Chapter Text
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“Slowly, then all at once
The dark clouds depart, and the damage is done
So pardon the dust while this all settles in
With a broken heart, transformation begins”
-Sorrow, by Sleeping At Last
March 17, 2025
It's a fucking smorgasbord of chaos, as it always is, but amplified by idiot college kids day drinking green beer and chasing it with Great Value food-colored green eggs and undercooked bacon. And Robby is two hours fucking late—apparently unreachable—which has Dana fretting and pissed because how dare he make her worry. Slamming the phone down, again, she reaches for her cell to try there, glancing up at the board at the same time as Cassie is approaching, and she's not a damn octopus, so pick up the fucking phone, shithead!
“Any luck?” Cassie asks, pausing only for as long as it takes for Dana to shake her head before she's rambling off what she needs. It's not her fault. They've all got jobs to do, which usually requires being there on time, or at least reachable and with a worthy excuse.
“It's going straight to voicemail. I swear to God I'm gonna kill him myself—”
“Dana—”
The bang of a COW against the wall snaps both of their heads around. Dana is ready with five cutting quips when she sees him, not ashamed in the least at wanting to verbally eviscerate that damnable man whom she adores for making her worry. But then she actually looks at him, and two things become clear and evident so fast that her own brain is having a hard time keeping up: One, he's definitely got a reason for being late, and two, Robby Robinavitch is one thousand percent not okay.
Mateo is the closest and on it, taking four long strides to his side, arms reaching out to steady the man that runs the dayshift with a formidable kindness that has earned him the love of every staff member there. They all know he's not exactly tactile, but this…
Robby lurches, a yell that's feral and desperate ripping from his throat in a scratchy, tortured voice; it sounds nothing like the Robby they know.
“Don't touch me!”
“Doctor Ro-”
“No!”
Cassie trades a glance with Dana so fast it leaves her wondering if it even happened at all, and sets off running toward him. “Robby— Robby! Stop moving, let us help you—”
Curling her fingers around the counter, Dana scans the room. She can't assist until she's got someone to cover, someone she knows can handle it—
“Princess!”
For once—and it's telling of the severity of what's going on, as well of the love everyone has for Robby—Princess doesn't gripe, curse in Tagalong, or sass Dana at all. She nods once, shoving what she was doing into Perlah’s arms and coming around the counter to the nursing station, scanning herself into the computer. “Go!”
“Robby, please—” Things aren't going as well across the way as Dana approaches. Cassie has a fresh pair of gloves on her outstretched hands but Robby is like a wild animal, hunched against the wall, teeth bared. But not in anger—in fear. Around them, patients, residents, nurses, and other staff stare. This isn't the time to deal with them—fuck it all, Robby comes first right now.
Cassie’s arm motions to Mateo, trying to signal without words to go slow, but keep going. Dana freezes. Too many people could send him into a bigger panic than this. She doesn't know what happened, can't even parse together any pieces from what she's looking at to get even an inkling of an idea, but if she just stops and observes, maybe she can gather the clues. Maybe she can help like this.
Swallowing, she takes stock of what she can see: He's gripping his bag in one hand, but it's like he doesn't even know it's there: his knuckles white and his wrist shaking with the force of his hold. His scrub top is missing, leaving only the white undershirt on his torso. It's dirty. There's blood—maybe his own and maybe not. Probably is his, given the marks around his neck. Those she can't see well but they're uniform, more profound in the front than the back, and it looks to be heavy on the bruising with not as much bleeding, but there are abrasions. Torn flesh from whatever did that, from whatever wrapped around Robby's neck.
The collar of the undershirt isn't soaked—which means he wasn't wearing it when the injury occurred. Whatever brownish-red there is is from transfer or the slow drip from the end of the bleeding as the blood coagulated. But the collar is torn like someone grabbed at it, a fingers clenched type of grab that happens when you throw someone down.
The light grey hoodie—one of his favorites too—hangs off his right shoulder like he doesn't even register it's there; the fabric smeared with grime and pressed with something that looks suspiciously like a boot mark.
Moving her eyes to his legs, she sees his cargo pants are filthy. Caked with dirt and something sticky and shiny, the dark hue all the more deeper in color by whatever he was lying on. On his feet are two sneakers that look a little more scuffed than usual, but she sees more ankle than normal—he may be missing a sock. The cargos are also untied, falling loose around his hips and only held up by the elastic—which has the unfortunate addition of showing—in a startling way—that his underwear is missing.
For a man who keeps his uniform meticulously clean, this is not it.
In the back of Dana's mind, a word rises up, crawling forward and slithering down her throat. She can't say it yet.
It's his face and hands that are the most telling of what injuries may lie beyond the coverings of his ripped and soiled clothing: The beginnings of a spectacular bruise line his cheekbone, falling down into his beard and curving up around his left eye, which is paired with lined abrasions as if he was hit—multiple times—and then had his face dragged along concrete. But he's moving okay, considering. He's talking; he's not slurring. Those wounds are superficial. On his hands and what are can see if his firearms are defensive wounds. Scratches. Bruises.
He fought back. Good.
All of this she ascertains in the mere seconds between Cassie's nonverbal cues and Mateo reaching out to touch the collar of Robby's shirt. The warning bells are going off before his fingertips even graze his skin, ringing loud that she knows how this is going to end before her body can react. But all Dana can do is watch, helpless, as Robby’s arm flails out, shoving Mateo away with the back of his forearm, using the momentum to jerk his body in the opposite direction, eyes wide and terrified as he lunges to the side, the wall as his guide. He crashes into a cart, sending medical supplies and iPads cascading to the ground, but there's not even a flash of care or recognition that he's done this—he's too far gone.
