. Normally she’s furiously tapping away. But this time she’s suspiciously still. He comes up behind her quietly, putting his hand on the back of her chair. Then he sees her screen.

One photo fills the frame. It’s almost like a painting, like a perverted kind of Dutch realism. The mother is lying in the center of the frame, dark hair spilling over the edge of the gurney, her fascia folded open. The baby, blue and limp, is lit like a heavenly body under the light of the newborn warmer. Surrounding them are the star players and the ensemble; Robby and Abbot, Shen and Ellis, Nazely and Mckay. Robby’s looking desperately toward the baby and Abbot’s looking at Robby.

It’s incredible.

“I was pregnant once.” Natasha says without breaking her eyes from the screen.

Abbot’s eyes move from the screen to Natasha’s face.

“About seven years ago. We made it to 30 weeks before…”

Natasha takes a steadying breath,

“…before she went quiet.”

Natasha hits the left arrow on her keyboard, going back one image in time. It’s him, Abbot, cutting the baby’s cord. A different kind of image in another life, another reality. Natasha stares at it, at him, while she speaks.

“I was supposed to have an OB appointment. But I was on deadline. Cover story.” She smiles weakly.

His mind is racing. He’s trying to square what he’s hearing now with the woman he knows. He thinks now about the subtle stretch marks he’d kissed on her hips.

“I had been so good, I’d gone to every other appointment like clockwork. I thought, ‘I’ll just check in next week.’ At that point you feel like you practically live in the doctor’s office anyway.”

Abbot moves to crouch down beside her. He swivels her chair toward him, away from the screen.

“Natasha,” he says, “missing one appointment didn't—”

“I know.” She answers too fast.

“But I didn’t go. I finished my piece. And then around midnight, I noticed the stillness.”

Abbot doesn’t say anything, just holds a steady state. Natasha goes on.

“And then I still had to give birth. They kept asking if I wanted an epidural, to try and sleep through most of it, but I wanted to really feel it y’know?” She locks eyes with him only now.

“Suffering seemed like the right thing to do.”

He swallows hard, but can’t find anything to say. He pushes the laptop closed, puts a hand on the outside of her knee.

“Her name would have been Kaya. Kaya Kostova.”

—----------------------

Against her better judgement, Natasha has agreed to end-of-shift beers with the day shift residents. It’s a perfect little dive just across the park from the hospital. Six months into this work, Natasha is starting to assemble her images in her mind, finding how they work together, what story they begin to tell. She wants to photograph these people outside the Pitt too. Her mind is turning over more questions she wants to ask.

How does this work weigh on you in the quiet hours?

What do you allow yourself when no one is relying on you?

When no one is watching?

She can already imagine the portraiture—intimate, vernacular—a wonderful contrast to the rote visual language of the ED. She’ll figure out a way to make it happen.

After a drink or two, the conversation drifts to a head-to-head comparison of the attendings—whether they’re fair, scary (Walsh and Park, everyone agrees), or hard to read. Natasha laughs at their youthful perception of leadership, still familiar. She can tell the residents are trying to figure out her allegiance. Is Natasha one of them? Or on the side of the olds? At 36, she’s caught in between their righteous bristling at authority and having empathy for their well-intentioned supervisors.

“Finding the line of what I can and can’t do on my own is exhausting.” Javadi offers.

Santos chimes in, “Attendings act pissed that you aren’t doing more, until you… do more.”

Natasha smirks a little, “Can you give me an example?”

The residents pass looks around the table to each other until Santos gives in.

“During PittFest, I did a REBOA on a lady without any attending supervision.”

“A REBOA?” Natasha asks, not familiar with the procedure.

Santos explains. “You inflate a balloon in an artery to stop bleeding that you can’t stop any other way. Risky as shit.”

Whitaker jumps in, “Like 4th year with an attending holding your hand type shit.”

Natasha nods, “Pretty ballsy Santos. What did Robby and Abbot have to say about you taking that risk?”

“Abbot chewed me out, then told me good job under his breath.” Everyone laughs. Natasha smiles.

Sounds about right.

“I still don’t know if Robby knows about it.”

“He knows.” Whitaker and Javadi answer in unison.

“Whatever. They both harp incessantly on the rules until the time comes when they want to break one.” Santos throws back the remainder of her drink before doubling down.

“Remember when Robby took that anti-vaxxer Dad into the PittFest morgue? Not exactly protocol my dude.”

Whitaker jumps in, “Yeah, and then there was the time Abbot fudged that pregnant girl’s dates so she could get a mifepristone.”

The group goes quiet and Natasha’s eyebrows go up. Reading everyone’s reaction, some kind of unspoken physician boundary has just been crossed.

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

“Shit.” Whitaker looks down.

Santos makes a move to leave the group, “Time for another drink.”

Whitaker looks to Natasha, “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know if it’s true, it’s just something I heard.”

Defuse it.

“Relax, Whitaker. My work with you all isn’t an investigation.” She sees Whitaker and Javadi visibly unclench, just a little.

Enabling a teenage abortion wasn’t on my Abbot bingo card.

She’s annoyed that this little shred of data somehow makes him more attractive to her. Somehow weakens her resolve to keep him at bay. She’s also annoyed at her own disappointment in not seeing him at handover tonight. He must be off.

The residents are getting sweet and sloppy three drinks in, and Natasha takes this as her cue to leave. She saves Whitaker’s debit card from getting lost under a basket of fries and bids them goodnight.

As she starts to cross through the park to walk home, a now familiar voice calls out to her.

“I thought you had deep-seated rules about fraternizing with sources.”

He’s sitting on one of the park benches, legs splayed in a manspreading kind of way, arms stretched out over the bench back. It’s a cocky stance that, on anyone else, would turn Natasha completely off. But for some reason, on him, it’s working.

“Do you lurk here often?” Natasha throws back at him.

He smirks, “I like to make sure they all make it into a car okay.” Natasha turns to see the residents stumbling and laughing out of the bar entrance. She turns back to him.

“You think those broke kids are going to pay for an $100 uber?”

He shrugs, “I’ll pay for it.”

Oof.

Another chink in her armor.

She notices he’s not wearing scrubs, but a navy blue button down and dark jeans. Two buttons open at his neck. A military-style tactical belt buckle catches her drifting eye. His hospital ID badge though, is where she’s always seen it, attached to his hip. She strides up to him without hesitation until they’re just about toe to toe.

“Nothing better to do on your night off than get sucked back into the Pitt?”

He shrugs, “Admin was up my ass about finishing some paperwork before the end of the month. When I was on my way out I heard the kids were out at the bar…with you.”

He stands from the bench so he can lean into her.

“Just want to make sure everyone gets home in one piece.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at him. There’s so much there to choose from, but her mind drifts back to Whitaker’s admission in the bar,

He fudged that girl’s dates so she could get a mifepristone.

There’s something about the way he just decides and moves.

He just acts.

He just does.

She had ended things with Jack to create professional distance. But somehow, she'd only removed the sex. He knows about Kaya. Orders her breakfast without asking. She knows he’s the reason Mohan is on nights now. She knows he looks better in a suit without a tie.

A stupid fucking blurry line anyway.

Natasha swallows. Before she can change her mind, she reaches out to touch his waistband, pulling on the retractable ID badge still attached to his hip.

“You bend the rules when you know you’re right?”

He’s looking at her hand and stepping into her touch. His face makes it clear he’s not entirely sure what she’s getting at, but he nods all the same.

“Sometimes.”

Natasha nods back, “Me too.”

She lets the ID badge snap back. “Let’s go to your place.”

They’re standing at the foot of his bed, having only just begun to touch each other again. Before, his touch had dialed her in, rendering her unable to focus on anything other than the present moment—an intoxicating gift. But that’s not happening now.

She’s still thinking. Thinking about the last six months in his world. She’s the one who pursued him and then ended it. She’s the one who infiltrated his space. His job. His relationships. Now she’s the one who invited him to cross the line.

He should be mad.

And yet, he’s offering a quiet hand at the small of her back. Shallow kisses at the place where her ear meets her neck. There’s nothing urgent about the way he’s moving. Like they do this all the time. Of all the ways she’s imagined this reunion, soft, gentle, attentive Jack is at the bottom of the list. Natasha realizes he’s being careful with her. She doesn’t want him careful. Somehow careful feels worse than mad.

She knows he must put his anger somewhere. She can tell in the way he so tightly controls his own hands — always behind his back or in his pockets — or from the way he sometimes swallows back the first barbed thing he wants to say to an arguing resident or patient.

He makes a practice of restraint.

But there’s no way he hasn’t reserved some of that anger for her. For her imposition on his life. For her cruel and useless boundaries.

She presses her mouth to his with force. But he doesn’t push back. She tries again, and when this doesn’t elicit a stronger response, she bites down on his lip sharply.

“Ah—”

She pushes him back to sit on the edge of the bed. Deposits herself in his lap. And when his hands come up to cup her face rather than grip her hips, she feels herself getting angry. She moves his hands away from her face.

“Hey,” he’s checking in, “is this too much?”

Not enough

“No. Keep going.”

She reaches between them, trying to work his arousal through his clothes.

“Natasha, slow down.”

She gets off him, using the space to remove what’s left of her clothing. He takes off his leg, pulls off his pants. She kneels between his open knees. Sliding her hands down his thighs, she lets herself find the place where his flesh abruptly ends.

She knows this spot. Knows that it aches after a long night. She’s touched him here before, gently.

She looks him in the eye before gripping his amputation site, hard. His jaw falls open from a mix of surprise and pain, but he doesn’t recoil from her, doesn’t push her away. He trusts her.

So she squeezes again, harder. A painful grunt escapes him and this time, he drags her up by her wrists and pulls her onto the mattress beside him.

“Just stop.” His voice is firm.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

He leans over her, Natasha can see his eyes searching her face for answers. And when he finds the slightest curl at the corners of her mouth, his expression changes. A droplet of blood from his lower lip falls onto her neck, rolling down her skin to blotch his sheets. He pushes himself off the bed entirely and Natasha mourns the sudden loss of his heat.

“What are you trying to make me do?”

—------

For two weeks they’d managed to avoid one another. Natasha switched a night shift for a day,

skipping out, he’d heard, by 5pm. He considered calling her. Thought about just showing up at her door. But he did neither and she did the same. He keeps thinking about that night. About the silent but electric walk from outside the bar to his place. How he’d wanted so badly to push her against the closed door of his entryway, to just slip back into where they’d left off.

But when the moment came, he realized how precarious it all was. Before, touching her was easy. They could just flow. But now he knew things about her, things she wouldn’t have shared with a casual fuck.

Suffering seemed like the right thing to do.

So he'd been hesitant with her, even when some part of him wanted very badly not to be. And careful with himself too, because there were things about himself he'd learned not to hand over lightly.

So, he hadn't been angry at her then, but he certainly was now.

“Where’s Natasha at? I haven’t seen her around in a while.” Dana asks McKay as she’s packing up her stuff at the central hub.

“She sent me a message earlier. Said she’s covering some international climate agreement in New York and is gonna be away for a little bit.”

Princess leans over to McKay, showing her phone. “She sent me this picture from a Filipino bakery she found in Brooklyn. Might have to make a pilgrimage just for the lumpia.”

Abbot swallows back a bitter lump in his throat.

So she can have relationships with everyone here. Just not with me.

“Dang. I like this place a little better when she’s around.” Dana jokes, “Everyone’s on their best behavior.” She levels a half-joking gaze at Abbot, “Except you.”

He doesn’t return the volley, just retreats back to the board.

“Jesus,” Dana says under her breath to Princess, “What crawled up his ass and died?”

