Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sadr City, Iraq
May 2004

Iraq smelled like shit.

It wasn't a generous thought. Robby hated that it even occurred to him. And yet, that was his first thought at being driven through the bustling streets of Baghdad. Mostly because it was true; the city smelled like raw sewage. The stench seemed suspended in the sticky heat as their nondescript van crawled through heavy traffic, navigating an endless maze of tan three-story buildings, open windows looking down on the people going about their day.

"Smells like shit, eh?" his driver asked, glancing over at him as he skillfully drove the busy streets. Karim had met him at the airport and introduced himself as MSF security—which explained the rifle he casually toted, now lying across the dash, within easy reach. Robby had known there would be lots of guns involved in his mission to Iraq, but for some reason he'd thought it would be a more gradual introduction. Instead, he'd been surrounded as soon as he stepped off the UN plane he'd hitched a ride on—mostly American soldiers with rifles, but also Iraqi security and other nations' soldiers, all wearing different kinds of camouflage, plus guys like Karim. It was a lot.

Not wanting to insult Karim's country by saying it smelled shitty—even if it did—Robby just shrugged. "War takes a toll."

Karim grinned, genial. "It smelled this way before the war, too. This is Thawra District. You heard of Al-Thawra?"

"Sadr City," Robby said because his pre-mission briefings had covered that, at least. A slum of 2.5 million people packed into just 13 kilometers—more people than Manhattan in a third of the space—making it one of the densest urban environments on the planet.

"Some call it so, yes, but Al-Thawra is the older name. It means Revolution City," Karim offered, an ironic lilt to it, likely because no revolution had materialized. "Saddam built it to contain the Shiites, then kept it on the edge of collapse. Water, power, sewers—nothing worked so well. When the people got restless, instead of fixing things, he'd drive his tanks through the roads. Al-Thawra welcomed the Americans. But they still have no good pipes. You see that muck?" Karim nodded out to the road ahead, where a knee-deep river of brown edged into traffic, the other cars and the milling populace all avoiding it.

"Yeah," Robby said slowly, not liking where this was going.

"That's the sewage system," Karim offered brightly, like it was a joke. "We do our best to avoid."

"Good idea," Robby said, horrified by the implications. Because if they were living with raw sewage in the streets, disease would be rampant. Cholera, dysentery, gastroenteritis, campylobacteriosis, E.coli, giardiasis, maybe even typhoid and hep A. All of them well controlled in the developed world. A solved problem.

"You will get used to this," Karim said wisely, like he well knew. "It will become normal." On some level, Robby hoped it never did. It made him think of his training, of the wisdom offered to newbies by the MSF veterans: You'll come back changed. The things that mattered before will seem unimportant. And it will be hard to connect with the people from your old life.

Somewhere deep, Robby yearned for that. Anything to feel something else.

"You said they welcomed the Americans," he said, not wanting to get sucked into his own head again. "What about the fighting?" Because over the last month, every MSF staff member he'd talked to had asked if he was really sure he wanted to go, the uptick in violence weighing heavily on everyone. Security was a constant concern; MSF had to be sure their people wouldn't be in danger...but it was hard to guarantee that in an active war zone. Robby had said he was good with it—and continued to say so—but he wasn't suicidal. If the people who sent doctors to the most dangerous places on the planet were worried, there was reason for it.

Karim nodded, forehead scrunching in contemplation. "Yes, this is new. The whole year after the invasion, Al-Thawra was the safest place in Iraq. Then last month, boom." He mimed a bomb exploding. "Fighting every day and every night." He shot a curious glance Robby's way. "If you knew of the fighting, why come here?"

Why. The question vibrated through Robby, the same one posed by every single person in the process, from Adamson at PTMC when asking for a leave, to the MSF staff in Brussels, and now to Karim. Robby gave the same answer he gave everyone: "I want to help."

On one level, it was true—he did want to help, horrified by the images of suffering coming out of this bullshit crime of a war. And he was privileged enough to be able to do it—he had a skill that was needed, he could take off for six months, and no one depended on him. A truth that tasted like ash in his mouth.