His hands grapple with the handle of the cart, bruised knuckles tightening in an attempt to hold himself together, his body, shaking visibly, falls against the wall in a bid to hold himself up. But the words come out just as raw and feral. A scream that ricochets throughout the entire ED like a shockwave.
“Don't fucking touch me!”
Cassie's arms lift, palms out. She glances to make sure Mateo is okay and looks back at Robby. “Okay, okay,” she placates. “But we need to examine you, and to do that, we need to get you into a—”
“Dana—” he gasps out, eyes roving the room until they land on her. “Only Dana. Please.” The ‘Please’ isn't for Cassie. It's not for Mateo. It's for Dana herself. And that's what seals it in her mind.
That one word, the one she still doesn't want to say, thick and slimy and sitting in her throat.
Things are getting blurry. Her eyes are stinging but it's nothing a few blinks can't hold back for now. Goddamn, this is gonna hurt. Nodding, her arms cross, an unconscious attempt to protect herself from what she knows is coming. “Of course.”
“Robby, please just let someone help you—you need a doctor,” Cassie pleads, her eyes tracking up and down his body as if she can do a differential without actually seeing all of the damage. One of her hands stops Mateo from moving back in, another signals Whitaker. It's a good idea. He's sweet, unassuming, kind, and still innocent. Robby likes him.
He presses his lips together and brings his shoulders down, attempting to look smaller. Smart kid, but Dana has a feeling—and it's not a good one.
“Cassie—”
“We don't know how injured he is. Jesse, could you—”
Both of them reach Robby at the same time, but it's exactly what Dana had feared—he rears back, this time sending the cart flying halfway across the room as his voice raises in pitch, the hoarseness fucking atrocious to hear.
“Get the fuck away from me!”
“Okay, enough!” Dana yells, arms coming undone to swipe outward in a clear signal that they tried, but this has gone far enough. “Everyone back off. Now.”
“Dana—” Cassie's head swings around to stare at her, worry etched into her eyes like markings on a grave.
“I said Dana!” It's like he's not there. Like he's somewhere else, completely incognizant to whatever else is going on. “Only Dana! No one else! I don't— No men! Don't fucking touch me! Don't fucking touch me!” With his back against the wall and using it as a guide, Robby slides, moving toward intake, his hands feeling the way.
Shaking her head in what she's truly hoping is an adequate apology to Cassie's well intentions, Dana turns away from her, searching for the one doctor whose bedside manner has held up the standard in their reviews.
“Doctor Mohan!” With a flick of her index finger, she beckons her forward.
“No, you're right—” Cassie nods, and goes right into shaking her head, a weird movement that somehow exposes not only her apprehension about what's happening, but also her understanding of why she's been sidelined. She knows.
Samira has a way about her and a way with patients. It's up in the air with Robby and how cornered he's feeling, but she may be the best shot they have. He can't just see a nurse—especially if this is what Dana thinks it is.
Unfortunately, word hasn't spread quickly enough. Halfway down the hallway, Robby drops his bag, not so much a purposeful placement as it's a decided release of his fingers, the bag landing with a thunk on the floor. Donnie, with his big heart and bed to help people, rushes forward from intake, leaning down to grab it for him, but he's too close. And he’s moved too fast.
Dana's hand flies out ready to warn, but she's not fast enough. Robby whirls around, eyes wild, and lets out a strangled, terrified sound that she never wants to hear from him again.
“No!” Two strong hands, as injured as they are, fly forward, shoving Donnie away. “I said no men!”
“Donnie, back off. Now! Leave the bag!”
He keeps his hands up—trying to show he's not a threat—and backs away from Robby. As soon as he's clear, Robby, back still to the wall and yet to turn away from them, continues his stumbling, fear-filled walk toward intake.
Turning to Samira as she steps up next to Dana, fear in her eyes, she signals the bag. “Put gloves on; it may have evidence on it and follow me. When we get— I think I know where he's going. Pull a chuck out and put it on that. Fuck, shit!” she amends. “Me first, we'll be quick. No one touch that bag!” Turning to everyone else, she takes a deep breath. “The rest of you, get back to work. Princess,” she says, eyes finding the woman behind the hub, “Call in Abbot; we still need an attending. Fill him in and tell him I'm sorry he's working a double but—” Throwing her hands up, Dana indicates that honestly, she doesn't know what to say.
Princess nods, already lifting the phone to call the night attending back in.
“I'll split up your cases,” Cassie tells Samira, pulling off the gloves she had put on for Robby. “Don't worry about it. Go! Focus on him!” Sucking in a deep breath, her next words are what Dana figures are what everyone is thinking: “Take care of him.”
Samira sends her one jerky up and down of her head, but Dana doesn't see any more. Her feet are moving, taking her to supplies, her training snapping upright and getting to work.
“Dana, what if he left—”
Good, she followed. “He didn't leave.” Pulling out her keys, Dana unlocks the cabinet she hates unlocking. “He came here to be treated. I know where he is, Doctor Mohan. But we need to be ready for him.”
“But what— Why are you—”
Samira is usually Dana's choice with these patients. Her kindness, her ability to slow down and listen, and her empathy go a long way in soothing victims. But this will be different. Dana can only pray she's up for it. “It's a helluva lot harder when you know them, Samira. You need to tell me right now if you can't do this.” Turning to face her, sexual assault kit in hand, Dana sets her jaw, locking eyes with the young doctor. “And I'm gonna need you in there the whole time, because this is Robby.” Voice breaking at his name, Dana blinks, again trying to hold the tears back. It's an unsuccessful attempt, but she knew that was coming. The tears roll down her cheeks, three fat drops that drip off her chin. She lets them go. The only way out is through, and there's going to be a lot of fucking crying before this is over.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
“You really think he was—” Lowering her voice and glancing around to make sure no one overhears, Samira dips her head closer to finish. “—that he was raped?”