Natasha steels herself for whatever torrent she’s about to walk into. She’d fled. She knows it wasn’t the most mature option, but it was the only one she could manage. She’d taken an assignment covering a UN summit no one will remember in a year’s time, simply because it was in New York and not here. She thought about calling him, but didn’t. She mostly thought he’d just show up somewhere and they’d have it out. The stalemate has been markedly worse.

As she walks into the ED for her first night shift shadow in nearly a month, she almost immediately locks eyes with McKay. They greet each other warmly before scanning the ED together, shoulder to shoulder.

“What’d I miss?” Natasha asks.

“Well, Robby has confirmed he’s going on sabbatical in like 8 weeks time.”

Natasha lets that land. “Probably for the best.”

“Probably.”

McKay nods toward Langdon who should be getting ready to leave, but shows no sign of it, “Santos and Langdon are at each other’s throats, over what, I don’t know.”

Natasha had noticed their rub almost immediately, she’d chalked it up to a classic case of golden boy vs bad girl, but perhaps there’s something more.

And then of course, he’s here too. Circling the patient board like a shark around a diver’s cage.

“Oh, and I don’t know what the deal is,” McKay leans in close to whisper, “but Abbot has been in a mood lately. Steer clear if you can.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

On his next lap he spots her, the only hint a momentary hitch in his gait. An extra beat of his stare.

They spend the first part of the evening in opposite orbits. Natasha sticks with Langdon as his day shift stretches well beyond sunset.

He should go home, he has a wife.

Every time she comes out of a patient room, Abbot’s working alone. McKay is right. He’s not himself. He’s not even performing as himself. There’s no suggestive playfulness. No displays of confidence. Just a quiet intensity.

It’s then that Natasha watches Mohan approach him. They walk down the hall together, Samira clearly bringing a question to him and expecting the Abbot she’s always received — patient, calm, open. Natasha can’t hear what they’re saying but it’s clear he’s not reaching for the softness he usually finds for her. He says something curt and walks away, her face falling in a sad surprise.

“Abbot.” Natasha impulsively calls down the hall. “Need you, now.”

He pushes into the nearest open patient room. She follows him and closes the door. Leaves the privacy curtain open though.

“Cut the shit.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. Furrows his brows. He’s on defense.

Natasha opens. “I fucked up, I know that. I crossed a line I should have left alone. I tried to take you somewhere you didn’t want to go.”

She can tell he’s going back to that night in his mind too.

What are you trying to make me do?

Natasha’s stomach drops every time she thinks about it. She’d somehow managed to hurt him. Again. She forges ahead.

“But if you’re going to be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

He shakes his head a little in disbelief.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

Natasha bites her cheek. He settles his shoulders a little, a touch of his signature swagger finding its way out.

“I can give you my therapist’s number. Seems like you and him might find a lot to talk about.”

Natasha squares up to him. Hands on hips. Tongue pulling over her front teeth. She decides to play her ace.

“I’m going to let that one go. But you need to get a hold of it.”

His anger.

“Find your control. I saw it on her face right now, you just erased god knows how many weeks of progress with Samira.”

At this, he falters. Eyes dropping to the ground. Natasha pushes.

“Go fix it.”

From the floor, he lets his eyes travel up her form, and when they reach her face, he advances on her. Purposefully invading her space. Natasha doesn’t budge. They’re practically nose to nose.

He looks down at her mouth. At her neck.

“Go. Fix. It.” Natasha repeats.

He doesn’t say a word, but catches her shoulder with his as he pushes past her out the door.

Natasha gives herself an extra minute alone in the room. She takes a few steadying breaths then turns to see McKay looking at her through the glass window, eyes wide.

Sifting through her images from the day’s shift shadow, Natasha is desperate for a break from the incessant noise of the ED. She’d heard through the grapevine there were empty offices on the 8th floor. She takes her bag and laptop and makes her way up. But when she pushes open the stairwell door, it’s not quite the silent respite she was hoping for. There’s music coming from somewhere. Natasha tracks the noise to a patient room. She pushes the door open slowly to find Whitaker giving himself a sponge bath in the room’s attached bathroom, lost in the music. Her eyes take a journalistic bounce around the space. It’s clear he’s been staying here, he’s been living here.

When he turns—still dancing to the music—and sees Natasha in the doorway, he screams.

“Holy shit.”

Natasha gives him a moment to recover, then gestures around the room.

“What’s happening here, Whitaker?”

He grabs a t-shirt off a pile of clothes on the gurney and throws it on.

“I will, on occasion, after a long shift, crash up here.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything. Just keeps her face neutral, open.

“I’m currently between places.”

He shoves some loosely flung underwear into a backpack.

He’s absolutely crawling in his own skin.

Natasha offers a kind of sad smile.

“I don’t actually have anywhere else to stay at the moment.”

She adjusts the strap of her bag on her arm. “I see.”

“You’re not going to say anything, right? To Robby?” He pauses, then adds, “To Abbot?”

Natasha flinches.

Can he know?

Do they all know?

But she shakes her head no.

“Not mine to tell.”

Whitaker exhales a little. Natasha thinks it over for a moment.

“But would you let me photograph you?” Natasha asks gently, “Here.”

Whitaker looks around, deeply unsure of what to do.

“You can decide later if it’s something you’re willing to share.” When that doesn’t move him, she adds.

“On the whole, most people would rather remember than forget.”

“It doesn’t really feel that way,” he says sadly.

She has him sit on the gurney, surrounded by what’s left of his things. Natasha uses only the ambient light from a stolen lamp and the flickering emergency strobes in the hall. His stethoscope, probably the most valuable item to his name, rests nearby on a stack of hospital supply boxes.

/////////////////////

“Kostova, I need your help.”

She’s surprised to see him. It’s only 1pm.

“What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too. I was the one who brought Langdon’s asthma kid in. I was working out at the park and saw him go down.”

She takes him in now. That explains the t-shirt and no scrubs. The red flush to his neck. The extra bit of curl in his hair.

“I’m taking over his case. Langdon says you were in the room when they tried the epi. The orders didn’t make it in the chart. Santos said they gave three doses, Langdon thinks only two. Any chance you could look through your photos to see if you caught anything?”

They’re hunched over her laptop at her little work station, peering through her session photos.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” she asks him.

“We should be able to see the spent auto-injector pens.”

She arrows through the images.

“There’s one.” Santos is pushing it into the boy’s thigh.

She arrows through a few more frames.

“Wait. Can you zoom in on the tray?”

A second spent pen.

“That’s two.” he says.

Arrow. Arrow. Arrow.

“And there’s a third.” Natasha spots it this time.

He straightens up. “Santos for the win.”

Natasha pauses then, because she sees something now she didn’t notice in the moment. She leans into the screen a little more.

“You seeing something else?” he asks.

Barely perceptible on dark scrubs is a stain on Santos’ thigh. Just there. Just where Natasha had spotted those scars weeks and weeks ago.

“Nothing yet.” She offers.

She arrows back through her shot sequence from inside the trauma room. It’s not there in the morning when she’s working a different case with Langdon.

Arrow.

They argue over something in the hall.

Natasha jumps ahead another 10 frames.

Then, another shot. Trinity’s retreating form is just a blur in the background. But Natasha knows which way she’s headed. To the bathroom, the one no one uses.

Natasha winces. It could be coffee. It could be patient vomit, impossible to tell on the dark fabric, but Natasha feels a weight settle into her stomach.

What to do, what to do.

It isn’t until his hand finds her back that she’s snapped from her review. A first touch since…

“I gotta get back to the kid.” he says.

She straightens up now, but he doesn’t move his hand.

“You good?” He could always tell when she got stuck on something.

“Yeah,” she says, “Talk later?” A hopeful aspiration.

He drops his hand and heads down the hall.

“Come find me.”

////////////////

Natasha goes looking for Santos. They haven’t developed a rapport like Natasha’s created with others, but they have at least found a kind of mutual respect for each others’ relative bad-assery.

Natasha spots her grabbing supplies for a suture job in West 10. Decides she has to try.

“Everything good?” Natasha asks.

Trinity side-eyes her.

“No, have you seen this place? It’s a dumpster fire every day.”

Natasha smiles a little and then lets it fade.

“Not getting burned are you?” The insinuation sits between them.

Trinity makes a face.

“Fuck off.”

////

When Natasha looks for him in all the usual spots with no luck she knows there’s one place left to try.

He’s leaning on the roof rail, letting his head hang between his shoulders a little. She’s heard he and Robby both come up here sometimes. She imagines there’s some kind of emotional threshold or triggerpoint for what constitutes a roof night. What that is precisely, she’d love to know.

“How’s your kid?”

Natasha throws her question his direction into the wind. He looks back at her over his shoulder, forearms not leaving the railing.

“Went upstairs.”

Natasha’s learned that ED code. Could be equally good or bad.

“Been on the transplant list since he was four.” He turns toward Natasha, leaning his back against the rail. “Shit’s not fair.”

He reaches down to tie the shoe on his prosthetic side. Natasha comes to lean on the rail next to him.

“This hospital is a collection of stories that are unfair.”

They share a look and a half smile.

He never changed into scrubs. She leans into him a little.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Probably head home. Shower. Sleep a little if I can. I’ve got a couple of hours before my night shift.”

He scrunches up his face and the lines around his eyes are too much for her.

“I know someplace closer.”

/////

“I’ve been wondering, why do you wear scrubs?”

They’re getting redressed. Quickly. Natasha ties the drawstring of her rumpled black hospital-issued bottoms and throws an answer his way.

“It was one of Robby’s conditions when I started shadowing. It makes sense. I like it.”

She clocks him admiring her. She imagines her hair is mussed. A sheen of sweat on her skin. They’d just finished and it looks like he’s already planning the next time.

“A dress would make it easier on me. I could just come up behind you. Slip your underwear to the side—”

“Jack.” Her tone is a warning.

He’s laughing now and it’s so rare. Man, how she’d missed it.

She’d led him down the stairwell, pushing open the door to the abandoned wing on the 8th floor without explanation. As they walked down the main hallway, Abbot a step or two behind her, Natasha had stolen a peek into Whitaker’s room. Empty now. She took him to the used-to-be office she’d been using as her quiet working space. It had a large sturdy desk, she knew.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” was the last thing he’d said to her before pressing her against the closed door.

//////

For hours now, Natasha’s been tracking Santos back and forth across the ED. She’s not entirely sure what she’s looking for, but she thinks if she watches long enough, she’ll find it.

McKay slides up to her side. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Abbot?”

“Going on?” Natasha feigns, eyes not leaving Santos’ form.

“The other day it looked like the two of you were gonna go to blows.”

Natasha lets her head drop a little.

“If I thought Abbot would fight a woman, you might be the only one who could take him.”

Despite the discomfort, Natasha finds a little smile. But she doesn’t offer an answer. Somehow that tells McKay more than words would have.

“I see.”

Santos is trying to chart. Trying and failing. She shoves away from the desk, hand going to her brow. Natasha straightens.

“Well, whatever you did or didn’t do,” McKay pushes off the desk, “He’s back.”

Natasha gives McKay a nod, but watches as Santos opens the top drawer of an equipment cart. Trinity pauses briefly, before taking a scalpel and slipping it into her pocket.

Natasha’s heart drops.

“Shit.”

/////////////////

When they enter the stadium, he keeps walking closer and closer to the field. He stops at seats right behind the home team dugout. Some of the best seats in the house.

It’s then that an elderly black stadium worker approaches Jack, hand held up for a familiar high five handshake.

Natasha looks at Jack suspiciously.

“Hey Doctor Jack! Thanks for working the game tonight.”

“No problem Elgin, happy to be here.”

“Woooo,” Elgin whistles when he sees Natasha standing behind Jack. “She’s with you? Man, some guys get all the luck.”

“Just a friend,” Jack says.

“Sure sure. All my friends look like that too,” the man says, “Come on, have a seat young lady. Game's about to start.”