On a deeper level...it was something more complicated, tied up in the maelstrom within Robby, the one he couldn't bear to look at. Unable to help it, his mind flashed back to his bubbe's apartment, so quiet and still.

Just as quickly, he shut that thought down. Best to focus on the present. On what he could do.

Beside him, Karim nodded and lightly patted Robby's shoulder, friendly. "You have courage to come. The doctor you are replacing was not so good."

Robby didn't know about that—he counted every MSFer courageous in one way or another—but it wasn't a point worth arguing. "What changed? My briefings mentioned the closing of a newspaper?"

"The Americans did, yes," Karim agreed, "but that was just the excuse. The fighters have been working in shadows a long time. No one wants foreigners in the country."

Robby looked out at the people again—women in abayas and hijabs carrying baskets, men in loose trousers and shirts gesturing wildly at each other, people leading rickety carts or even goats, all in the heavy 90-degree heat...the whole vivid breadth of humanity on display. "That's understandable."

Karim shot him measuring a look, but simply nodded. "Yes. But I think they will not get their wish. Not for a very long time," he said, a hint of lament hanging heavy in his voice.

"Let's hope the foreigners give Iraqis control of their country and leave them to it," he said, hearing the darkness in his own voice. Because none of them should even be here, Robby feeling his own anger at the fucking farce, made worse because it was done in his name—in all their names—under the guise of liberation. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Except be here, he supposed.

Karim inclined his head. "You are hopeful, Dr. Robby. I like this. We will be friends."

Robby smiled at the declaration, as simple as that. "Sounds good."

***

Cars started turning off the road they were on, people melding away as they drove on, and Robby looked to Karim. "Traffic's clearing. That's good."

But Karim was frowning. "No, not good," he said, intently scanning the street ahead, slowing the van unnecessarily. He turned onto another street—

Where a line of tan military Humvees were stopped, spaced evenly apart. Helmeted soldiers stood outside them, wearing desert camo uniforms with green camo vests on top that were filled with rifle magazines, their guns held at the ready. Robby caught sight of an American flag patch on a soldier's upper arm—

Just as shouting rang out. Karim slammed on the brakes, jerking the van to a stop in time for Robby to spot two armed men rushing out of a tiny alley nearby, wearing all black, green scarves tied to their foreheads. One held a rifle...and the other carried a fucking RPG.

Robby's eyes widened as the guy aimed the RPG at the Humvees and fired.

The explosion was like nothing Robby had ever felt, the very world around him shaking with a deafening boom. The van actually went airborne for an instant, the force of the blast rattling Robby's bones, reverberating in his teeth. When he oriented himself, the two armed men were gone and the building behind one of the Humvees was partially caved in, flames licking up the sides, a haze of smoke in the air. Three soldiers lay on the ground.

Robby didn't even think. He grabbed his backpack and shoved his door open, ignoring Karim's protesting, "Dr. Robby!" as he rushed toward the men on the ground.

Before he got there, a soldier appeared in front of him, a rifle pointing square at his chest. "Whoa, hey, I'm a doctor," Robby protested, holding his free hand up, his other grasping his backpack. The soldier clocked the red cross on his backpack—Robby thanking his own foresight in that—then nodded him on, turning his gun on the wider street.

Robby rushed ahead, pulling gloves from the backpack, quickly assessing the first guy he came to—small cuts, already pulling himself up, fine. He moved to the second, bleeding from a scalp lac, asking, "You all right?" as he pulled gauze from his pack.

"I'm good, I'm good," he said, grabbing the gauze and waving Robby on.

"Put pressure on it," Robby said, gesturing to his own forehead as he moved to the third guy, ominously still down. The soldier was holding his leg, a pained growl coming from deep in his chest.

"Let me see," Robby said, tugging the soldier's gloved hands out of the way. Blood drenched his inner thigh and was pooling underneath him, too much, a jagged piece of metal embedded in his leg. Possibly arterial, Robby didn't dare try to remove it.