There's that slimy, thick word finally said aloud.
“The signs all point to it.” Another deep breath. Just breathe, Dana. “He'll be in Triage Exam 1 and 2. Where we always have our sexual assault patients.” Pausing, she studies Samira’s face, looking for any cracks that are going to signal she can't do this. “Are you good, honey? You can do this?”
Standing up straighter, she nods. Shoulders straight and game face on. This may break her, but she'll be stronger for it. “I can do this.”
Squeezing her arm, Dana gives her the best smile she can through her tears. “We'll get him through this, okay? Don't you worry about our Doctor Robby—he's the very definition of resilient.”
Samira licks her lips, eyes casting downwards. “I hope you're right.”
So does Dana, but there's no time to question it. First things first, she's not too keen on borrowing trouble—the kit is a dead giveaway and she wants to get it back to the triage exam rooms without showing the whole goddamn Pitt that their favorite attending was raped. Cassie absolutely figured it out, she's astute like that, but she can send her a big enough nonverbal cue to shut up for now. This is too important, no, Robby is too important to be the topic of gossip. Not this.
“Hand me a gown,” she instructs Samira, gesturing to the cart that really has no business being there in the first place.
Confused but ready to follow Dana's lead, Samira pulls a fresh one from the metal shelf. “There's gowns in the room—”
“I'm covering the kit to keep talk to a minimum right now. Everyone will be filled in at some point, but for the moment—”
Shaking her head at her lack of foresight, Samira cuts her off, hands coming up to help Dana wrap the kit in the most inconspicuous way they can. “No, you're right. I'm sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Dana says, allowing another small smile to reassure her. “Now, deep breath. This isn't going to be easy for either of us.”
Inhaling and exhaling with intention, she nods. “Let's go.”
Halfway through, Dana locks eyes with Cassie. She brings her free hand up, miming zipping her lips closed and locking it, her eyes pleading.
Cassie places her hand over her heart. ‘Of course,’ she mouths back. Out loud, she says, “If you need anything…”
“I'll take you up on that.”
“Thank you. And— And tell him we love him.”
Dana nods once and refocuses on their route. The moment they enter reception, Donnie is on them, with Lupe spinning in her chair as she slides the plate on the divider closed in one practiced movement.
“He came in hot,” Lupe says, her hand coming up to stop a patron at the window from his bitching. “I knew something was wrong, but Donnie said he had it.”
“We see how that went,” Donnie adds, glancing at Lupe. “He just came back here and started turning over the rooms in the back by himself. I— I wanted to help, but I thought it better to leave him alone. You know, after what happened before.”
Patting his arm as she passes, Dana gives them both an appreciative look. “You made the right choice. Leave him be; you know how he is. Just me and Doctor Mohan back there for now, all right?”
Spinning back around, Lupe slides the plate on the divider open again. “Got it!”
The pissed off patient on the other side starts right back up, but Dana doesn't pay him a second of attention. She pauses long enough outside the curtain to knock on the wall, doing her best to hand over control back to Robby. It's so fucking important at this point that he feels like he's got a say. Whether it's a second or an hour, she'll wait for him to give the okay, as long as she knows he's conscious and safe back there.
There was enough taken from him today already, and she's not just talking about the rape. Psychology is funny because the brain is funny. It does things you don't want it to, including barreling into your work, looking for treatment, and exposing everything. But he was looking for Dana. She'd like to think it was their relationship, this wonderful older sister and younger brother bond they've formed over the years, and maybe that's part of it but she knows his brain. Everything else was blocked out except for one thing: Dana is a SANE.
The human brain does what it needs to survive and keep moving, and sometimes, it can't distinguish between psychological trauma and life-threatening injuries. Robby’s mind narrowed in on what he needed to do and blocked everything else out, hence the almost feralness of his actions. It knew that men were bad because they did this to him, and that he had to get to Dana. In a twisted way, it was keeping him safe, and getting him the help he needed.
“Robby,” she says, voice even and calm, “it's Dana.”
“I'm here.” He sounds calmer; that's a good sign.
Glancing back at Samira, Dana holds one hand out, signaling to take it slow. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
She's not quite prepared for what she sees. He's at the edge of the bed, still dressed, arms wrapped around his body, and rocking. Slow, measured. It's a to-and-fro meant as a self-stimulatory soothe. He's trying to keep it together. Head down, tears freely falling onto his soiled pants. There's already a fresh chuck underneath him, and Dana doesn't want to think about that—she didn't think to check the back of his pants as he was leaving. Although it's not like he gave them a chance, retreating with his back to the wall. He knew what they would see.
The breakdown is coming.
Sitting on a rolling stool, she pulls on a pair of gloves, dipping her head to catch his eyes, the kit unwrapped from the gown and sitting in her lap. “How far off the mark am I?” Lifting it, she slides it onto the tray table next to them and clasps her hands in between her knees, waiting on Robby to acknowledge what she figured out and give his consent.
His eyes lift and move right past her face to Samira, his mouth opening, but no sounds coming out.
“You and I both know a doctor needs to examine you. Or did you think you were going to do your own examination,” she jokes, a light smile on her lips, using this to gauge just where his head is at.
Those beautiful browns slide over to the kit and the air in the room stills. For one precious moment, Dana thinks that maybe she got it wrong. Hope blossoms in her chest, pushing out and making her sit forward, hand reaching out, wanting to grasp his in her relief—
But his face crumbles, and he bends in half, burying his face in his palms, shoulders shaking as the last dredges of control are stripped away from him.