Natasha smiles at the older man and dutifully takes her seat. Jack settles in next to her.

“That’s Elgin. You can ignore him. He’s been working here since I was a kid coming to games. He’s like a thousand years old.”

Natasha takes the drink Jack’s handing her.

“Wouldn’t that make you like nine hundred and seventy?”

Jack considers it, “Looking pretty good then, right?”

Natasha moves right along, “You’re working the game tonight?”

“Yeah, there’s always a stadium on-call doctor. You know, foul balls, someone biffs it down the steps, burns their tongue on a hot dog. But in between I get to catch a lot of baseball.”

“So this isn't a date.” She’s confirming.

He gestures at the field, “I got you seats right behind the dugout.”

“Don’t you have to sit here?” Natasha points to the permanent “reserved” sign on the seat back.

“I…got you seats right behind the dugout?” he repeats with his face scrunched up like he’s expecting a slap on the arm.

/////////

He had surprised her with the invitation just a few days before. Their little tryst on the 8th floor had broken something loose between them. Something they were continuing to explore, for now.

“Never again at the hospital,” she’d warned him.

He lifted his head momentarily from between her thighs, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Then he’d stopped again, to her dismay.

“No no no, what are you doing?”

“Do you like baseball?”

“What?” she asks, confused and breathless.

“Baseball. I got two tickets to a Pirate’s game on Friday.”

She’d tightened her grip on his hair.

He smirked, “Wanna come?”

“Shut up.”

/////

“This pitcher has been struggling a little bit late in the game. He’s got a lot of strikeouts, but seems to lose command of his fastball after 90 pitches.” He’s been explaining baseball to her as if she doesn’t know.

“Yeah, his post-seventh inning ERA has been in the toilet since mid-July.”

He turns to look at her. “What the fuck. You let me talk like a mansplaining asshole for 6 innings?”

Natasha smiles at him slyly, “Maybe I like to hear you talk.” He raises his eyebrows at her, so she caveats, “when it’s appropriate.”

And it was true. He was unexpectedly chatty if you gave him the space—and sometimes even if you didn’t. Natasha was grateful for a break from all the thinking.

Santos and the scalpel.

Whitaker’s empty room.

Robby’s upcoming sabbatical.

Jack on the 8th floor.

The crack of the bat sends a foul ball careening their way. Natasha doesn’t see where it lands, but it elicits an immediate, collective, “Ooooh” from the crowd. Jack’s on alert. He locks eyes with Elgin who has a walkie talkie to his ear. Elgin calls out, “5 year old girl. Purple shirt. Row E.” Jack’s already moving that way.

He jogs over to their section, backpack over both shoulders. He stands in the stairway putting on a pair of gloves as the father carries the little girl down the row. Jack has them sit down on the step. He turns his ball cap backwards so he can look into the little girl’s face without bumping her with the brim. From what Natasha can see, his examination is gentle, thorough, fast. A few minutes later, he pulls a sucker from his go-bag and manages to make her laugh. Applause comes from the crowd in the nearby section once Jack starts to make his way back to his seat.

“Everything okay?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah, she’ll be alright. Dad’s hand caught the first bounce, laces must have grazed her cheek. Little cut and probably a black eye. Butterfly band aid and an ice pack.”

“And a sucker,” Natasha sing-songs at him, “What else you got in that go-bag?”

He just winks.

Natasha wonders if he ever wanted children. If he and his wife ever talked about it or tried. She thinks he would be good at it. But really, she’s struggling to think of something he’s bad at.

He still hasn’t turned his cap back around and Natasha’s finding it difficult to look at anything else. She’s chewing on the straw from her drink to keep her mouth occupied. The way his curls start to flick out from under the side of his hat. The way his Pirate’s t-shirt—soft from a million washes—clings to his chest. The way his stubble comes in silver on the sides and still a little red on his chin. And then, when his arm stretches across the back of her seat, she notices (again) how he radiates heat.

She desperately wishes she had brought her camera. She pulls her phone out of her pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Documenting.”

“Documenting what?”

“How unfair it is that most men unlock a new level of hotness after 40.”

He smiles and starts to lean toward her. She catches his chin and tries to turn his face away.

“No no, don’t look at me, I want your side profile.”

She snaps a few photos and puts her phone away without looking at them.

He leans in close to her face then. “How do you know this is a new level of hotness for me? You never saw me in my prime.”

Natasha twists his cap back the right way.

I can’t take much more.

“Trust me, this is your prime.”

He grins and turns his attention back to the game. For Natasha, it feels so good to just be in a moment that doesn't require ethical calculation or emotional triage. So of course he has to go and ruin it.

“How are you feeling about your progress?”

She looks at him, questioning.

“The work, the photos. You’re what, almost eight months in? Is it coming together how you hoped?”

Natasha’s mouth falls open a little bit. Eight months? She hadn’t really thought about the timeline in awhile. She decides an honest answer is the only option.

“I've been embedded before, but never like this. Never this long with the same people in the same spot. I didn't expect to get this close.” she nudges his leg with hers, “I didn't expect it to be so difficult to know what to do.”

Scalpel.

Home.

No helmet.

Jack.

Jack looks out at the field for a moment. “Still got four months to go,” then he looks back at her.

“Think it’ll get any easier?”

Natasha holds his gaze.

“Too soon to tell.”

Natasha has a check-in with her editorial team in a week. She needs to show them where her work is going, how it’s taking shape. She’s pushed off the meeting twice now, and can’t delay any longer. For some reason, looking at this work is hard for her. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes.

Same process, same process.

When she begins making selects, she intentionally moves into a kind of flow state, not exactly shutting her brain off, but letting her gut run the show instead. She arrows through the photos.

Yes. No. No. No.

A process that repeats until she’s reached the present day. From there, she makes prints — hundreds of stills put her home printer to the test, each only slightly larger than a polaroid. She begins by arranging them chronologically, starting from the night of PittFest. But she quickly realizes time isn’t the primary marker of the narrative she’s found. When she looks across the photos and the faces in them, she sees too much. She knows too much. There are relationships forming, skills sharpening, steps forward and steps back.

She needs to call in reinforcements.

Nine months out from being shot, Mark is remarkably well, with one exception. The bullet that tore through his shoulder has rendered it nearly impossible for him to hold the full camera rig to his eye for extended periods of time. When he admits this to her, standing in her kitchen and drinking her booze, Natasha feels, at some level, complicit.

“I’m sorry I asked you to come with me.”

Mark waves her off.

“Tasha, we literally survived IEDs in Iraq together. Flood waters in Sri Lanka. I never would have guessed shitty metal music in Pittsburgh would be the thing to finally get me out of the game.”

He downs the rest of his drink.

“I’ll just be one of those old guys who does timelapses of the milky way. Set it and forget it.”

Natasha smiles despite the tiny bit of shame she holds.

When she leads him into her living room, a space transformed by photographs and notes, Mark’s jaw falls open a little bit. She'd shoved the furniture to the edges of the living room to make space for the scale of her work.

“Jesus, all that’s missing is the red string.”

But then he starts to look, really look, at the photos Natasha has begun to organize. He stops to pick up the image of Robby and Abbot performing the resuscitative hysterotomy, delivering that should-be-dead baby.

“Natasha,” he starts, clearly enraptured, “what have you done?”

They’ve been at this for hours. Mark and Natasha take turns shifting and rearranging images in virtual silence, each being able to see the other’s justification for an edit.

“There’s a lot of Robby here.”

“He’s the Chief. And he’s everywhere.”

Mark holds up an image of Robby yelling at Mohan. Robby’s hands are clasped at the back of his neck. His face is screwed up so every age line is visible.

“This was taken last week?”

Natasha nods, “He’s going on sabbatical in a few weeks.”

Mark shakes his head, “Looks like that might not be soon enough.”

Natasha scans Robby’s thread across the room. What she’d clocked as frayed edges the night of PittFest have only continued to split. The Robby of today looks like he’s being pulled apart, one thread at a time. It’s a change Natasha couldn’t fully appreciate in real time, but it’s obvious seeing the photos laid out this way.

Mark pauses then, his face a portrait of quiet confusion.

“Where’s Abbot?”

Natasha looks over the misshapen grid on the floor.

“He’s there.”

Mark walks along the edge of their collaged creation, searching.

“Not like the others.”

Natasha follows Mark’s path on the opposite side.

Mark points.

“You have Whitaker in his makeshift hospital bedroom. Trinity and Mel screaming karaoke. Javadi’s red, white, and blue star earrings for working on the 4th of July.”

Natasha follows his line of inquiry.

“We don’t get those beats for Abbot.”

She looks where Mark is pointing.

“It makes sense at PittFest. You wrote about how he entered that higher order of focus.”

She’d selected the photo of him with a blood bag strapped to his own leg, still finding an airway.

“But we only ever see him in command.”

Cutting the baby’s cord. Silently leaning over Mohan’s shoulder. Calmly assessing a man with an American flag sticking out of his chest.

Mark lets the accusation present itself.

“Nothing intimate.”

A sick kind of heat is washing over Natasha.

“Let me see what else you have for Abbot.”

Natasha and Mark walk over to her monitor. She opens her project folder in her archive, switches to the view organized by person. As she arrows through his photos, Mark over her shoulder, Natasha comes face to face with what she’d chosen, at least subconsciously, to leave out. His warmth in the back of the ambulance with Howard. His burdened stance leaning over the roof rail. The satisfied smile he gives Samira when she nails a procedure.

Natasha lets her hand drop from the keyboard. She’s seen enough.

But then, there’s more. And Mark takes over.

Image after image shows Abbot looking at the camera, looking at Natasha. In his tie-less suit outside the hospital entrance. A smirk thrown over his shoulder as he moves down the hallway. Eyes locked on her in the aftermath of a trauma, bloody gowns in piles on the floor and other staff a blur around him. There’s an implicit permission in the way he’s looking at her. He knows he’s being photographed and doesn’t look away.

Natasha has images of just his hands, just his back. And then, in an ironic import slipup, there are the phone photos Natasha took of him at the game. His easy smile, Natasha’s hand on his chin, the way he’s leaning into her touch.

Here, Mark stops.

“Well,” he says, “I’m relieved to know you haven’t lost your touch for portraiture.” Mark’s choosing his words carefully.

“But you’ve just traded one editorial problem for another.”

Not close enough and then far too intimate.

Natasha knows he’s right.

“It’s all blurry now, Mark. I’ve crossed the line so many times I can’t find it anymore.”

“Maybe so,” Mark says, “But Tasha…this is some of the best work you’ve ever done.”

Mark points to the folder of Abbot images still open on her screen.

“You just need to decide if your story belongs here too.”

For almost two weeks now, Natasha has been stuck on what to do about Trinity. The evidence is circumstantial at best. A history, a dark spot, a stolen scalpel. But Natasha’s gut says there’s something more.

Telling leadership is not a clear win. It could fuck up her R2 year, throw Santos perilously off course. Natasha knows she already has strikes against her with the charting backlog and low patient satisfaction scores. But then again, if she’s in a place to self-harm, all that could be happening anyway.

And then there’s the wrath from the woman herself. Trinity might rescind her permission for Natasha to use any of her photographs. She would know Natasha was the one to report her. And what’s worse, Natasha had given Trinity the expectation of silence.

Natasha looks again across the thirty or so images of Santos spread amongst two hundred others across her living room floor. She’s been editing for days now, staying up all night.

A knock at the door pulls focus. It’s probably Mark, he said he’d come back after a solid night’s sleep. It’s 8AM and Natasha hasn’t gone to bed yet.

But of course it’s him.

He looks her up and down. She must look like shit. Sports bra and sweatpants. Hair pulled back and raked through countless times. Eyes ringed from staying open through the dark.

“Long night?” He asks her.