"You got a pretty good piece of shrapnel in your leg here, man," Robby said, glancing him over. The soldier had a tourniquet secured to his green outer vest, so Robby ripped that off. "Gonna apply this tourniquet so we can get a handle on the bleeding. This'll hurt." He didn't wait for assent, just wrapped it around his thigh and pulled it tight, making sure not to jar the shrapnel still embedded in his flesh. The soldier cried out in pain as Robby secured it, but hey, that meant he was alert and breathing.

Tourniquet secured, Robby turned to the rest of him. "Any pain in your chest or belly?" Robby asked, pulling his steth from his pack.

"Just my leg," the soldier said, voice raspy.

Robby listened to his lungs: good breath sounds—

"Doc incoming," Robby heard from behind him, making him look over—

Just in time to see a soldier rushing by a larger group all spread out around them—guarding them, he realized. The newcomer carried a rifle like it weighed nothing, a fuller pack on his back than the others. Like all the rest, he was in a desert camo uniform with a green camo vest on top that was filled with rifle magazines, his nametag designating him as Abbot, eyes hidden behind dark Oakleys. Idly, Robby wondered if the sunglasses were part of the uniform.

Then he was there and the glasses came off—

And a little zing went through Robby at being the focus of bright green eyes. He was young—younger than Robby, probably—but carried an unmistakable sense of authority. He was also hot.

Abbot took in Robby in a single glance. "ICRC or MSF?" he asked, hooking his gun to his vest so he could kneel by the soldier's other side, all in one fluid, practiced move.

"MSF," Robby said, startled. "How'd you know?" he asked, kind of dumbly.

Abbot spared a dry glance for him. "Because they're the only ones fool enough to be rolling without an escort," he said, switching out his tactical gloves for medical ones.

Robby wanted to argue that—to proclaim the necessity of the appearance of independence just as much as the reality of it—but it probably wasn't the time. "Right," he said, short. "Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Everyone calls me Robby." He gestured to the shrapnel vic. "I applied a tourniquet to the leg, good bilateral breath sounds, he's awake and responsive."

But even as Robby talked, Abbot listened to the soldier's breathing himself.

Robby bristled. "What, you think I can apply a tourniquet, but can't check basic vitals?"

"Trust, but verify, Dr. Robby," he said, his name sounding silky in Abbot's mouth. "Which I just did, so turns out, you're not totally useless." Robby wanted to bristle again, but Abbot was turning to the soldier on the ground. "Got good news and bad news for you, Corporal. The bad news is that your life was saved by a civilian. Oh, the shame."

The soldier choked out a laugh. "I think I can live with it, sir."

"Well, you'll have to. The good news is that you're gonna have the kind of gnarly scar that chicks dig. If you have any game whatsoever, you should be able to swing this into blowjobs."

Robby just stared at Abbot as a laugh raced through the soldiers around them, still on guard and apparently paying attention. Robby realized his focus had narrowed to just the three of them, but they were out in the open, for anyone to see. He didn't know why that shook him.

The soldier on the ground stilled. "...wait, really?" he asked, sounding awfully hopeful.

Abbot patted the guy's shoulder. "Yeah, think about that for a while." To the others he called, "Let's get a litter in here. Someone get on the hook and tell FST they got incoming."

"Roger that," floated over from somewhere as two guys carrying a stretcher hustled in to whisk their injured soldier away. Taking off his gloves, Abbot stood to give them access. Robby snapped off his own gloves, taking Abbot's offered hand—

Robby startled at the heat of skin on skin, the strength of his grip as he was yanked to standing, all Abbot's focus on him again. "Dr. Jack Abbot," he said, finally introducing himself, turning it into a handshake. Strong hands, Robby thought distantly.

Robby shook, almost responding with his own name—thankfully realizing he'd already done that—and fumbled his way to, "Pleasure, Dr. Abbot." He didn't know why he was so startled; Abbot was just another doctor. With a gun, sure, but that couldn't be it.