It's more than a breakdown—it's a complete collapse of everything he knew.
She's seen Robby cry only three times: After Doc Adamson died, after the MCI just a few months prior, and once—almost a decade ago—when he failed to save an entire family from a MVA when their minivan was hit by a drunk driver.
But this is different.
This is guttural. It's visceral. It's coming from a pain he's never felt, never thought he'd have to feel. It's sobs that wail and gasping breaths, heaving gulps of air when his body can no longer go without… It's Mt. Vesuvius…and he is Pompei.
Making sure to keep her voice quiet, she turns her neck to look back at Samira. “Give us a minute; go get his bag. Do what I told you,” pointing to the far corner, she continues, “Over there. So it's out of the way.”
Samira can only nod, her eyes bright with her own unshed tears. Turning on near silent feet, she leaves.
Twisting back to Robby, she leans down, placing one hand over his shoulder—lightly so as not to startle him, and waits him out. “It's just us for a moment,” she tells him when the sobbing begins to quiet. “Talk to me, Robby. What happened?”
He shakes his head, gasping for breath. “Not yet.”
She's not sure what to do here. In all the training she's done as a SANE, it's never covered what to do when the victim is someone you care about. On her bookshelf at home is a row of reference material, books written by nurses and psychologists, people better versed in this stuff than she could ever be, but none can fully connect what it's like to be in this exact situation. Sure, they tell her to give control back to the person, they say when someone you love survives a rape it's going to take time, and it's important to allow them autonomy. But it doesn't cover this. Nothing can.
“Okay,” she whispers after a few seconds pass with only his rapid breathing to fill the void. “Then I'm going to give you the spiel. I know you know it, but I'm gonna say it anyway—” When all else fails, press on. Redirect to the next step. The sooner they finish, the sooner they can get to healing and comfort.
“Yeah, okay.” Sitting up, he wipes at his face, wincing when his hand runs over the bruise. “Gimme the abridged version.”
Giving his shoulder a gentle and friendly nudge, along with a soft smile, she says, “I can do that.” Her hand moves from his shoulder to the kit, indicating it. “You have the right to say ‘No’ to anything in here, okay? You're in charge. It's gonna take some time, but if you need a break, you tell me. Once I open this, I can't leave the room, but Doctor Mohan is going to stay with us, okay? She'll take you out if you need to walk or need space, whatever it is you need. No eating or drinking until we collect the sample from your mouth, and no going to the bathroom until we collect the samples from—”
“—Yeah I got it.”
Continuing like he hadn't interrupted her, knowing how delicate this is, Dana says, “She's gonna ask you a few questions when she comes back in, then basically act as my assistant afterwards.”
“She's a good choice.”
That really does make her smile. Dana knew she was making the right decision in choosing Samira. “She's great with these but I also knew she'd be gentle with you. And don't be giving me that look—it's okay to accept the gentleness right now, okay?”
Although he can't quite meet her eyes, he does nod. There's some form of understanding there. That he's allowing this, not hiding it—it's huge for him.
“I'm proud of ya for coming to me, okay?” Dana says, bending over to catch his eyes. “Hey, I'm serious. That took guts. Don't forget I know you. You didn't hide it. You didn't try to act like nothing happened. You came to us—to me. I'm really fucking proud of you for that.”
Shoulders lifting in a half shrug, he looks away, coughing into his elbow. “I knew I couldn't hide it.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn't change the fact that you didn't.”
There's a knock at the wall, signaling the return of Samira. Dana lifts her eyebrows in a silent question, asking Robby if he's okay with her coming in. He nods. Knowing that he's going to switch back and forth from verbal to nonverbal, she looks over her shoulder and calls out in a volume only a little louder than the one she's already using. “Come on in, Samira.”
The young resident enters, holding Robby’s bag by one of the shoulder straps. She flaps out a fresh chuck and places it down.
“Come and ask your questions, honey.”
Removing the gloves and pulling out a fresh pair, Samira grips them in her hands and approaches the bed. “Hey, Doctor Robby. Just a few questions.”
“I know.” His eyes are on the floor again, hands taking turns rubbing and squeezing at his own wrists; the rocking resumes.
Dana hates it.
Not because of the rocking itself, but because it's signifying how dysregulated he is. This whole thing is not fucking fair.
“Are you taking any medications?”
He shakes his head no, then, “Nothing that will interfere.”
Dana motions for Samira to move on, making a mental note to ask him again later, or just check his medical records if they have to prescribe anything.
“Are you allergic to any medications?” This time, the shake of the head isn't followed up by anything. “Okay, I see the bruises on your face, defensive wounds on your hands and arms—is there anything else—” Turning his body, he lifts the back of his sweater and undershirt. “Okay,” Samira says, bending to look, “we have some bruising on his back, and some minor abrasions. Anything else?”
Nonverbal again. He lifts his head, showing his neck and finally giving Dana a good look at what the fuck is going on there. She has to clench her jaw to keep from crying out in indignation—the bastard had strangled him, probably to force compliance. It wasn't enough to make him pass out or damage the vocal cords in any significant way, even if his voice is rough and raw from it, but it's enough. Fear is an incredible tool to get what you need from someone.
Moving closer as she pulls the gloves on, Samira lightly touches the wound, checking the severity. It's red and irritated, and there's a few spots of broken skin, but it otherwise looks all right. It's definitely going to bruise something fierce. “I'd like to have an MRI later. Of his neck,” she tells Dana. “Just in case, but I think it's okay for now. Anything else?”
“Think I need stitches.”