She nods, takes in his scrubs, rumpled hair, three day stubble. “You too?”

She keeps the door mostly closed tight around her body.

“Can I come in?”

Natasha looks back over her shoulder at the mess of her living room.

“What? You got somebody in there?” Jack asks, a hint of edge in his voice that Natasha certainly notices.

“No, I’m editing. It’s a messy process, there’s stuff everywhere. It’s not ready for outside eyes.” She crosses her arms over her chest, feeling her state of undress. “What are you doing here anyway?”

He lets his shoulders fall for a moment. “You haven’t been at work in a while.”

Natasha shakes her head knowingly, “Yeah, I’m stacking the shadow shifts at the end of the month now so I have more time to focus on the edit.”

He steps up and leans against the doorframe. “I haven’t been sleeping. I was thinking, maybe not being alone might help.”

Natasha’s breath catches a little. Her bed doesn’t even have sheets on it right now. She rubs her brow.

“Um, I haven’t left here for days. Can I come to yours instead?”

He nods quickly.

“I just need to grab a bag, okay?” She lets the door swing open wider to invite him in, but when he crosses the threshold she puts a hand on his chest. “It’s not done—I’m not done, okay?”

“I get it.”

She backs away and heads down the hall to her bedroom, leaving Jack standing at the edge of the chaos.

“Holy shit,” she hears him say under his breath.

She steps into her bedroom and grabs her gym bag from the closet. She’s about to start stuffing a change of clothes into it when she catches a glimpse of him through the crack in her door.

He’s crouching down to look at the images closest to his feet, he knows better than to touch. Natasha swallows hard. He’s looking at images of Robby. Robby with Mohan. Robby and Whitaker. Robby and Al-Hashimi at each other’s throats. He walks around the edge of the pool, scanning as much of the mass as he can.

Natasha decides to let him look. She grabs clothes, bathroom essentials. Gives herself a 10 second tooth brush and a splash of cold water on her face. When he hears her coming back down the hall, he steps away from the edge.

“You didn’t tell me you were the Zodiac killer.”

Natasha smiles a little, now wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up.

“Mark pretty much said the same thing when he saw it. It’s usually scary before it gets good.”

He takes the bag off her shoulder as they start to make their way out to his truck.

“Sometimes scary is good.”

////////////

It’s nearly getting dark when she wakes. She’s alone in his bed. Natasha thinks he might already be gone, until she hears the quiet clanging of dishware coming from his kitchen. She should get up, get dressed, get going, but being here feels so good. She didn’t realize how badly she just wanted to rest.

He comes back into the bedroom holding a coffee cup. He sets it on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed next to her. She looks him over without lifting her head from the pillow. He’s got scrubs on. His hair is damp, he’s already showered. Natasha works to conceal her disappointment.

“I’m heading in. You can stay as long as you want.”

Natasha looks at his hand. He’s still wearing his ring. She sits up to get closer to him, she thinks he looks better. “Did you sleep?”

He smiles a little, “Yeah I did. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.”

“Same.” Natasha feels a tiny surge of satisfaction. “I’m gonna head home though, Mark is supposed to come over for another working session.”

He looks away at the floor and then looks back at her, like he’s deciding if he’s gonna say what he wants to say.

“I saw a lot of Robby. I didn’t see much of me.”

Natasha falls back and lets her head hit the headboard. “I told you it’s not done.”

He just sits there holding her stare, like her answer isn’t enough for him. So she leans forward and grabs his chin, like she did at the baseball game.

“You’re a problem for another day.”

At this, he smirks and makes a move like he’s going to try to kiss her. She playfully shoves his face away.

“You could do my best friend a favor and include a photo where he doesn’t look like an asshole.” He stands from the bed and starts to gather his things into his backpack to leave.

“I shoot it like I see it.”

And then, Natasha thinks back to what Mark had said about Robby, what she’d seen in her own images. A man teetering toward the edge.

“Do you think Robby’s…okay?”

Abbot doesn’t even pause his packing to consider her question.

“No, he’s fucked up.” He slings the backpack over his shoulder. “But I think he just needs a vacation. Some time away will get his head screwed back on right.”

Natasha doesn’t respond, just pensively reviews the images behind her eyes. His voice surprises her,

“Something you wanna tell me? Did someone say something?” He’s stooping down to find her eyes, waiting.

Natasha’s mouth falls open and then closes. She thinks of the photographs spread across her floor, the ones maybe he’d seen, but without the proper context. Whitaker’s homelessness. Robby’s emerging cracks. Trinity’s thigh. She thinks too about how he defaults to action.

“Nope.”

Natasha had been sleeping well. Better than she had in weeks actually. When Jack first started asking her to sleep—actually sleep—with him she was expecting it to slide into sex. She imagined he’d wake her in the night. A hand under her shirt, his voice in her ear. That was usually how it went. But lately, things have been different. Sometimes he'd pull her against him and his breath would go slow and even before she’d even gotten comfortable.

He’d wake before her and bring her coffee, no matter the time. Within the hour she was home, barefoot at her desk, working through the edit. She'd made more progress in the two hours since getting home than she had all week.

She’d finally found a flow for the resident stories. She’s found a narrative where each has their own moment but the paths between them emerge and overlap too. She’s feeling confident about what she has for Mohan, for Whitaker, for Javadi.

But then there’s Santos. And a thigh-shaped hole in the work. She’d been pushing photographs of Trinity around for an hour, hoping she could find a way to make it feel complete. But it just doesn’t fit.

She grabs her phone and shoots Trinity a text.

Want to ask you about shooting you outside the Pitt. Maybe at home? Let me know.

The image of Trinity’s blood stained thigh after the fight with Langdon is up on her display. Like a challenge. As the hours pass without a reply from Trinity, Natasha’s gut starts to churn and churn and churn. She decides she’ll just have to go find her. Natasha checks the schedule. Trinity is supposed to be on.

Natasha grabs her keys, leaves her camera.

When she walks into the ED, she heads straight for the central hub. Dana is there, phone to her ear, clearly on hold. Natasha waves for her attention. “Have you seen Santos?”

Dana barely looks up from her paperwork. “No, I haven’t. But I’ve been in a sexual assault collection all morning. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere.”

Natasha pushes off the desk and spots McKay coming out of a patient room. McKay sees her coming, notices her plainclothes.

“Didn’t think you were supposed to be here today?”

Natasha replies, “I’m not. I’m looking for Trinity. Do you know where she’s at?”

“You and everyone else. She was supposed to be here hours ago. Hasn’t shown. And I’m stuck here until she shows up.”

Natasha’s skin pricks.

“No one’s heard from her?”

McKay shakes her head no.

“Whitaker’s been blowing up her phone. I told him she’s probably passed out in bed. She pulled a double yesterday.”

Natasha scrubs her hands over her face.

“But she didn’t call in?”

McKay looks up from her tablet.

“No. Something wrong?”

Natasha looks around the ED one more time, hoping to see Santos push through the double doors.

“Maybe.”

////

Natasha corners Robby when he emerges from the bathroom.

“I need to talk to you. Privately.”

He checks the clock. Natasha does too. It’s almost time for shift change.

“Let’s make it quick.”

Trauma 2 is open, he leads her inside and Natasha waits for the door to seal shut.

“I have reason to believe that Trinity is engaging in self-harm.”

He pulls his readers off. For the first time maybe ever, Natasha has his full attention.

“That’s a pretty serious suggestion. Talk me through what makes you think that.”

“A few months ago, I walked in on Trinity in the bathroom. I saw old scars. From cutting. They were on her left upper thigh.”

“They were healed?”

“They were.”

“I’m assuming there’s more than that.”

Natasha pushes on, “A few weeks ago, I watched her pocket a scalpel from the equipment cart. And I photographed what I'm pretty sure was a bloodstain on that same thigh.”

Robby tweaks his head at her.

“A few weeks ago?

Natasha nods.

“And you’re just bringing this to me now?”

“I didn’t know—I don’t know if she’s cutting again,” Natasha corrects, “I’m not interested in jeopardizing her place here over a hunch.”

Robby presses his lips together. He looks as though he's about to respond, but his attention shifts past her. Jack is standing in the hallway, his backpack over one shoulder. He knocks on the door, his eyes finding Natasha before settling on Robby.

“Bad time?”

Robby looks between them.

“Come in. Close the door.”

Fuck.

He does, and comes to stand between Robby and Natasha.

“What’s happening?”

Robby offers the opening context.

“Santos no-call-no-showed for her shift today. Nobody has been able to reach her. Natasha has just raised a concern for her safety.”

Jack looks from Natasha to Robby.

“What kind of concern?”

“Self-harm.”

“Okay.” Jack crosses his arms. “What do we know?”

Natasha repeats the facts, more efficiently this time. Old scars. Scalpel. Boodstain.

Jack listens without interrupting.

“When did you see the scalpel and the stain?”

“A few weeks ago.” Robby answers for her.

Jack looks to Natasha.

“You knew about this weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, neither man says a word. Robby pulls out his phone, makes a move to leave the room. “I need to make some calls.” He looks at Jack. “Get Langdon to do handoff. And in another week, all this becomes your problem.”

Natasha watches Robby until he’s out of sight. When the door closes again, she doesn’t immediately turn back to Jack.

“You held onto this for weeks Natasha?”

She exhales before answering him, turns to look at him

“It wasn’t my information to give.”

He steps closer to her, his voice quieter now. “You knew about this when we went upstairs?

When we fucked on the 8th floor.

“At the game? What about the other day, at my place?” He’s working back through the timeline. She can hear the hurt underneath his question. “You couldn’t have come to me privately?

And maybe, her answer comes out a little cooler than she intended.

“Robby’s the Chief of the ED. You’re not her supervisor and you’re certainly not mine.”

When it hits him, he has to take a step back. He looks away from her, hands moving to his hips. Natasha can feel the conversation slipping, their restraint collapsing.

“For someone so hung up on ethics, it didn’t strike you as common fucking sense to bring this to us?

“It’s more complicated than that and you know it.”

“It’s not complicated. When someone is hurting you don’t just stand there, you do something.”

“No, you do something.”

That, at least, stills him for a moment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t get to dictate what an appropriate response is for me.”

“In this department? Yeah I do. Making those calls is my fucking job.”

Natasha can’t help but let out a frustrated little laugh.

“Something you wanna say now?”

She looks toward the door. For a moment, she considers just walking away. His anger is spilling over. They’re getting further and further away from anything helpful to Trinity. Natasha bites it back for a moment, then decides to let it fly.

“You want to talk about seeing people who are hurting? Look at Robby.”

She’s been watching him for the better part of a year. She knows what she’s seen.

Jack’s expression changes.

“He’s burned out. He’s going on sabbatical. What else do you want him to do?”

Natasha steps closer to him now.

“Jack, you’re not hearing him. It’s pretty fucking clear he’s not planning to come back.”

He screws his face up in equal parts confusion, concern, disgust.

“So Santos is stealing scalpels and that’s none of your business, but you can diagnose Robby as suicidal from across the room?”

“I’m not diagnosing anyone. I’m just telling you what I see.”

He shakes his head, mouth twisted up.

“Yeah, and all you do is watch.”

Trinity’s absence hadn’t been due to physical danger. There was a schedule mixup. A shut off phone. Jack had been tending to an asshole with a head laceration from a bar fight when Santos had been found. Whitaker had been able to get into her place, found her dead asleep.

But, Natasha had been right to have been concerned. Robby had pulled Santos aside, asked her about the scars. It had all come out then. Time off had been arranged. A care plan confirmed. Jack hadn’t asked for any more details than he needed to do his job.

All you do is watch

He flinches every time he thinks about what he’d said to her that night. What they’d said to each other. She was wrong for waiting so long about Santos. That, he feels sure about. But Natasha had been right for looking in the first place. Looking in a way no one else had.

