nonscale
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“This is so fucked,” Robby says, the laughter in his voice a cruel echo of the way he used to say that to Frank, the we’re-in-this-together exasperation of the ER’s worst days, and he drags his hand down his face to stop himself from flinching when he recognizes it. “Does your wife—”
“Don’t,” Frank says, voice sharper than Robby’s heard it all night. Sharper than he’s heard it in ten months, the sharpest it’s been since Frank had to dull the blade of it and turn it inwards to save his own hide. It’s a bark more than a spoken word, but Frank’s not a dog.
Dogs don’t talk, Robby thinks. Dogs don’t talk, and dogs don’t have wives.
It’s more fucked, Robby knows, that it’s the word wife rotating around in his skull and not her name. He knows her. He likes her, for god’s sake. He’s had holiday dinners at her table and shared fond eye-rolls across the appropriately-themed tablecloth at ridiculous things Frank’s said, that same we’re-in-this-together exasperation, and now — now Robby can’t even give her the dignity of thinking her name with his fingers in her husband’s mouth.
or: frank isn't very good at asking for forgiveness. robby isn't very good at granting it.
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“Alright, alright, settle down you two. Jesus Christ,” Dana mutters. “You’re worse than my fuckin’ kids.”
Bookmarked by nonscale
23 Feb 2026
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When she'd gone to Robby, she wonders whether he'd been able to smell the desperation buried beneath her hesitance, the overwhelming stench of decaying need giving itself away. Believe me, believe me, believe me. It's all she'd ever wanted. Maybe no one had to die this time.
Or: Trinity Santos rediscovers the meaning of team.
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“You’re a riot, Crash,” Trinity says, casting an unimpressed glance towards the pile of deconstructed IKEA parts on the floor. “Did you seriously just give up on this shit after five minutes and send a cry for help to the first lesbian you could think of?”
“Um, no,” Victoria lies. “Of course not.”
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Victoria slams to a halt in the middle of the floor, feeling like she’s been sucker-punched in the stomach by a brick wall with hands. She can only stare, because holy shit. Because that is Cassie McKay, and she’s here at Blue Moon, at the lesbian bar, the bar where lesbians go, holding a can of Diet Coke and leaning casually against the wall as she smiles down at a pretty, dark-haired girl who looks twenty-four at most.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.