Samira audibly swallows. “Where?” Even though they both know where.
“I don't feel faint,” he whispers. “Not that much blood loss I— I don't think…but it bled enough. I don't know— Didn't want to think about it but— It can wait— They— They tore me. I felt it happen.”
It's the ‘They’ that startles both Dana and Samira more than anything. ‘They’ implies more than one. It's a word that takes ‘raped’ and amplifies it, makes it bigger. Worse. Makes it cut deeper.
What the fucking fuck?
Taking a few deep breaths as secretly as she can so as not to upset Robby, Dana tries again. “Robby, what happened?”
Head shaking back and forth, he scrunches his face, fighting back the urge to sob. His body, still rocking, is so tense Dana could string him to a violin and play a sonata. “It's so fucking stupid—”
“Hey, hey! It is not stupid—”
“I wasn't paying attention!”
“No.” That's just not happening. She's putting a stop to this line of thinking right fucking now. “This is not your fault, do you hear me? You didn't do anything wrong. You did not deserve this, Robby, are you listening?” But the rocking is gaining speed. Trading a look with Samira, Dana sets her shoulders and takes a breath to deepen her voice—she's got to break through the noise in his head. “Michael!”
He jolts, his head snapping up, mouth open in the shock of the scare she just gave him. While she feels awful for doing it, it's necessary. This has to get through to him. “You did nothing wrong, okay? Nothing! This is not your fault!”
Instead of answering, he closes his mouth and averts his eyes, but at least she knows he heard her.
They wait him out, giving him time to process his thoughts. This is in his control, after all. It takes a few minutes, and more rocking, but he nods, gearing himself up to continue. Still gripping and rubbing at his wrists, he begins. “Sometimes I leave early to get breakfast at this diner downtown.”
As quiet as she can, Samira pulls over the other stool and sits next to Dana, her hand slipping into Dana's and squeezing.
Letting out a breath, Dana squeezes back. They're both going to need comfort too, Samira moreso. She's still so young and to experience this is a lot. Robby is effectively her mentor, at least for this residency. Pulling her hand into her lap, Dana covers it with her other hand, all the while never taking her eyes off of Robby. “Go on,” she whispers.
“I parked and started walking toward it—it was still dark. I had my headphones in.”
Fucking hell. It's the bane of every nighttime walk for a woman—they all know to leave one out. But Robby would never think to do that. The fucking patriarchy strikes again. It's not his fault—no one should ever have to think of these things. Men are terrible. Just because there's a few gems like Robby doesn't change that and now he's a victim of his own gender’s fucking violent bullshit.
When he covers his face with his hands, Dana realizes they've yet to get to him in the system or get a bracelet on him; his wrists are bare. It's gone so fast but they need to adhere to departmental and state regulations. Standing, she pulls the COW over to her, pulling her badge to sign in. “Keep talking.”
Into his hands, he nods. “I didn't see them coming. One of them grabbed me and I swung out— But nothing landed. I felt their hands on me, dragging me into the alleyway—” Hands dropping, he looks up, staring at Dana with his eyes wide and pleading. “I tried to fight them, Dana. I swear to fucking God, I tried so hard to fight them—”
“I know, sweetie—” The endearment is out of her mouth before her brain even catches up, but she's not going to take it back. He is sweet, even if he tries to act like he isn't sometimes. They all know it—his heart is as big as the whole damn continent.
Turning back to the screen in front of her, she continues to triage him, signing him into the hospital’s system and using it as a way to give them both a moment. Between them, Samira’s head moves back and forth, unsure of where to look. Poor thing has probably never seen either Robby nor Dana quite so vulnerable. Hitting the Enter key with a definitive tap, she gestures with her chin for him to continue, eyes still trained on the screen in front of her. “I know you did. Go on.”
“There were seven of them—”
Don't react. Don't react.
But her head dips just enough that Samira's hand lands on her lower back, offering strength.
Shuddering, Robby's arms go back around his body, and he leans forward, not quite the complete bend in half he was folded into before, but damn close. “I kept fighting, but they just— I couldn't— And then there was this pressure— Around my neck—” One hand lifts, indicating the marks. “It was so tight. I tried so fucking hard to get away from it…from them. But my vision started getting dark, and I dropped— that's when they let up. But it was enough— I— I was weakened by it.” The rocking resumes. Again. “It’s in my pocket. They left it around my neck.”
The women in the room do not move. They do not breathe. They can't. What they're hearing is violent horror. An abhorrent and disgusting crime committed against someone they both know. It's gutting them both open, filleting their hearts like a fucking hibachi chef does to a piece of chicken on his grill.
Releasing a stuttering breath, Samira asks, “What?” as if the very thought of the chain is foreign to her—and it is. It is to all of them.
Instead of answering, he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a fucking dog chain. A choker lead. It swings from his fist like a goddamn pendulum, taunting them.
“Samira—” But she's already up, pulling out an empty specimen bag and holding it open for him. They haven't opened the kit yet, but the specimen bag will do in a pinch. The choker lead falls into the bag with a gentle tinkling—the sound far too pleasant for what it was used for. It's no wonder the wound on his neck is so agitated and red. No wonder there's broken skin. The links must have pinched and shifted as they pulled, tearing apart the delicate skin on his neck.
God. Fucking. Damn it.
As she's closing the bag, he continues, picking up right where he left off, and Jesus fucking Christ, this hurts. “That's when they took my clothes off. And I knew.” He swallows, licking his lips. They're so dry and cracked, and Dana realizes he probably hasn't eaten yet, probably not since dinner yesterday. He's got to be starved and so fucking thirsty, and still he must wait.
