Chapter Text
I’m not supposed to be in the room.
I’m not peds, not obgyn. I’m a neurosurgeon. I am, very specifically, extra right now.
But Link had looked at me in that quiet, wrecked way when he’s trying not to collapse. Please, Amelia. I need someone in there.
So here I am.
Link isn’t allowed in while Jo is open. While the twins are technically still patients. I’m the stand-in. The promise.
I stand just beyond the sterile field, hands shoved into my scrubs, fingers tangling and untangling as I watch Jo bleed more than any human should bleed. As I watch two impossibly tiny babies try to fight their way into the world.
The monitors are steady until they’re not.
The first twin’s pulse-ox drops, just a little at first, the way things always do when they’re about to careen over an edge.
“Where the hell is peds?” I call across the OR, voice climbing. “They should have been called as soon as she was opened up!”
I promised I wouldn’t touch the patients; I didn’t promise I would keep quiet.
Adams clears his throat. “Peds is short,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “Chief has called in help. They’re on their way.”
I feel it like a pulled stitch. Monica’s absence isn’t loud. It’s worse. It’s structural.
Another drop, another alarm.
Link’s voice is suddenly in my head - “Don’t let them die, Amelia.”
“I’m scrubbing in,” I say quickly. Because cutting is the only way I know how to help right now.
Bailey looks at me with something close to sadness. “No you’re not. Wilson, these babies. They’re not your patients. You’re not touching them.” Her voice is soft but commanding. It leaves no room for argument.
“She’ll be here, Amelia,” she adds, gentler this time. Like she knows how much it’s costing me to step back.
I’m a fraction of a second away from ignoring Bailey and stepping into the sterile field when the doors slide open, the faint hiss cutting through the sound of the monitors blaring.
My breath catches. It’s not shock, not surprise. It’s relief.
Arizona Robbins moves into the room like she never left it.
Shorter hair. Same determined walk. Same way her eyes go straight to the problem.
She’s already asking for vitals, scanning the monitors for anything that might save these babies.
“Hey,” she says as one of the scrub nurses ties her into her gown. “I hear there’s a pair of tiny humans trying to scare everyone.”
It’s such an Arizona thing to say that I almost collapse in on myself right there in the OR. Because suddenly it feels like the air has lifted. Like I’m going to be able to walk out this room and tell Link that everything is going to be okay.
Arizona looks at me - really looks at me - like she’s cataloguing the panic in my eyes, the creases in my forehead.
“Go and tell the family that I’ve got this,” she says.
“No, I can’t — I promised.”
Arizona raises an eyebrow. Quick. Assessing. “Amelia, these are Scout’s sisters. I can’t do this with you in here.”
I shrug. “I’m not going anywhere.”
An alarm sounds and Arizona snaps into surgeon-mode, twisting towards the table so fast it makes me dizzy.
“Fine, you’re in. But you stay over there and you keep your mouth shut.”
Arizona doesn’t waste any more time.
“Status.”
“Peripartum cardiomyopathy,” Winston answers from across the drapes. Calm. Controlled. “We need to deliver before we open up her chest.”
Jo’s blood pressure dips.
“Alright,” Arizona says. “Let’s get these babies out fast.”
The OB moves with urgency, hands slick with blood as she widens the incision.
My pulse is loud in my ears but I keep her mouth shut. Because the moment is too fragile.
The first baby is out.
Small. Blue. Not breathing.
Arizona is already there: ventilation, suction, determination. She repositions the tiny body. Counts under her breath.
The chest lifts and a weak cry breaks the silence. Arizona hands her over to the NICU team who bundle her into an incubator and wheel her away.
She turns back just in time for the OB to pull the second baby out.
This one is worse. No cry. No movement.
Arizona intubates, the tube sliding in smoothly.
Behind her, Winston’s voice cuts through the noise. “Her pressure’s tanking. I need to move now.”