Every time he saw her in the weeks that followed, he built more distance and she seemed glad to have it. Nothing passed between them. Not a word. Not a look. Not a touch. Nothing like a resolution. And in the void, his frustration has only grown.

What she’d said about Robby, about him not seeing the threat, not properly assessing the danger, has Jack feeling stupid. Resentful. He’s started replaying every interaction he’s had with Robby since PittFest, turning the Chief’s words over and over. Had he really missed something this big? Or had Natasha just wanted to get the upper hand? He hasn’t talked to either of them. He hasn’t let himself sleep. So when the SWAT call comes in, he also doesn’t hesitate before suiting up.

By the time Hiro is stabilized, Jack has been awake nearly twenty hours. He's caught a round across his shoulder, close enough to tear through his shirt and leave a shallow graze. His hands might be steady but his pulse still hasn’t come down. His buzz isn’t finding a place to land at the hospital, where everyone is distracted by the technology shutdown.

He should just go home. But he’s going to see her instead. It's a bad idea, that much he knows before he even arrives. And yet, he finds himself knocking on her door well after midnight.

When Natasha opens the door, dressed in nothing but cotton shorts and a white tank top, he loves how her knowingness melts into surprise. She’s never seen him in uniform. He watches her look him over, taking in the fatigues, the gear, the sweat-darkened hair at his neck. She chews on the inside of her cheek. Jack recognizes the expression. He's seen it before, at the hospital, when she'd photographed him in his element. He knows that for her, competence and arousal go hand in hand.

He leans against the doorframe.

“Wore this just for you.”

/////

He’d come to her looking for something he couldn’t quite name. He knows she’s felt what he’s feeling. The adrenaline of putting yourself into a situation without really taking time to assess the risk. But standing in her kitchen, drinking her booze, he’s still not sure if he wants her to come along for the ride, or talk him off the ledge.

She'd had the nerve to touch his wedding ring. To ask him, in that quietly relentless way, whether he could forget. Whether he knew where he was. And that's the problem with Natasha, she's not satisfied until she knows.

But then she'd reached for his belt, turned around at his command, tossed the condom he'd offered aside. Every time he'd given her an opportunity to pull back, to slow things down, she pushed ahead. And this time, he hadn't stopped her. He'd been relieved, almost, to find something she wanted from him, that tonight, he was willing to give.

With her bent over the kitchen counter, he finds he's still angry with her. For what she'd said about Robby. For touching his ring and asking questions she already knows the answer to. His grip tightens on her hips. She's been matching him, pushing him further than he'd intended to go. Then she reaches back, trying to slow him down.

He catches her wrist, twists her arm behind her back, and pulls her against his chest.

“This is what you like, isn’t it?”

With his mouth in her ear he says,

“This is what you wanted.”

When she doesn’t respond, he demands.

“Say it.”

“Yes.” Natasha manages as he keeps pushing the air out of her. And she comes then, tightening around him.

“Fuck.”

He drops his forehead to the back of her neck. His hands are gripping her so tightly he must be leaving marks. He empties himself into her, bare, for the first time. She lets him stay just a moment after he finishes before ripping his hands off and letting him fall from her. He takes an unsteady step back and slides down the cabinet behind him to sit on the floor.He rests his elbows on his knees. Puts his head in his hands. Natasha grabs her shorts from the floor, uses them to catch his semen running down her leg. She doesn’t say a word, just retreats to the bathroom. He hears the shower turn on.

When she emerges twenty minutes later, her still-wet hair dampening an old Pirate’s t-shirt and nothing else, he can tell she’s shocked to find him still there.

He’s dressed, sitting at her kitchen table. Waiting. The adrenaline is gone now. His backpack is fully reassembled at his feet.

“Did I hurt you?”

“That was kind of the point, wasn’t it?”

He can't tell whether she's reassuring him or accusing him.

She lifts the bottom of her shirt to expose red marks on her hip bones. From his hands, maybe. Or from being pressed into the counter’s edge. His expression is pained, then.

“I’m fine,” she answers.

He rubs a hand over his jaw.

“That’s not me. I don’t like that I went there with you.”

Natasha gives a sad little laugh,

“Well, I'm not thrilled by how much I liked it.”

He doesn’t move from his seat on the chair, but he leans forward now.

“Do you have—”

He starts and stops.

“Are you on something?”

He can tell from her face she doesn't understand.

“We always used a condom before.”

For one stupid second he imagines her pregnant then pushes the thought away.

“Oh.” Natasha nods, “I have an IUD.”

“Okay.”

What comes next?

He always has an answer, or at least a next step. He rubs his hands together and wills the next move to present itself, but nothing comes forward. It’s a situation he cannot triage.

She comes to him then, standing inches away.

His eyes trail down her body, looking for any other sign of harm he might have caused. Instead they land on the still slightly pink four-inch scar on the inside of her thigh, the one he’d stitched the night they met. He brushes it with his thumb. It’s not raised, fading quickly. He’d made a good repair.

“I don’t want to stop.” She says.

“Do you?”

Jack had asked her to meet him after his shift. That was literally all he'd said in a single text.

Meet me after work tomorrow

Two days had passed since they'd pulled each other across a line. Both mornings, Natasha had caught herself staring at the spot in her kitchen where he'd bent her over the counter. She'd found the unused condom under a pile of mail. It was easily the most erotic encounter of her life. She also knew it was a problem. She might have to move.

On the drive over to the hospital, she couldn't help but think he was about to put an end to the thing they'd never officially started. She found his truck near the far end of the hospital parking lot, the tailgate down. Jack was sitting on it, two coffee cups beside him. She remembered sitting there with him months and months ago, interviewing him about Pittfest. Back when the only thing between them was her audio recorder. Back when she had a perfectly good reason to ask him whatever she wanted. Now, she wasn't so sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

She climbs up beside him, takes the burnt hospital coffee without a word.

“I don't want to stop seeing you.”

A flush of relief washes over her, honestly catching her by surprise. But then, Natasha sees him settle his shoulders. She braces herself against whatever he's about to say next.

“But I think we need to take sex off the table for a while.”

Natasha's head snaps back a little, catching some reverb. That's not the answer she was expecting.

“Why?”

He looks at her like the answer should be obvious.

“You think that's how sex should be?” he asks, referring to that night.

This is what you like, isn't it?

She remembers her arm twisting back, his breath in her ear, feeling him, only him, with nothing between them for the first time.

She shrugs, acting like it wasn't devastating. “It can be.”

“Not for me. At least, not like that.”

Natasha turns her head slightly, her skepticism seeping through.

“You're telling me you didn't like it? I seem to remember your cum falling out of—”

“That's not what I'm saying.”

Another tiny wave of relief for Natasha. He can still want her that way. She waits for more.

“I came over angry at you.” He looks out over the parking lot, then forces himself to find her eyes again. “I wanted to punish you.”

“For what? Doing my job?”

“For seeing something was wrong and not saying anything. About people I care about. I could've done something, Natasha. Or at least tried.”

“Right, because all I do is watch.”

He looks away.

She's been carrying those words around for weeks. Of everything he's said and done to her, that's the thing she can't shake. He'd taken the skill she'd spent her life honing, the work she'd sacrificed so much for, and reduced it to a kind of cowardice.

“That's really all you think of me?”

“No.” He looks back at her. “But I knew it would hurt.”

She hadn't expected him to admit it so plainly. Somehow that makes it worse.

“I still think you should've said something about Santos,” he says.

“And I still think it wasn't my place.”

He nods, but she can see he isn't convinced.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

“I knew you were angry that night,” she says finally.

He turns toward her.

“I think you were counting on it.”

At this, Natasha stiffens. He's keeping himself deliberately calm, voice low and in control.

“I think you knew exactly how to push me to get what you wanted. Because it wasn't the first time.”

What are you trying to make me do?

Natasha leans back on her hands, trying to make sense of what he's saying. He's recognized something in her behavior, something she might have known was there but couldn't name. Shame pricks the back of her throat.

“I remember,” she rasps. “You stopped it—me then.”

“But not this time.”

“Jack, the other night was different.” She's trying to absolve him. “You had just been shot at, your friend was in critical condition—”

He cuts her off.

“I shouldn't have come to you like that at all. And when you tried to slow me down, I didn't listen. That's unacceptable to me.”

Natasha takes a breath. She understands his discomfort, even if she doesn't feel it the same way. It isn't the roughness that bothers him. It's why he'd wanted to do that to her.

She risks touching his arm then.

“I wasn't scared of you. I never told you to stop.”

Jack looks at her for a moment.

“That's not the point.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her hand on his arm. Neither of them moves.

“I don't like what I did,” he says finally. “And until I can trust myself not to do it again, I'm not putting us in that position.”

He stands up off the tailgate, moving out from under her touch.

Natasha watches him.

“So, what exactly are you asking me for?”

“More.”

“More what?”

He stands in front of her, hands on hips.

“Natasha, I like seeing you at work. I like sleeping next to you. I even like the fact that I find your hair all over my shit after you've been at my place.”

This is puzzling. No man has ever asked to see more of her while asking for less sex.

“I want more of that, whatever that is.”

Natasha thinks he's carefully avoiding certain words around her.

Together. Relationship.

“I want to figure out how to be pissed at you without one of us disappearing or just fucking our way around it.”

“And you think we have to stop having sex to do that?”

It isn't her nature to back down.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Then why stop?”

He sighs, dropping his hands to his sides. She's tiring him out.

“Because I want to see what happens when we don't.”

He's asking for the thing she suspects he's wanted all along. Intimacy, which means information. Access to the parts of herself she's rarely shared. She instinctively bristles at the thought. Then again, there's plenty he hasn't told her. Things she wants to know.

But, like always, the biggest thing that stands between them is her work.

“My project isn't finished. I still have a handful of shifts left.”

“I know.”

“At this stage in the game, I don't think people should know any more about us than they already do.”

He folds his arms across his chest, recognizing the negotiation.

“That's fine. I can wait.”

She squints at him a little.

“And you're taking me to that absurdly expensive steakhouse on Fifth. I'm ordering the porterhouse, and you're going to sit there and watch me eat the whole thing.”

He's smiling at her now.

“Jesus Christ, Natasha.”

He's close enough that she could count the freckled lines around his eyes. He bites his lip, and Natasha hates what it does to her. She takes a quick look around to make sure no one can see them, then she reaches up to grab his chin. She loves the rasp of her fingers against his stubble.

“Do I still get to kiss you?”

He thinks it over while already leaning toward her.

“Depends on the kiss.”

It's Natasha's thirty-seventh birthday. Mark had demanded a celebration. Just a few friends at one of their favorite spots. Nothing major. When Natasha enters the bar though, she sees a gaggle of familiar faces occupying the back corner: friends and colleagues from assignments around the world. Journalists and photographers, colleagues from the newsroom, but also aid workers, political staffers, and a couple of former Iraq vets turned security contractors.

For as much as she's drifted and protected her distance, Natasha has managed to forge some remarkably durable ties; the particular intimacy of people who've seen terrible things together.

She moves down the line of awaiting arms. Leah, who she met in Haiti but has since worked in half a dozen other countries, practically lifts her off the floor. Simone, a producer on her current editorial team, puts a drink in her hand. And then there's Mark, holding court at the center of the table. When she gets to him, he pulls her into a hug—the kind reserved for people who've seen you through some shit. Natasha has considered the fact that Mark is the single most consistent presence she's had in her adult life. He's also the only one in Natasha's world who knows about Jack. The only one here who's seen her work from the Pitt too.

When she pulls away, Mark asks.

“Didn’t think to bring Abbot?”

Natasha opens her mouth to make up some excuse, honestly a little surprised at his bluntness, when Mark interrupts her,

“That’s about what I thought. And why I invited him myself.”

What.