“If I fought too much, if I started to struggle more than what they thought was fun, they tightened the chain until I was weak.” A breath, then, “After a while, I just let it happen.”
Fuck, he's going to beat himself up over that but it's so common. It's a survival mechanism. Almost every single case that comes through here, that Dana has helped, has said the same thing.
“They each took a turn.”
And that's what she knew she was going to hear but was hoping not to. This isn't just a simple case of rape, even if no case of rape is simple—it’s gang rape. It's violent and ten times as traumatizing. But she meant what she said earlier—Robby is resilient. And he's got a good fucking support system. He's going to make it through this. He's going to be okay.
He has to be.
He won't be the same, no. But he can still make it through and have a really good fucking life. She's going to fucking make sure of that.
Clearing her throat, she looks at Samira. “I printed his bracelet and paperwork. Go grab it from Lupe’s desk before she gets confused?” Samira's head, hanging down, whips up, surprised she's being spoken to. “Oh, honey—” The tears are falling in thick droplets, cascading down Samira’s face faster than she can wipe them away. “Take a minute—”
“Yeah— I mean— I'll be okay. I'll just—”
“I'm sorry.”
They both stare in shock at Robby, who absolutely should not be apologizing. “This isn't your fault, Robby—” Samira starts.
“It absolutely fucking isn't, do you understand me?” Dropping back onto the stool, Dana clasps her hands in her lap—it's the only thing keeping her from gathering him into her arms. That needs to wait until after evidence collection, and only if he's okay with it. “We are both emotional right now because we love you, got it? That's not because of anything you did. This is not your fault. I'm gonna keep saying that until it gets through your thick head, ya get me?” A silent nod, but it's better than the rocking.
Looking back up at Samira, she tips her head toward intake. “Go, and take a minute. Get yourself together.”
“What about you? What if you need—”
“I'm good, honey. Got some good whiskey waiting at home.” Standing, she physically turns the resident and shoves to her feet and toward the opening in the curtain. “Go on!” Turning back to Robby, she asks, “What about you? You wanna take a minute before we start?”
Blinking up at her, he shakes his head. “Wanna get this over with.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
Another deep breath. “I'm gonna lay the chucks out now, okay? For the trace evidence. You're gonna get undressed, starting with your sneakers.” Breathe, girl. “And I have to wear this shield, you know, to—”
“Make sure you don't contaminate. I know.” Standing proves to be harder than either of them realize. There's a hard press to his brows and he groans, his body stiff with the aches of everything he's been through as he struggles to his feet. She can only imagine the tenderness in his muscles. Turning away to retrieve everything she needs to give him a moment to regather himself, Dana wipes her eyes, reapplies her gloves, dons the face shield, and grabs a handful of chucks. There, that should be enough time. Pivoting on her feet, she tries to present confidence to him, enough to at least say that she's got not only this, but him.
“Remember,” she says as she lays the chucks on the floor, “if you need a break, you tell me.” Straightening up, she swipes a sheet from the cabinet and unfolds it. “Ready? A fresh gown is on the table behind you. Open in the back.”
He's gone nonverbal again, only giving her a nod.
Due to his height, she's got to hold the sheet up higher than she normally does, but the preservation of dignity is so fucking important, especially now. She keeps her eyes averted, listening for any signs of distress but all she hears is the rustling of clothing as he strips himself and drops each piece onto the chucks…and the ever present rush of his near panicked breathing, pinpricked by the occasional cough. Which has got to be from what those bastards did to his neck.
The touch of his hand against hers signals he's finished, and that he's not ready to go verbal again. That's okay. Robby has always been able to communicate in multiple ways; they'll figure it out.
Lowering the sheet, she folds in a rather haphazard way, knowing they'll need to use it again, and sets it aside. “Okay, you can sit on the bed agai—” But when her eyes catch sight of the chuck he was sitting on, the bile rises in her throat; it's all she can do to not vomit all over everything.
Blood, fresh and red, has seeped into a large circular pattern in the middle.
He's still bleeding.
“Robby,” she gasps out, “we have to look—”
He turns his head to see what she's looking at, and his arm flies up to cover his mouth, his own teeth sinking into his skin as a wounded wail emits from his throat like a dying tornado siren. It's all he can get out, his body trembling at the sight, other hand pushing his arm into his teeth harder.
She hisses, “Shit—” and steps up to him.
There's nothing else for it—she's got to touch him in an invasive way. Self-Injurous Behavior isn't as common during these as one may think but it has happened. No matter what, she has a duty to stop the patient from hurting, and that includes hurting themselves. Reaching up, she uses both hands to carefully wrap around the forearm he's biting. “Robby,” she warns, not wanting to use her CPI training on him, “let it go.”
She hates this part. Knowing that a person could be a strong and independent individual, but completely knocked off center by something like this. She's seen trauma and grief do things to people she loves before, and has seen it make them act in ways they'd never acted prior. Do things they never would have.
“Let it go,” she warns again, allowing her hands to tighten just a little more. By whatever grace there is, he does. Using slow movements, she brings his arm down to his side, surreptitiously checking for damage. There are teeth marks, but no broken skin. She'll have to wait to take the pictures until it fades; she doesn't want any misinterpretations.
“Are you going to be okay while I switch that out?” she asks, head jerking to indicate the bloodied chuck.
It's his eyes that give away the movement before it happens, and Dana is quick to shift his body so he can't look at it again. They don't need a repeat. “Robby? I need an answer.”
Still nonverbal but she does get a nod.
“Okay. Hang tight.”
It's unfortunate, but the chuck is considered evidence. Something could have slipped out. Although she works fast, Dana knows he's aware of what she's doing as she carefully folds it up and—
God fucking damnit.