The baby’s heart flickers on the monitor. Slow. Fragile.
“Come on, baby,” Arizona breathes. “Stay with me.”
The baby jerks and the monitor explodes into life. Seventy. Eighty. Pulse ox is climbing.
“That’s better,” she says softly, a thin smile in her voice.
Another incubator. Another team wheeling the second baby out the room.
Winston doesn’t hesitate. “We’re opening the chest.”
Jo’s body jolts slightly as they begin the sternotomy. I presses into the wall behind me, knuckles white.
Minutes stretch. The OR hums with controlled chaos. Jo’s pressure stabilises. The alarms soften. Finally, Winston steps away from the table, shoulders easing a fraction.
I breathe and the ache in my chest eases. Arizona peels off her gloves and turns towards me, eyes glowing. I already know what she’s going to say but I need her to confirm it.
“They’re stable. All three of them.”
I swallow hard.
“Arizona,” I say suddenly. “Thank you.”
Arizona’s eyes soften, the woman under the surgeon peering through the professional exterior.
“Any time,” she says. “Kind of my thing.”
-
Link is pacing.
They’re not big strides. They’re tight restless loops, staying as close to the doors as he can without being forcibly removed by security.
His hands flex at his sides like he’s still trying to scrub in.
When the doors finally open, he stops so abruptly it’s like he’s hit a wall.
I step out first.
He opens his mouth to speak but she stops him before he can find the words.
“They’re okay,” I say immediately. “All of them.”
He stares up at me, brain scrambling to catch up. “Okay how?”
Arizona takes a step forward, planting herself beside me. Her pink scrub cap is still firmly fixed on her head. Her eyes are tired but clear.
“Both babies are stable,” she says calmly. “They’re in the NICU, on support, but they’re little fighters. Like their mom.”
Link’s body collapses forward, hands on his knees like he’s remembered gravity exists. A ragged breath tears out of him.
“And Jo?” he asks, voice rough.
“She’s on bypass,” I say. “Winston is repairing the damage now. She’s still here.”
I steps closer, rest a hand on his arm. Link nods as if the motion will keep the truth from slipping away.
“I should have been there,” he says, quietly.
Arizona shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You did exactly what she needed. You trusted us.”
When he looks up, it’s as if he finally sees her. His brows knit together as recognition clicks into place.
“Arizona Robbins?” It’s a question but it’s filled with something closer to relief than curiosity. “You’re the VIP Webber brought in?”
He straightens and sticks a hand out. “I’m Atticus Lincoln. Link.”
“Scout’s dad,” she says easily. “Amelia’s told me all about you.”
Her eyes sparkle, mischievous. Link freezes.
“Relax - nothing bad!” I add quickly, swatting Arizona’s arm.
Link deflates, a small smile creeping onto his lips.
“Shall we go and meet your girls?” Arizona says.
-
I make it as far as the Attending’s Lounge before I come apart.
The door closes behind me and whatever has been holding me upright finally gives out. I sink into the couch, spine folding, elbows on my knees, hands pressed against my face like I can keep everything in if I apply enough pressure.
I don’t cry.
That would be cleaner.
Instead, my breath stutters. My chest tightens. My thoughts overlap.
The couch dips beside me. Arizona doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands me a bottle of water that she definitely stole from somewhere and waits.
But the silence is too tight. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Arizona says gently, words cutting through the quiet.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say. The lie doesn’t even try to land.
Arizona laughs. It’s too light for the moment but it cracks something in my chest anyway.
“Okay,” she says, disbelief threading through her voice. “How about I tell you what I think and you can tell me if I’m wrong?”
I shrug. I know Arizona well enough to know she’s going to push, whether I want her to or not. It’s easier to let her than to try to deflect.
“I think you did something impossible,” she says. “And when it didn’t work the way you wanted, you decided it must be your fault.”
I swallow.
“I think you’re carrying what happened in the OR,” she continues. “What happened after. With that doctor - Belton?”
