Title: "Rotation"
Author: monimala
Fandom: GH
Rating/Classification: adult language, Patrick/Robin, filler scenes for the 2/20/06 week of sweeps.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: Scenes were cut for this pair after Robin contracted encephalitis and refused life-saving serum. Here's my take on what happened in them.

He lingers outside the room for a full minute before going in, watching her lying there, hair spread out on the pillow, pale, breathing through a tube…and still with somebody's chart propped on her chest. Probably Mr. Henderson in 602. She's impossible. Totally fucking impossible.

"You're an idiot, you know," he tells her, instinctively checking the fluid level in the IV bag before sitting on the edge of the hospital bed.

Her hands flutter across the pages of the chart and he tries not to listen to the rattling sound of what passes for her breathing. "I thought you said I was a genius?"

"No, that was you, talking about *me*," he reminds, not even having to force the smile.

Something about her does that to him. God, even when she's dying, when she's being a martyr, he wants to smile at her. He wants to see it reflected on her face.

"Oh, please. Check your ego at the door!" she wheezes, not disappointing him with the snarky rebuttal.

"Hell yeah, I have an ego. You’re my patient now, Robin. I have a reputation to uphold." *My* patient. He tries not to linger on the possessive when he says it, so the stress is only in his mind. *My* patient, *my* Robin. Which is funny because he's only ever been possessive about his surgical instruments, his Lexus, and a signed Edmonton Oilers jersey he's had since undergrad. "So, have you had any visitors?" he wonders, pleasantly, masking the completely anti-feminist thoughts of ownership. "Or are you languishing in here like Mr. Rochester's crazy wife?"

"Oh, do not tell me you read Jane Eyre." She snorts, but the dimple in her cheek deepens. Just like his. "Dad was back." She rolls her eyes as she imparts that, but he knows she's thrilled just the same. "Elizabeth dropped by with news about Maxie, and Uncle Mac came by with love from Felicia." At what must be his confused expression, she elaborates, "That's his ex. Or his current. Or something. I can't keep track. But we were close." And she actually giggles at something, a memory, gaze going distant.

"What?" he asks, suddenly curious to know what makes her nose crinkle like that, what makes her so free and…alive.

Robin just shakes her head weakly, blushing. "I don't think I can tell you."

"If it makes you blush, I *have* to know," he prods, at his most charming. "Come on. You can't die with *all* your secrets."

For a few moments, he thinks she isn't going to spill, but then she does and it's halting and adorable and involves her saying the word "condom" and gesturing about produce. He's going to have to meet this Felicia person and thank her personally for this sparkle in Robin's eyes. For creating a situation where Robin has to say "condom" at least twice and, thus, make him think about them…about her tearing open the package and unrolling one on him and…


Mr. Henderson's chart slides to the floor with a rustle just before the monitors go wild.

"Damn it!" he hisses, scrambling off the bed and punching the call button.

When Elizabeth and one of the orderlies -- Bill? Blaine? -- rush in with the crash cart, he already has Robin's gown off her shoulders and down. Not exactly the way he'd wanted to see her naked, but…damn it…that better day will come. It will. He grabs the defib paddles, charging them up. "Come on, Robin…don't do this…"

"Clear!" he shouts, pressing the paddles down. Where there are freckles. Freckles he's going to mark with his tongue and give silly names to. In French. French that she can freely criticize if only she'll wake up and stay with him.

The charge goes through her and she shudders, but that's all it takes. One try. And her heart rate is normal again.

She's his patient now. *His*.

"You're an idiot," he whispers, this time talking to himself.


He comes back after updating Robert and Luke on her condition, after drawing Carly's blood and sending it to the lab for analysis, after trying to make himself as useful as humanly possible before he runs screaming through the halls of Port Charles General Hospital and ruins his hotshot reputation completely.

Not that the mad scientist routine fooled his father. Oh, no. Not Dr. Noah Drake and his excellent diagnostics…even after ages of being familiar with nothing except hangovers and cirrhosis.

"Dad called me on my personal feelings for you," he murmurs.

She's asleep, of course. Her vitals are good…as good as can be expected.

"Of course, I'm the one who said I had personal feelings in the first place, so I can't really blame him," he reasons. He laughs, quietly, wishing there weren't dark circles of fatigue under her eyes, wishing she wasn't pale and still and so fucking selfless. "I know…me? Feelings? It's funny, right? You don't think I have any."

But he does. And they run the gamut from wanting to spend a weekend in bed with her proving there are endless ways to make love without transmitting HIV to missing his mom to hating the Bush administration to being terrified that she's going to die before he can tell her any of it.

There's supposed to be time. Build-up. Banter. Taking down her walls brick by brick. But there isn't. Even before this outbreak, there wasn't.

"I haven't slept with a single woman since I started here, you know. At least not one that works here," he amends. He reaches out, brushes a few strands off hair off her forehead, chokes a little when she leans into his touch. "I guess alley cats have some morals after all."

Although, to be fair, there really hasn't been time. One crisis after another makes it hard to rely on anything but his hand for gratification. "And my hand's been busy, let me tell you," he chuckles.

That's the kind of comment he could never get away with if she were conscious.

That's the kind of comment he doesn't *want* to get away with.

"So fight this, Robin. Fight for yourself like you fight for your patients."

He takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers and squeezes tight. "Fight for *me*."


When she wakes up in the middle of the night, her mouth is dry and the tubes in her nostrils itch and poke and automatically make her want to yank them out. But she doesn't. She knows better. Instead, she looks down at the man slumped over, asleep, with his head just barely touching her pillow.

Playboy surgeon extraordinaire Patrick Drake drools.

Who would've thought?

And he looks boyish, with his hair sticking up every which way. Boyish and exhausted.

He won't be much use to anyone sleeping in that position all night. He'll wake up sore and cranky and more insufferable than ever,

She squeezes his hand, leans over and gently kisses his forehead. "Thank you," she whispers, through cracked lips.

He's right. She can't die with all her secrets.

And she wants to live with this one.


February 23, 2006.

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