Natasha gives him a long, hard, withering look.

Mark shrugs. “He's a friend of mine too, you know.”

“You met him once, when you were shot.”

“And he saved my life.”

Natasha leans in close to his ear, her voice low in an I-mean-fucking-business kind of way.

“Mark, I’m not sure I need all my professional colleagues coming face to face with my giant conflict of interest.”

“Then keep it quiet. You still deserve to be with people you care about on your birthday.”

Natasha sees Mark gesture toward the door, a smug smile on his face.

Jack is wearing an olive green short-sleeved waffle sweater, one that grips his arms in a way Natasha has never seen.

A woman picked that out for him.

His hair is tamed, still slightly damp from a recent shower. He’s clean shaven though, so she momentarily makes a little pouty face. Natasha watches him scan the room before his eyes find hers. He catches her surprise.

“Who the fuck is that?” Leah asks, leaning into Natasha’s ear, clearly admiring him.

Natasha winces a little, “He’s here for me.”

She makes her way over to him.

He leans in to kiss her cheek, his hand settling briefly at her waist.

“Sorry, I didn't realize I was a birthday surprise.”

Natasha looks back at Mark.

“Neither did I.”

Jack connects the dots and takes a look around the room.

“If it’s too much, I can make myself scarce.”

Natasha looks him over then. His face is so earnest. She pulls gently on the fabric of his shirt, just below his chest.

“No, I want you here.”

She turns towards the party table and he follows a half step behind her. Mark sees them and immediately waves them over.

“Abbot.”

“Mark.”

Mark extends his hand to Jack.

“I never had the chance to thank you. For PittFest.” He claps a hand on Jack's shoulder. “Natasha said you and your team saved my life.”

Jack shakes his head a little and juts his chin toward Natasha.

“She saved your life, man. I just got you over the finish line.”

“Still, let me buy you a drink, what’ll you have?”

Watching them, Natasha can't help but feel like Jack is meeting her father. Never mind that Mark is a year or two younger than Jack. He's the person whose opinion of Jack, of her, matters most, whether she's prepared to admit that or not. Mark catches her eye over Jack's shoulder. She knows that look. He's pleased with himself.

Natasha flips him the finger.

It only takes a round of drinks before Mark is pulling up his shirt to show Jack the scars from his emergency laparotomy.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Natasha says.

Jack, apparently delighted to have encountered a former trauma patient in the wild, leans forward to get a better look.

“Any trouble with the incision?”

“Nope.”

“Bowel issues?”

“Haven’t gotten any complaints.”

Natasha makes a disgusted face.

“Did you get to keep your spleen?”

Mark looks uncertainly to Natasha.

“Am I supposed to know the answer to that?”

Jack laughs and Natasha pulls him away, hoping to introduce him to someone less embarrassing.

Leah is eating him up, asking Jack rapid fire questions about everything from his curl care routine to the gnarliest infection he’s seen in the ER. Jack is serving her right back, signature charm flowing off him in easy waves.

“So how do you and Natasha know each other?” Leah finally asks.

Natasha breaks in for Jack then.

“He treated Mark and me the night of PittFest. And he works over at Pittsburgh Trauma where I’ve been shooting this year.”

“That’s where I recognized you from!” She pokes Jack’s chest playfully. “Natasha’s piece in The Post.” Leah thinks she’s putting the pieces together now.

“I have to say, her photos of you garnered quite the response in our newsroom group thread.” Leah’s eyebrows go up a little bit. Jack holds her gaze, not acting at all embarrassed. “Inquiring minds want to know if you’re single.”

“Leah,” Natasha chides “this isn’t the press pool.” She turns to Jack, “You don’t have to answer her questions.”

“It’s okay,” he laughs a little, “I’m seeing someone actually.”

Natasha hopes her expression is cooler than her cheeks feel. Leah reacts,

“Of course you are. Is it serious?”

Natasha hopes Jack knows better than to look at her in this moment. She downs what remains of her drink.

He keeps his eyes on Leah,

“I think it might be, yeah.”

Natasha makes a break for the bar then, feigning interest in grabbing another drink, hoping to conceal her blush. When she gets there, Mark posts up beside her.

“He's somehow exactly how you photographed him and entirely different.”

Natasha follows his gaze.

Across the room, Jack has moved on to talking with the two veterans, Sam and Taylor, whom Natasha and Mark had met during their assignment in Iraq. Whatever Jack has said has them laughing. Already, they look like old friends.

“Different how?”

Mark considers it.

“Easy, I guess. I expected him to be a little more severe.”

“He can be,” Natasha reapplies some lip stain, “but I think his default setting is cool uncle.”

They watch him for another moment.

“He's good with people,” Mark says.

“Yeah.” Natasha takes her drink from the bartender. “He is.”

Mark looks at her.

“I like him.”

Natasha smiles into her fresh glass, a gin and tonic with about seven limes.

“Me too.”

A little while later, she finds Jack still talking with the two vets. They're comparing bases and deployments, Jack stands with a nearly empty beer in one hand, smiling as the other man makes his case for one model of armored vehicle over another. That’s when she sees it. Or rather, doesn’t.

His ring is gone.

She pictures him twirling the band around his finger, something he does often as an absent fidget, then deliberately sliding it off his hand. Natasha shakes the thought away. She can’t think too hard about it. Not here. Not now. In the moment she decides to accept it as a strange sort of birthday present from him. One she never could have asked for but appreciates all the same.

She approaches him from behind. Puts one hand over his shoulder and the other wraps around his hand holding the empty beer. She lets her fingers linger over the space where his ring should be.

“You want another beer?” Her eyes send an entirely different message.

Is this for me?

“I’m good.” He holds her gaze for an extra beat, “I’m gonna switch to water. But let me get you another drink.”

“No, no let me.” Natasha heads over to the water dispenser across the bar. Along the way she’s stopped for a hug, a photo, a request for a coffee catch up session soon. Just as she makes her way back to Jack, Leah appears, holding two shots of tequila.

Natasha looks at her questioningly, “One for you and one for me, right?”

Leah shakes her head no. “Both for you. One for the year that was, and one for the year that will be.”

“Absolutely not.” Natasha says, but the jeers from the friendly crowd say otherwise. She has always been able to hold her liquor.

Use it or lose it.

Jack’s looking at her, eyebrow arched. Natasha takes the first shot, then the second, without much of a grimace in between. She snags a lime out Simone’s margarita to cut the burn. Leah lets out a whoop.

Natasha turns to Jack, half expecting a lecture. But Jack doesn’t look irritated at all, in fact he’s smirking at her in a way that makes her stand up a little straighter. She leans into him a little bit.

“Oh you liked that, huh?”

He looks down the bridge of his nose at her. He pushes the water glass she’s been holding for him up to her own mouth. She obeys and swallows. He’s watching her throat. When she’s done, he takes the glass from her and downs the rest himself. Natasha wonders how hydration has become erotic. Perhaps it’s the absence of sex.

As the night rattles on, Natasha has been drawn into a conversation with Leah and Simone. They've been regaling each other with stories of the romantic disasters of their twenties. Jack leans on the bar top, his body close to Natasha’s back.

“Didn't you date a DJ for a minute?” Simone asks.

“Club promoter,” Natasha corrects. “And dating is a strong word for him pawing at me a few times in the back of his car.”

Jack smirks a little to himself.

“Right. God, what was his name?”

“Not worth remembering.”

Leah laughs. “I remember that guy. Frosted tips.”

Jack leans over Natasha’s shoulder into her ear. “Frosted tips?”

Natasha laughs, “I’ll tell you later.”

Simone snaps her fingers.

“Wait, wasn't that right before you met Andrew?”

Mark's head comes up. Natasha's smile holds for a second longer than it should. She sees Jack glance toward Mark, then back at her. His chin lifts slightly, registering the shift in the conversation.

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “Around then.”

Simone nods, oblivious.

Mark pushes back his chair.

“Does anybody need another round?”

It’s late and growing quiet. The rowdiest of the party-goers have moved on to another spot. Some begged Natasha to join, but she declined. She is due back in the Pitt tomorrow night. She’s already a little too drunk. Not gone, but definitely unable to drive. Mark and Natasha are slamming water and fries at Jack’s request and swapping work stories of all shades. The night has shifted into that warm depression where the conversation flags between silly and unnecessarily deep. One more fry and Natasha pushes away from the table.

“Alright, which one of you boys is taking me home?”

Mark is in no place to drive. Jack had offered to give him a ride too, but he jokingly waved Jack off while ordering an Uber,

“Please just deal with her.”

Natasha had punched his arm then left him with another hug. Promising to meet him for a gallon of coffee and a greasy breakfast sometime tomorrow. Now she’s leaning on her forearm against the window of Jack’s truck, watching the neighborhood blur by. She didn’t realize how much she needed a night like this. To be reminded of the connections she’d made. To see Jack, for once, in her world. But then she clocks the route he’s taking. Back to her townhouse. She frowns.

“Hey.”

He looks over at her.

“Can I stay with you instead?”

In the warm dark of his bedroom, Natasha strips off all her clothes. Inviting herself over had been an impulse, one that didn’t come with sleep clothes. He’s standing on the other side of the bed, staring at her, eyebrows knitted together. He pulls off his own undershirt and tosses it over to her.

“I can’t handle that right now.”

She waits a moment before turning around, giving him a different view, then slips the shirt over her head. Natasha considers testing the strength of his will. But the bigger part of her knows it’s not worth the risk. This is the first time she’s sleeping over since they’d established their new terms. She crawls under the covers and positions herself on her side, facing away from him. She’s careful not to cross the center line. She closes her eyes, praying she’d drank enough water to stave off the worst of a hangover.

“You’re far away.”

She smirks a little against her pillow. Turning to look over her shoulder, she says,

“I’m trying this new thing where I respect your boundaries.”

He curls an arm around her hip, pulling her across the mattress until she’s pressed up against him. Natasha puts her hand over his at her hip. The one that doesn’t have a ring on it right now.

“Thank you,” she pauses, “for coming.”

She can tell he’s already drifting off,

“Happy birthday baby.”

“What if you just use your mouth?”

She laces her hand with his, “Your fingers?”

She draws their entwined hands down her body. He makes a little noise against her mouth.

She’d tried something new. She came to his place in the middle of the night, to be there when he got home in the morning. She loved seeing the look on his face when he pushed open the bedroom door.

“I know you could get me there without being inside me at all. I believe in you.”

They’ve been kissing and sleeping on and off for hours.

“Does that count as sex?”

He breaks away from her mouth to move to her neck.

“If someone makes you come, I’m pretty sure it’s sex.”

It has been weeks. And Natasha has been her version of patient. She runs her hands down his chest, his stomach. She curls her fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pauses. Her eyebrows go up.

Please? Ready?

A sudden, serious expression takes over his face. He moves over her. Natasha’s stomach tenses in anticipation.

Finally.

But then,

“If you’re gonna be here alone, you need to lock the door behind you.”

He plants a firm open kiss on her lips and gets off her, up and out of bed. Natasha glares at the ceiling. She thought he had tabled sex to find his own control, but now she’s beginning to feel like there’s something more at play.

“Maybe I want someone to come inside.”

He throws her a disapproving glare. She rolls her eyes and gives him a mock salute.

“Why are you up so early?” She looks at the clock, it’s not even noon.

“I need to run by the house to check on some stuff. Not sure how long I’ll be.”

The house. His house. The one he shared with his wife. The one he hasn’t lived in for the better part of three years. Natasha is still processing when he casually throws out an invitation from the bathroom doorway.

“You wanna come with?”

Natasha isn’t sure what she’s about to walk into. Popular media says this can go one of two ways. Either this house will be a mausoleum, unchanged since the moment of impact, or an empty, vacant vessel of a former life. She’s not sure which is worse.