It was probably just the adrenaline of driving into a fucking RPG attack. Like that was a thing that happened.

Abbot released him and smiled like he clocked Robby's awkwardness, finding it endearing. "Call me Jack," he said, easy. "I bet I'll be seeing you around."

Robby didn't know whether that was a threat...or an offer...but before he could figure it out, another soldier was approaching, the ones already present straightening a little. So the boss, maybe?

"Abbot, sitrep," he barked, joining them, a no-nonsense air to him as he pulled off his Oakleys. He was about Robby's height with pale skin peeling with sunburn and pale blue eyes. His name patch read Darnell.

Abbot—Jack, Robby remembered—nodded in greeting, not exactly deferential, but answering nonetheless. "Three wounded, two can be handled at Dirty Bird, one needs FST," he said as he pulled on his tactical gloves.

Darnell nodded, glancing over Robby like he was trying to place him in the hierarchy of important to ignorable and it could go either way. "What's this?"

"MSF FNG," Jack shot back. Whatever that meant, he sounded amused.

Darnell scoffed and looked to Robby, expression going decidedly unimpressed. "Oh, yeah? You here to find yourself? Have an adventure? Do something hard?" he asked, each question more mocking than the last.

And there was that question again, like it was haunting Robby. He stifled his instinct to bite back and kept it simple: "I'm here to help."

Darnell scoffed again. "We got ourselves a true humanitarian," he said, looking around to his soldiers, some of whom snickered, others smirking. Assholes.

Interestingly, Jack didn't really engage, just watching. Robby got the sense that he was separate and apart from the others, though he didn't know why. Just a gut.

Robby set that aside and focused. If Darnell wanted to be a dick, Robby could meet him there. He didn't work for the US military, nor did he owe them any deference; they were the invaders here, no matter what they liked to tell themselves. "And here I thought the Administration said NGOs are vital to rebuilding," Robby shot back, pointed, knowing that was true because of how much MSF staff had complained about it.

Darnell smiled, thin. "The Administration says what it says. This soldier says that you're just one more hippie do-gooder we're gonna have to rescue." He looked Robby up and down, dismissive. "Welcome to the sandbox. Try not to get shot."

Which was when another soldier rushed up, younger and gangly, addressing Darnell. "No sign of 'em, Captain."

Darnell shook his head. "Another scoot-and-shoot. Cowards."

Jack tilted his head, zeroing in on Robby. "You were here. You see the guys who did the shooting?"

Darnell's pale eyes swung back to Robby, still deeply unimpressed. Under their expectant gazes, Robby nodded. "Two guys in black, from that alley over there," he said, gesturing across the street to the empty alley. "They had green scarves tied around their foreheads."

Recognition flashed over all their faces. "Fucking Mahdis," Darnell said, spitting onto the ground nearby. He shot a glance to Jack and then the other soldier. "We're stepping off in two." Then he slid his glasses back on and stalked away, barking out to the others, "Charlie mike!"

The newly-arrived soldier melted away, but Jack stayed, something interested in his expression, so Robby figured he could ask: "What's FST?"

"Forward surgical team. Scalpel jockeys, you know, but they do decent work."

"And FNG?"

Jack grinned, dimples appearing, the effect lighting up his face. He had freckles, too, Robby realized, an inconvenient slip of heat stealing through him at this guy smiling at him, all green-eyed and freckled and assured. "Now that would be telling," Jack drawled, teasing. Which meant it was something at Robby's expense then. But Jack leaned in, going a little conspiratorial. "I'll offer my gratitude on behalf of the corporal. Hopefully that'll you keep you warm when you're getting reamed out for helping soldiers."

Robby tensed. "We help everyone."

"You help civilians. Not armed soldiers, most especially because I'm here," he said, cocky and bright.

"So what? I was supposed to let him bleed out?"