She never opened the kit.
Years. Years as a SANE, and she's never had this many missteps. But then she's never done one of these on someone she knows before. It doesn't matter; nothing so far is unfixable. She just has to be more careful moving forward.
Using another specimen bag, she slips the chuck inside and seals it. It goes next to the chain on the side table, waiting for the kit to be opened. Which she will do—as soon as she's got a fresh chuck out and Robby can sit before he falls over.
A knock on the wall indicates Samira's back, which is perfect timing, really. Stepping to the curtain, she pulls it back enough to show the resident that it's her, and to gesture to wait. She looks a helluva lot better, eyes dry and chin up. Someone gave her a pep talk.
Voice soft, Dana says, “The tear from the assault is still bleeding. He stood up to undress and there was fresh blood. I think it needs to be looked at before we begin. Can you do that while I gather up his clothing?”
“Yes, of course.” Stepping inside and closing the curtain, Samira smiles at Robby as she pulls on a pair of gloves. “Doctor Abbot is here—” Ahh, he is damn good at pep talks. “He wants to see you after we're finished but only if you're up to it. He said it's fully your choice, but no matter what he wants you to know that he supports you and he's here for you.” One hand reaches out to cradle under his elbow, the other to lay on his back, gentle, to guide him back to the bed. “He doesn't know what happened—it's up to you if you want me to tell him.”
Dana knows Samira is thinking of going elsewhere after her residency, but damn if she doesn't wish she would stay. She's incredible with patients, even if she needs to work on her speed. And Robby is the perfect test for this; someone she knows who is obstinate on a good day and completely fucked in the head right now. The combination is tricky but she's navigating it with a beautiful grace. They'd be so fucking lucky to keep her.
Following Samira's lead, Dana steps to the other side of the bed, pulling the chuck up to the center, and leaning over to help guide him down. “On your side—” The sound that escapes his throat as he sits and lays can only be described as a tortured whimper and it sets off a fresh set of tears down Dana's face. There are no words in any language she can utter to fully explain the way her stomach is clenching. His pain must be immense. The psychological, the physical… All of it culminates into a grotesque display of the result of the worst qualities of what humans can do to each other.
“I'm going to lift your knee, okay?” Samira's voice, often soft and kind in general when dealing with patients, takes on an even gentler tone. She waits for him to make eye contact and nod before—slowly and carefully—holding under his knee and bending it, setting his foot in front of the other knee so she can fully examine him.
“Dana,” she says, looking up, “switch places with me. The only thing I want you to do is be there for him. I got this.”
If Robby was in his right mind, he'd be so damn proud of her.
At the end of the bed, they cross each other, and Dana reaches out to squeeze her arm, putting everything she can into that one gesture: her pride in her, her comfort, her absolute confidence that she's doing everything right. Samira gives her a watery smile, but keeps moving. This isn't about them. They have to take care of Robby first; their own internal wounds will come later.
He won't be the only one changed from this.
“Okay, Doctor Robby,” Samira says, bending over, “I'm going to lift your gown and you'll feel me touching you. I'm going to spread your glutes so I can see where the blood is coming from.”
Another nod. It's becoming concerning how long this nonverbal stretch is going. Dana is often amazed at the sheer strength assault survivors display during these but they often involve periods of verbal communication laced with times of silence. This has gone on for long enough—he needs to speak up.
“She can't see your face,” Dana cajoles, dragging the stool over to sit. “You gotta give her a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.”
Samira is paused, looking over his hip at Dana and waiting, understanding the importance of this and ceasing her work until he answers.
“Come on, Robby,” Dana's palm lays across his shoulder, a warm reminder that he's not alone. “Use your voice.”
Eyes closing, he struggles, his breath quickening and his mouth opening and closing twice before the cracked and shaky “Yes” tumbles out.
Thank God.
It's not much, but it's a start.
Connecting with Samira's eyes, Dana nods. Good enough, go ahead.
She can't see what the resident is doing, but her hitch of breath is all she needs to flicker her eyes up from his pinched face to see the horror splayed across Samira's pretty features.
Gesturing with her eyes and a small dip of the head to the gown, Samira makes it clear that Dana is to lift it, and look. It's the last thing she wants to do but she was going to see it—regardless—during the collection. Better to get it out of the way.
Using her right hand, and thankful that Robby’s eyes are still closed, she lifts the gown enough to see what's got Samira's face turning pale: blood. And a lot of it. It's caked onto his inner thighs, drips following down to the back of his knees, and something shiny, and oily.
At least the bastards used lube.
She doesn't want to think about the dried white streaks she sees.
Dana lets the gown drop. She's seen enough for right now. They can't even clean him up until after all of this is over.
Clearing her throat, Samira bends lower, and Robby cries out the second she spreads him open. Whether from the pain or trauma, Dana cannot tell—it may be both.
God fucking damnit.
“You have a perineal tear,” she tells him, voice cracking, and Dana's heart drops.
The repeated rapes by seven fucking men, and they probably had him on his back (if the abrasions there are anything to go by), spread him open in ways his body doesn't move—
Fucking pieces of scum. She hopes they fucking die slow, painful deaths. Every single one of them.
“It's not serious—just a couple of stitches. Two centimeters about.” A sniff, and she's leaning back to wipe her eyes with the back of her arm. “I'm going to grab what we need. Be right back.”
“Hey,” Dana says as Samira leaves to retrieve what she needs. “Hey. You're doing great. It's almost over. I'm really proud of you, have I told you that?”
His eyes open, beautiful brown shifting up to look at her. “You may have mentioned that.”
God, it's so good to hear his voice.