It’s a charming craftsman bungalow. 1925ish. Probably a normal starter house when he bought it, but Natasha imagines in today’s money, it’s a proper nest egg.

As they approach the front walkway, Natasha can’t help but notice everything is as neat as a pin. The hedges are trimmed, the porch swept clean.

“Do you have someone come do the lawn, clear the cobwebs?”

He jogs up the front stairs.

“No, I do it.”

Natasha pauses on the bottom step.

When?

“My neighbor checks in if I can’t get here. He thinks there might be a leak in the upstairs bathroom.”

He pushes the key into the lock.

“I just turned the water back on last week.”

Natasha cautiously follows him up the steps.

“Are…you thinking of moving back in?”

He shakes his head.

“Thinking about selling it. Or renting it. Haven’t decided. Robby mentioned some of the interns need somewhere reasonably priced to live.”

He pushes the door open and steps aside for her.

Natasha takes a cursory look around. Hardwood floors, a staircase with a thick wooden banister, a living room with only two mismatched chairs. There are clear gaps where some furniture has been taken while other pieces have been left behind. The house feels like a place someone had fled, not a place where time had stopped.

Jack drops his keys on a console table.

“Make yourself at home.”

She looks at him, eyebrows up. He shrugs.

“Go fix your toilet.”

“Sink,” he corrects. “I'll be upstairs.”

He disappears with his toolbox in hand.

Natasha wanders around the first floor. The kitchen has solid oak cabinets and a deep ceramic sink. She opens the refrigerator. Mustard. Baking soda. Two cans of beer. The living room shelving still has books, but not enough to fill them. There are paint color swatches stuck to one wall. Maybe they were updating the place when…

And then, Natasha sees a room off the kitchen, one she hadn’t noticed from the entry.

The light is excellent.

The space is small, but one entire wall is composed of oversized windows looking out over the backyard. She steps inside, takes in the view from the window, then looks at the wall behind her. Enough room for her desk, probably. Monitors could still be turned away from the glare.

She catches herself.

Jesus Christ.

She goes upstairs.

The first bedroom is mostly empty. A dresser, a mattress propped against the wall. The second is larger, with a bed frame and two matching nightstands. Probably their room. Natasa moves down the hall. The last tiny bedroom is painted a buttery, neutral yellow. The kind of color you choose when you're not sure who the room will be for.

She stands in the doorway a moment, fingers a chip in the frame.

From the bathroom at the other end of the hall comes a metallic clang.

“Son of a bitch.”

Natasha pops her head in.

Jack is on his back beneath the sink, one arm reaching up behind the basin. His t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his jeans. There's a gray smudge across his chest, another along his forearm.

She leans against the doorframe. Not a bad view.

“Hand me the channel locks?”

She looks at the open toolbox.

“The what?”

“Channel locks. Blue handles.”

She picks up something that looks approximately right.

He reaches out without looking. She puts it in his hand.

He glances at it.

“That's a wrench.”

“Is it?”

He cranes his neck to look at her. She shrugs.

“It has a blue handle.”

He gives a short laugh, then points.

“Other side. Under the tape measure.”

Natasha watches him work. He's been at it long enough that there's a damp towel beneath the sink and a small collection of discarded fittings on the floor.

“Making progress?”

“Sure.”

A drop of water falls onto his face.

He closes his eyes.

More drops follow.

Natasha presses her lips together.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

He reaches for the valve and shuts it off.

“Fuck it.”

He slides out from under the sink, puts his back against the edge of the tub, and wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. She comes to sit beside him on the floor.

“Something you can fix?”

He tosses the tool back into the box.

“Apparently not.”

She notices a little sweat on his brow.

“I could call my Uncle Nico.”

Jack looks at her.

“The mobster?”

“He's not a mobster.”

“You told me he was a mobster.”

“No, I told you he had unconventional entrepreneurial interests.”

Jack looks under the sink, then at her.

“Does he know plumbing?”

“No, but I'm sure he knows a guy. Probably three guys.”

She picks a piece of lint off his shirt.

“Don't worry. He'll only ask you for one favor in return.”

Jack shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Natasha leans into his side.

“You know, I find this very reassuring.”

He looks at her, confused.

“What?”

“That there's something you're bad at.”

He gets to his feet and offers her a hand.

“Come on.”

Back downstairs, he pulls open kitchen cabinets until he finds a single drinking glass. He fills it with water for her. Then he bends down to drink directly from the faucet.

Natasha watches him, noticing the way the muscles in his back flex beneath his shirt.

“Quite civilized.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry. Want me to put on a tie?”

Natasha leans against the counter.

“That room off the kitchen. What was it?”

He glances toward the doorway.

“Sunroom. Used to be a porch. We enclosed it.”

We.

Natasha nods.

“It has good light.”

“Gets hot as hell in the summer. My wife used to bask in there. Like a lizard.”

My wife.

Natasha can think of a dozen instant questions, and she keeps them all to herself.

“My kind of girl.”

Jack smiles. He looks around the kitchen.

“Anything you think I ought to take back to the apartment?”

Natasha purses her lips a little.

“Does this place have any silverware? You only have, like, three forks.”

He pushes off the opposite counter and comes toward her. He puts his hands on her hips and shifts her sideways, opening the drawer she'd been leaning against.

It's full of silverware.

She pushes his shoulder.

“You've been holding out on me.”

He takes out the full tray, sets it on the counter next to her.

“Anything else?”

Natasha thinks for a moment.

“Christmas lights?”

He tilts his head at her.

“It's October.”

She leans into his face a little, her voice a challenge.

“Maybe I'm planning ahead.”

He smiles then. She catches the front of his shirt as he leans in to kiss her. Every part of him is warm. When he draws back a few seconds later, he stays close enough to murmur in her ear.

“Hall closet,” he says, “Should be a box of Christmas stuff in there.”

Natasha finds the closet beneath the stairs. There's a vacuum cleaner, a forgotten rain jacket. And then several cardboard boxes pushed toward the back.

She crouches to read the labels.

TAXES.

MED SCHOOL.

CHRISTMAS.

She pulls the box toward her, and when she does, it dislodges something propped behind it.

A framed photograph slips sideways and comes to rest against her knee. Natasha catches it before it falls.

It's a group of soldiers standing beside a Humvee. Marines. Sunburned faces, sand-crusted uniforms, arms slung around shoulders. Someone has painted a crude pinup girl on the side of the rig. Something about it makes Natasha freeze. Something uncanny, familiar even. She turns the frame toward the light.

It only takes her a second to recognize him. There in the middle is Jack. Fifteen years younger. His hair a deep shade of auburn, curling slightly at his temples. He's grinning at whoever is behind the camera, one arm thrown over the man beside him.

From the kitchen, Jack calls out.

“Find 'em?”

She snaps a picture of the photograph with her phone.

“Yeah.”

Then she calls back.

“Found something else, too.”

Robby sounded good.

That’s what Jack can’t quite get past.

He expected some improvement. Robby had been gone long enough by now, and the last time they'd spoken he'd seemed more like himself. But today he was laughing, telling Jack about the deliciously curvy back roads he’d taken out of Buffalo Gap, about a woman he'd flirted with at a dive bar along the highway. He didn’t ask about work at all.

Jack followed along. Told him he was glad things were going well. Then he asked when Robby thought he might be coming back. There'd been a pause. Robby wasn't sure. He was starting to think he needed more time. Maybe a lot more.

After they hung up, Jack couldn't stop thinking about what Robby’s new levity really meant. How long had he been like that? How much of the last ten years had Jack’s best friend been barely hanging on?

She is sitting at her desk when he arrives at her place, coming straight from work. One leg is tucked beneath her. Her hair is down and not quite dry from a shower. She glances over her shoulder.

“Hey.”

“I thought we talked about this.” He bends to kiss her, “Please lock the fucking door.”

She catches his chin and holds him there for another. She smells so good, clean.

“You're late. Shit hit the fan?”

“Something like that.”

She turns back to the screen. Jack stands behind her chair. She’s looking at a photograph of him and Mohan from the day before, one of Natasha’s last night shifts. He doesn’t want to think too much about not seeing her there anymore.

In this shot, Samira’s face is pressed against his shoulder, his arms wrap easily around her back. He'd forgotten Natasha was there for that. He remembers how happy he was for Samira, the way she'd clearly been waiting to tell him about the fellowship in Chicago, bouncing with anticipation. Natasha studies it, and him, for another moment, then closes the program.

“No peeking.”

He moves over to the reading chair next to her desk, limping just a little bit. He lets the exhaustion settle over his body. He’s feeling fifteen hours in the Pitt and then taking Robby’s call from his truck in the parking lot. He lets his head rest against the back of the chair. For a while, they sit in silence. The only ambient sounds being Natasha’s fingers across her keyboard and the tired sputtering of her ancient coffeemaker.

“Talked to Robby today.”

She turns in her chair toward him.

“How did he sound?”

“Good.”

Natasha pauses.

“I’m gonna need more detail than that.”

He sighs, then tells her about the biking, the woman at the bar, the gift shop at Buffalo Gap. The whole thing sounds ridiculous coming out of his mouth. He can hear himself listing the anecdotes as though they explain something.

Natasha listens intently.

“And he doesn't know when he's coming back?”

Jack shakes his head.

“Didn't sound like he was in any hurry.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, and scrubs his hands over his face.

“He sounded happy. Happier than I've heard him in a long fucking time. And I'm sitting there listening to him talk and all I can think is, jesus, how fucking miserable was he before?”

Natasha stays quiet. He realizes he’s starting to ramble but can’t seem to stop.

“I knew things were bad. Especially toward the end. But some of it I just got used to. The way he'd lose his shit over something, or go three shifts barely talking to anybody. I just figured he'd had a bad night. Or a bad week. Then he'd come back in and do his job, and everything was fine.”

He looks at her now, “Except apparently it wasn't.”

She’s nodding along.

“Right. You’re maybe feeling like, if this is the real Robby, who have you been friends with for the last ten years?”

He knows she isn’t being cruel. She’s following the thought to its logical conclusion, the way she always does.

“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”

“And if you’ve both been working through the same system…”

She lets that hang in the air between them.

He's always considered himself better at keeping things separate than Robby. He could keep his head on right when everything around him went to shit. He didn't take things personally. He didn’t fall in love with promising young residents. At least, not the way Robby did.

He’s thinking now about all the times he'd acted first and only considered the consequences after, confident that he could manage whatever came next. He'd always called that discipline.

But was it? Maybe it was survival.

“You think I'm on the same trajectory?”

Natasha gets up from her desk and comes over to him. She puts her hands on his thighs, kneels between his open knees. He can tell she’s choosing her next words carefully—not something she usually does with him.

“I think you two have spent a long time in a place that asks a lot of you.” She starts to unlace his boots for him. “A place that takes everything you have while you’re there.”

He’s watching her hands work. He isn’t used to this kind of touch directed at him anymore, a caretaking kind of touch.

“That's not what I asked.”

No, he hasn’t publicly cracked like Robby. But he's spent the better part of three years keeping a house he can't bring himself to live in. Volunteering for SWAT calls when he doesn’t need the money, or the hours, or another excuse to stay awake. He has purposefully misdated ultrasounds. Leaned too far over the rail. Lost himself in rough sex with a woman he’s falling in lo—

“Fuck,” he says.

She pulls his boots off, then lets her hand linger over the space where his shin meets metal.

“Do you want it on or off?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’m not Robby.” He says it mostly to convince himself.

“No, you’re not.” She grabs his wrist instead, starts working open the clasp on his watch.

“But I think it's worth asking how much of what you do is because you still want to, and how much is because you don't know how to stop.”

She rubs his skin underneath the watch, then makes a move toward the kitchen. He instantly registers the loss of her touch. He grabs her hand.

“No, come here.”