"Hey, it's just a friendly warning. Word is MSF is pissed about Powell implying NGOs are part of our rebuilding plan. You're probably gonna get a good tongue lashing. Enjoy that, big boy." He thumped Robby on the chest, then looked around, his fellow soldiers readying to leave. Jack focused on Karim across the street, standing outside the van, clearly worried. "You got him?" he asked Karim, hooking his thumb toward Robby.

Surprise slipped through Robby that Jack recognized MSF security when he saw it.

Karim nodded, so Jack turned back to Robby, his expression going more serious. "Insurgents are grabbing up foreigners however they can. A pretty white boy like you is irresistible. Watch your back."

And with that, he slid his glasses on and headed away, gun hefted and at the ready, the other soldiers falling in around him as they moved.

Leaving Robby speechless.

***

"You never get out of the van," Karim insisted again, navigating the streets while shooting Robby intent glances.

Back in the passenger seat, Robby nodded. "I heard you."

"But will you listen?" Karim shot back.

"I can't just stand by while people are hurt," he argued. It was kind of the whole deal of being a doctor.

But Karim was shaking his head. "The Americans have their own doctors. And during transport is the most dangerous time. You must stay in the van or else I cannot protect you."

Robby frowned. The security situation had clearly deteriorated even further than what he'd heard. "That soldier said something about kidnappings?"

Concern flashed over Karim's face. "The rebels are taking any foreigners they can find. Asking for money. For armies to leave. Killing if they are not satisfied. Very dangerous."

Jesus. "How do you protect us, given all that?"

"MSF has guards at the clinics and your compound. Me or my guards will drive you from one to the other. We are good at our jobs. But not if you run away," he said again, like Robby might be slow.

Robby sighed. "I get it." Intellectually, he knew that a mission in a war zone wouldn't be like the stories from the other MSF doctors he'd met—of befriending the locals, going to their markets and homes, learning about their lives, becoming a part of the community, if even for a short while. But to hear it laid out so plainly—ferried from his housing to a clinic and back again, safe in a bubble—was a bit disheartening.

He looked out at the street as Karim drove, clearer now, the buildings sparser, the maze from earlier left behind. Up ahead, a kid rode a red bike, skinny legs pedaling for all he was worth, kicking up a trail of dust in his wake. As they drove past, Robby could see the beaming smile on his face, the very picture of freedom.

His mind instantly went to his ten-year-old self and the red bike his bubbe had gotten him for his birthday. Scratched and dented, it had clearly had a hell of a journey before getting to Robby, but he could still feel his childish shock at ripping off the newspaper that served as wrapping paper, the disbelief at what was inside. Robby had always known they were poor, the other kids making fun of his tattered, too-small clothes. A bike—a real proper bike with gears and everything—it was an indulgence wildly out of reach. Robby never did learn how his bubbe had gotten it.

Even now, Robby could feel the grinding of the bike gears as he switched from one to the next, that liminal moment of wondering if the gear would catch, until it finally did, snapping into place, his ride going smooth. Feeling like victory. He'd ridden that bike everywhere, every day for almost a year, his most treasured possession—

Until it'd been stolen overnight and his whole world collapsed—his joy, his solace, taken from him in an instant. Robby could still hear his bubbe's consoling words: Some things are not meant to stay forever. You must let them go so they can touch others as they've touched you.

His eyes suddenly burned at the memory of her gentle tone, the way she always felt like home. Robby promptly shoved the memory down, shaking himself.

There was no use dwelling on that. It was a long time ago.

The van slowed as they approached a walled villa, tall date palms evenly spaced outside. Ten-foot tan walls topped with barbed wire surrounded a two-story tan building with a bright white roof, set back on the property. The main entrance was a black wrought-iron gate, an armed guard manning a covered enclosure just inside. Karim waved to the guard, who nodded to him and moved over to unlock the gate, hauling it open so the van could enter.

Inside the gate, the tiled driveway was a straight shot back behind the building, presumably to a parking area. A second two-story building stood at the end of the drive, less fancy than the main house. That was stately—wide ornamented windows lined both stories, looking out on the front yard, a curving lawn that was once probably green, but had withered into brown scrub. Small geometric statues ran along the outer edge of the lawn at regular intervals, but a closer glance showed glass in the middle of each. Probably lights for the lawn, then. This was a wealthy household, nothing like endless rows of identical three-story apartment buildings they'd driven through earlier, everyone packed in like sardines. This was luxury.