She smiles, well aware of the tears still freely running down her face. “I did, didn't I? Well, I'm saying it again. I'm proud of you for coming to us. And I'm proud of you for letting us treat you. When this is over, I'm getting you the juiciest fucking portahouse steak, okay? On me. You like a baked potato side, right? And cheesy broccoli?”
“And a side salad. Gotta be healthy.” A smile, as small as it is, graces his face, and it's like the fucking sun finally coming out after a damn hurricane.
“You got it.”
“Okay!” Samira's voice comes from beyond the curtain. “I'm back.”
“Come on in,” Dana calls out after Robby gives her a nod.
The young resident enters with her hands full. She's got a suture kit, local anesthesia, and a rolling tray of tools. “Donnie is twitchy,” she jokes, eyeing Robby, her intention of making him laugh obvious. It doesn't work, but she does get another small smile from him. It's something. “You know how he is about stitches. He thinks he's the Van Gogh of suturing.”
“That's because he is,” Robby says. His voice is quiet, just a whisper really. But he's responding to them. Lord knows if it will last once the procedure starts, or through the evidence collection, but it's nice for the moment to have his commentary back.
“And don't you forget it.” Rubbing his arm, Dana leans in close. “You ready?”
“Yeah—” It's a hesitant answer, but still verbal. She's afraid their brief moment of verbiage may be over with him but if they got him back once, they can get him back again.
Setting up at the foot of the bed, Samira gestures downward at the stirrups. “We need to shift him down.”
“Of course.” Standing, Dana lets him see her hands before she touches him, keeping her face neutral. “We're going to help you slide down. Just help where you can.”
A nod.
Fuck.
Cautious of his injuries, they roll him to his back, Dana straightening out his leg as they do so. “On three,” Samira says, sliding one hand under his shoulder blade and the other under his thigh. Mirroring her, Dana waits, watching his face for any sign of distress. “One…two…three!”
His heels dig into the bed to lift and help, and although they're able to shift him down with efficiency, including the chuck somehow, Robby lets out a pained wail, his hands coming up to grip at Dana's arm. Heaving gasps are sending his chest up and down, and Samira is quick to check his heart rate, but it's all stress induced. Nothing short of erasing this day from his memory is going to fix that.
“Easy,” Dana says, pulling his hand from her forearm and wrapping it in her palm. “We got you. You're okay.”
“I'm going to pull out the stirrups, Doctor Robby,” Samira informs him, sliding them out. “He's close enough to the edge but—”
“Shit, we didn't put socks on him. Fuck, sorry, Robby!” There's no response and at this point, she's not expecting one. If she could just stop fucking up, that would be wonderful. If ever there was a patient to not screw this up on, it's Robby—and not because he's Chief Attending, but because he's her friend.
Turning to the cart of bedding and soft supplies behind her, she opens the drawer filled with hospital socks, choosing the XL and ripping the package apart. “Okay,” she says, tossing one on the bed and holding up the other. “Lift—” Sliding it on, she checks to make sure it's straight before putting the other on, and then helping Samira place his feet in the stirrups. “Are you warm enough?” she asks, knowing that he's always in one of his hoodies and while that may be for looks, it does get drafty in the Pitt, and anyone—even tall, bearded doctors—can get cold.
When all she receives in answer is a shrug and another cough, Dana takes it upon herself to grab the sheet from earlier and spread it over his upper body.
“I'm going to start,” Samira says, looking up at Dana and then over to Robby, but his head is turned away. A barely perceptible nod is about all they get. “Okay, local anesthesia first—”
It doesn't take long. Dana holds his hand the entire time, soothing him with soft, whispered words and gentle squeezes. Tears leak from his eyes, falling sideways and soaking the bedding. Dana isn't ashamed that she cries with him. This is, without a doubt, the hardest thing she's ever done as a nurse. Even the MCI falls to a distant second comparatively. Nothing can come close to your friend being violently raped. Nothing.
Once she's done, Samira cleans up the tools, gathering what she can on the rolling tray. “Just a thought,” she begins, voice quiet, “but maybe get the swabs done first while he's already here—” she gestures to his position on the bed, “—so he doesn't have to come back to this.”
“Good idea.” Switching out her gloves, Dana finally opens the kit. “Is that okay with you, Robby?” she asks as she sets up the drying rack on top of a fresh chuck.
A nod. That's it.
Tempted to coerce a verbal answer from him again, Dana sighs, weary and exhausted but refusing to give in. This is the hard part and if he needs to be nonverbal to get through it, then so be it. She's not going to push; there's time to get him talking later. “Trade places,” she tells Samira. “Unless you need a break.”
“I'm good.”
“Then sit up by his head. Comfort him. I'll work as fast as I can.”
Taking Samira's spot on the stool at the foot of the bed, Dana closes her eyes, bracing herself. She saw the blood on his thighs—she knows it's bad. Swallowing and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she opens her eyes and gets her first full look at what those bastards did to her friend.
The blood is smeared upward as well as down his legs, congregating in the creases where his legs meet his body. There doesn't seem to be anymore active bleeding, thankfully, but beyond the drying blood is a mess of painful bruising. She's not sure if it's many bruises, or just one large one at this point—but it's a mess, regardless, around his anal opening and up to his scrotum. And his— his opening—
It's stretched. Nothing time won't fix, but the hole itself is stretched at least 3 centimeters in diameter.
It angers her all over again.
How could they do this to a good man? How could they see Robby, who was probably just bopping along to his music, hungry and heading in for breakfast, dressed in scrubs, so obviously a medical professional and think: Him. That's who we're gonna destroy.
Hands shaking, Dana lifts the first swab.