“Beltran,” I correct quietly. The name slips out like a broken promise.
Arizona nods. “I think you’re blaming yourself,” she adds. “And I think it feels safer to tear yourself apart than to actually sit with how much it hurt.”
I stiffen. She’s right. Every word of it. But agreeing would make it real and I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
“Richard or Teddy?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Arizona hesitates.
“Teddy,” she admits. “She called me last week. Told me everything.”
I huff a breath, half-laugh, half-pain.
“Brilliant,” I say, my voice flat and jagged. “I’m pleased that my breakdown has brought you both hours of conversation. Any other insights I’m not aware of?”
Arizona doesn’t bite. “Stop being dramatic,” she says. “She didn’t tell me to gossip. She told me because she’s worried about you.” She looks at me now. Really looks. “With good reason apparently.”
She shifts beside me, twists so that she’s facing me. “She thought I might be able to help you.”
I press the bottle to my lips but I barely drink. Arizona watches me, letting me unfold without comment. She doesn’t need to speak to remind me that she knows the exact way I tense my shoulders when I’m about to crack. The way I tilt my head when I’m trying not to shatter.
“I’m fine,” I say. My voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
Arizona hums, noncommittal. She doesn’t argue. That’s worse. She leans back into the couch, giving me space without leaving it. I hate how precise she is with me. How she always was.
“You’re doing that thing,” she says after a moment. “Going quiet before you disappear into yourself.”
My jaw tightens. I stare at the far wall, at a hairline crack in the paint that I’ve never noticed before.
“Can’t you just leave me alone?” I say. Cold, devoid of feeling. I don’t mean a word of it.
“Nope,” she replies without missing a beat. “Do you remember first year of residency? That storm that hit Baltimore –”
I cut her off before she can finish. I know her game: remind me of all the times I’ve felt like I’m on the edge and pushed through. Make me feel like I can handle anything. It twists in my gut.
“Hopkins was a long time ago,” I say. Sharper than I mean it to be.
“You were still you,” she says softly.
It lands wrong. Too close to the bone. I feel myself imploding inwards, ribs locking down around my lungs. I tuck one foot under me, make myself smaller.
“I’m not falling apart,” I say.
“Could have fooled me.”
There’s a burn behind my eyes. I ignore it.
“Monica is dead,” I say flatly. “Link almost died. His little girls almost died. Jo is lying on an operating table, almost dying.” My voice falters; I clamp down harder. “I don’t get to fall apart.”
Arizona leans forward. I don’t look at her. If I do, I won’t be able to hold back the tide.
“You don’t get to outrun it either,” she says. “I’ve seen you try. Never works.”
I finally look at her just long enough to regret it. There’s something in her face. Concern, yes, but also recognition. She’s not seeing Amelia Shepherd, Chief of Neurosurgery. She’s seeing Amelia Shepherd, second-year resident, complete mess, pacing the stairwell at two in the morning, hands shaking, pretending she wasn’t unravelling.
“I don’t want your help.” It’s honest. Bare.
Arizona’s eyes soften. That hurts more than anything.
“Richard’s asked me to stay. Chief of Peds.”
Chief of Peds. Monica’s replacement. The words rattle through my skull. I want to tell her not to. I want to tell her to go back to New York. I want to not have to feel all of this. And I can’t do that if she’s here.
But I don’t. Because deep down, I’ve never needed anything more.
“I don’t want to replace her, Amelia,” she says like she’s read my mind.
My chest tightens, grief flaring hot and sudden.
She can’t know. There’s no way she knows.
“I know –” The words escape as a broken stutter, clawing out of my throat. My hands curl into fists in my lap “That’s not – Did you say yes?” I change the subject. Deflect. Distract. Anything is better than talking about Monica.
Arizona nods and the relief washes over me, extinguishing the flames that lick at my ribcage.
I want her to stay.
And that feels like the most dangerous thing of all.