He pulls her down into his lap. Her denim shirtdress bunches up around her hips.

He wraps his arms around her, rests his forehead against her chest. He breathes her in. When he just stays that way after a minute or so, Natasha brings her hands to his hair, tracing little circles at the back of his neck.

When he’d hung up the call with Robby, he’d sat in his truck for twenty minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel. He’d started to feel a little bit of that familiar pull. To put his head underwater. Or go back inside and find another trauma to work.

He'd come to her place because he hadn't wanted to go home and sit alone with Robby's voice in his head. He'd wanted Natasha. Craved her company. Her attention. And now he is feeling himself slipping away, getting lost on the heated edge that always seems to sit between them.

He slides his hands under her dress, pulls her hips closer. Hooks a finger underneath the edge of her underwear. He lifts his head to look at her and she’s already there, ready for his kiss.

He's spent weeks waking beside her, watching her get dressed, being able to touch her without needing an excuse. But he's missed this. The way she meets him without hesitation. The way she never hides how badly she wants him. She's made no secret of her recent frustration, and though he keeps waiting for the edge to soften, it hasn’t at all.

He feels her fingers at his throat, her hips rocking against him. He almost lets it happen. Then he pulls back, catching his breath. He loosens his hold on her.

“Jack. No, we’re okay.”

He withdraws his hands from under her dress.

For a moment she doesn’t move. Then she pushes out of his lap with force. She’s upset.

“Tasha,” is all he can manage.

“You said you wanted us to figure out how to be together without sex,” she puts her hands on her hips, “We have. We sleep together. We talk. I show up for you and you show up for me.”

He stands up from the chair with some effort.

“I'm just trying to do this right. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Maybe when you started this,” she says, “but now it feels like you’re trying to trade one kind of closeness for another.”

Natasha runs her hands through her hair.

“Like there’s some kind of test you’re waiting for me to pass.”

That catches him off guard. When he'd suggested the pause, part of him had hoped that taking sex away would leave them no choice but to figure out what else they were. But he didn’t intend for her to feel controlled. Did he?

Jack winces.

“I got off the phone with Robby,” he says, “and I just wanted not to think for a minute, so I came here. And then I started to feel like I did that night.” He looks over to the kitchen counter.

Natasha approaches him, puts her hands on his chest.

“Right. You came here. But you told me. And we talked about it. Why does wanting me afterward mean you're doing something wrong?”

Well, he doesn’t have an argument for that.

Natasha exhales. The exhibition has a home. Her and Mark have been shopping the in-progress work around for more than a month; many nibbles but no bites. Natasha suspects the corporate hospital as her not-quite-silent partner has complicated the art world’s feelings about it. But the Carnegie Museum of Art has an expansive temporary gallery and a new modern art curator with a taste for editorial photography.

When she met with the museum team, Natasha had anticipated getting a single room or stretch of wall, but after reviewing her initial 200 selects, they offered her the full gallery. It was triple the square footage she had imagined for herself and it came with a dedicated working studio space and a team of expert installers. She’ll finally be able to reclaim her living room from the ever-expanding edit. Jack had called the massive collage of photos, sticky notes, and layout sketches “the blob.” She kinda hated that the name fit.

Natasha’s initial ecstasy has been replaced with fluttering worry at the realization of the mountain of work she has ahead of her. This isn’t going to be getting some prints and labels made. This is a proper exhibition, with large-scale graphics, video projections, media coverage, the whole nine. It is exactly what she wants, she just hopes she has the balls and the bandwidth to actually pull it off.

She’s hunched over the blue light from her laptop, staring at the blinking cursor in her email. The hospital’s marketing team has created some truly horrific mockups of campaign materials to promote the exhibition, and Natasha has been quietly pretending they don’t exist. But now the email subject lines always say URGENT. She takes a breath and opens the attachment.

It’s a shot she’d taken of Robby, just before he’d left. He’s holding a baby, the one that had been dumped in the hospital bathroom. A tagline beneath it reads,

Every day we find a reason to hope.

Natasha can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. It’s a beautiful image on its face, but one that melts into discomfort the more context is revealed. To Natasha’s eye, that baby was the equivalent of a suicide hotline, the only thing keeping Robby off the roof. She momentarily writes “Eat shit” in the email body, but then thinks better of it. This is a conversation she wants to have in person, to remind the hospital administration that they don’t own her edit. She’ll find time to break away upstairs and talk with the marketing team tomorrow, during her last shadow shift in the Pitt. She glances at the fat stack of manila envelopes on her desk and slips them into her bag.

/////

She’s ending her time at the hospital on a day shift. She had thought a night would be more poetic, given the silver-haired circumstances she finds herself in, but she can’t shake the gut feeling that she’s missing something—a shot, a moment, a capstone—from the day side. Natasha also knows that those moments can’t be orchestrated, only found.

She sets up in her usual spot, tucked into a corner just off the central hub, and dials in her settings. She’d packed light. A single lens and an extra battery. In reality, she already has far too many photos, even too many for her new massive gallery. But she wanted a clean end, a last shift. A true finish line.

Jack is around here somewhere, finishing up his night shift. He’s off for the next few days. The developments with the museum came hot and heavy, so over the last two weeks she’s barely seen him, awake that is. She manages to find her way into his bed a few nights a week. It's an arrangement neither of them has discussed, but one she finds herself unwilling to give up.

They still haven’t had sex again, but Natasha is done trying to coax him back. It’s not exactly rejection she feels—the intensity between them hasn’t waned—but he’s just so damn stubborn. She should have known his militaristic self-discipline would be a problem. After her Iraq embed, she had even instituted a strict “no soldiers” policy. Perhaps a little distance will sharpen his desire.

After nearly a year, she knows this place by feel, by sound. At 6:30am, the hospital is still waking up. Dana has already been on for thirty minutes, phone to her ear, glasses around her neck. Natasha has arrived especially early, a specific last shift mission on her mind.

She takes the stack of manila envelopes out of her bag, each marked with a different name. Inside are two or three printed photographs of each person she’s come to know here. These photos are outtakes and intimate moments, things Natasha wouldn’t put in the show, but couldn’t bring herself to delete.

McKay taking an IO drill to her ankle monitor.

Whitaker, Santos, and Javadi posing like the poster for Charlie’s Angels during a natural disaster training simulation.

Samira performing a lifesaving heart procedure, tendrils of hair falling across her face, with Jack a blur in the background.

Princess and Perlah counting their split betting pool winnings.

Dana walking new nurse Emma to the cafeteria during her first shift, arm in arm.

Natasha spent precious hours choosing these moments for these people, hours she probably should have spent working on the final edit. But she’d loved the process of selection, making a practice of demonstrating how she sees this group of extraordinary people. People she’s come to know.

She tapes them to lockers. Drops them at work stations. Puts them inside someone’s favorite equipment drawer. Just as finishes her deliveries, Natasha sees McKay and Langdon walk in together, Whitaker not far behind. Santos is still on leave. Natasha joins them on a lap around the main hall, hoping to hitch a ride with a patient at handoff. McKay hip checks Natasha,

“I didn’t see any more camera icons on the schedule, is this your last day?” Langdon and Whitaker lean in to listen.

Natasha confirms, “Last day shooting. You’ll probably see me around here a while longer while we finalize the show. You all are going up in the Carnegie Museum.”

“Holy shit, Natasha,” Cassie playfully slaps her arm, “that’s major.”

Natasha gives a I’m-hot-shit kind of expression.

“I don’t fuck around.”

And then he appears.

“Nightcrawlers! Get on your horses, handoff starts in five.”

Maybe I do fuck around a little.

His posture is even more coiled than usual, like there’s tension on the line. She knows he and Baran have been sharing the Chief duties while Robby’s been gone. She also knows it’s mostly stuff he hates—paperwork, breakfast meetings with admin, hand-holding needy staff.

“He’s been different lately. Like he’s itching to get out of here.” McKay throws her stethoscope around her neck and zips up her hoodie. “I thought at first it was about Robby leaving, and maybe it is a little bit.” Then she turns so she’s facing just Natasha, “but I also have a feeling it has something to do with you.”

Natasha deadpans, “I couldn’t possibly know what you mean.”

McKay screws up her face in a display of mock suffering.

“It’s your last day Natasha. Throw me a bone. A tiny, gossipy bone.”

They both turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the nurse’s station, hands in pockets, jaw working a piece of nicotine gum. Princess is narrating her entire commute loosely in his direction, but he’s staring at Natasha. Chin up. Shoulders back. Smirk on. Natasha tips her chin back at him.

Something is different.

He hasn’t looked at her like that since, well, since they had uncomplicated spontaneous sex on the 8th floor.

“His shower has fantastic water pressure.”

McKay looks at her.

“Natasha,” she draws out every syllable.

Pulling her hair back into a ponytail, Natasha adds,

“And the shower bench is really handy.”

McKay’s mouth drops open a little.

“You know, for his leg.”

McKay holds up her hands.

“That’s a bone alright.”

Natasha smiles a little.

“Keep it to yourself for now, yeah?”

McKay nods, “For now? What are you waiting for?”

“Uh,” Natasha can see people starting to cluster around him for handoff, “The work makes it complicated.”

McKay starts to head over in his direction.

“Well, pretty soon you’ll have to find a new excuse.”

Natasha hangs back at the edge of handoff as they make their way to each patient. There’s a elderly woman with a UTI, a teenager with a torn ACL, a homeless frequent flyer who’s here for a sandwich and some schizophrenia. Natasha keeps her camera at her hip. She glances at the clock. She’s supposed to be meeting with the hospital communications team in ten minutes. She’d hoped to have a chance to connect with Jack before he leaves, it is her last day after all.

By the time they’ve looped back to the central hub, Natasha can’t really wait any longer, so she breaks away for the stairwell. As she starts climbing the steps, she notices the door hasn't slammed shut behind her.

It’s him.

He climbs toward her, stopping a step or two below so she’s a little taller than him. He looks up at her.

“Last shift?”

She nods at him.

“Last shift.”

He looks her up and down, not in a wanton way, in a I-want-to-remember-this kind of way.

“I miss you.”

Natasha’s breath catches. That wasn’t quite what she was expecting.

Not “I’ll miss you” or “we’ll miss you.” Present tense. She knows he can get to vulnerability, but he almost never leads with it. She searches for a response.

“I know I haven’t been over much. I’ve been working with the museum and moving all my materials to the new studio space. It’s a lot.”

He puts his hands on her waist and pulls her down a step, so they’re pretty much eye to eye. Her bottom lip drops in surprise. Her hands land on his shoulders of their own accord.

“Wanna go up to eight? For old time’s sake?”

Natasha is immediately suspicious.

“I’m not interested in any more teasing.”

“Neither am I.”

She steps out of his grip and moves up a stair.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He moves up a step too. Shakes his head no.

“What changed?” She asks him.

He holds onto the railing. She can tell he’s trying to summon the right words.

“I still think about that night,” he drops his head a little, “about what I did.”

“What we did.” Natasha corrects, finding his eyes.

“But I know I shouldn’t let one night decide what happens every night.”

Natasha knew she’d made some kind of breakthrough with him during their last near miss at her place, telling him that his desire for self-control had spilled over into something unfair. She still isn’t entirely convinced and he can tell. He tries a different tack.

“I’ve been an asshole. Let me fix it.”

He’s reaching for her again.

“We can’t. I’m meeting with the hospital marketing team,” she intercepts his wrist and looks at his watch, “in six minutes.”

He’s already leaning in towards her mouth.

“I can work with that. After the month I've had, six minutes is optimistic.”

Natasha grabs his chin, pushes him down a step by his face.

“No.”

She can tell he likes that.

“Go home. Go to sleep. Let me finish this.” She gives him a whisper of a kiss. “And then you have a lot of fixing to do.”