Karim stopped beside the geometric tiled pathway that led to the entrance. He turned the van off there, like he was delivering Robby right to the front door. It seemed kind of excessive, but Karim was already annoyed with him, so he decided not to comment.

Karim looked to Robby. "I pick you up here at 7am to take you to the clinic. Curfew is 5pm. MSF forbids anyone to be out after dark. Friday is Jum'ah, our day of congregation. No clinics run then. That is your day of rest."

Robby nodded. "Got it. Thanks, Karim."

Karim smiled, seemingly moving on from their disagreement. "Welcome to Baghdad, Dr. Robby. Inshallah, you will do good work."

***

Robby donned his backpack and grabbed his duffel from the back of the van, then headed to the door. Closer to the house, he could see that the large windows looking out on the front yard were opaque, the glass decoratively cloudy. He couldn't actually see into the house from outside. Wondering if he should knock, and then discarding that idea, Robby simply walked in through the main wooden double doors.

The cooler air hit him first, the air conditioning cutting through the oppressive heat from outside. He found himself in a small vestibule with a stunning mosaic floor. Another door stood opposite the main entrance, this one done in that swirling opaque glass, delicate and beautiful. A white cushioned bench ran along one side, the other taken up by a row of polished wood cubbies with shoes shoved into the openings. Taking that cue, Robby untied his boots and shoved them in one of the open slots, then proceeded through the glass door on socked feet.

He stepped into a great room—tan and white marbled floors everywhere, low red couches ringing a sitting area to the left, a staircase leading upstairs to the right, and a hall going straight back. Far wide windows opened onto an interior courtyard—the clear glass showing an ornamented fountain, greenery, and another sitting area under the shade. No people evident.

"Hello?" he called, checking his watch. It was after 5pm local; presumably everyone should be back.

The sound of bare feet on marble had him turning to the stairs just as someone appeared—a woman toweling her long strawberry-blond hair dry. Probably late 30s, she wore khaki shorts and an MSF shirt—white with the distinctive red logo—no makeup, and a measuring expression. "I reckon you're Robinavitch," she said with a distinctive Australian accent.

"That's me. Robby's fine," he said, nodding in greeting.

She nodded back, offering her hand. "Dr. Brooke Walker. Call me Brooke. You'll be covering the Al Ma'amil Clinic with me." Up close, her eyes were ice blue, sharp. She was a little stunning, actually, and seemed to be doing everything to downplay that.

"Great. Is there someplace I can drop my stuff?" he asked, shifting his duffel, which was getting heavier the longer he carried it.

She nodded. "I'll give you the tour." She waved to the downstairs area beyond. "Down the hall is the kitchen, dining room, and offices. The laundry is in the detached building out back, security on the second floor there, but we don't bother Karim and his blokes. The cook prepares all our meals, but she's off Fridays, so you'll have to sort yourself then. There's enough to get by, but if you need anything specific, ask Jamal, our logistician. You'll meet him at some point. I think he might be in Fallujah." She looked like she wasn't sure, but then shrugged it off, waving him to follow her as she headed for the stairs.

"Bedrooms are upstairs," she explained as they headed up. "There are five expat doctors, including you. The two of us oversee the Al Ma'amil Clinic, and there's one each at the Al Muntadhar and Al-Obiedi Clinics, plus a surgeon at Al Thawra Hospital. They're all having a shower or a kip; you'll meet them later. We each have our own rooms here with pretty reliable electricity, basically the lap of luxury." She paused at the head of the stairs, gesturing around at the marbled hall, arched doorways on either side, the geometric designs in the molding. "This villa apparently belonged to a wealthy family that got taken out in the retribution killings after they ousted Saddam. I've no idea how Jamal secured it for us. But that's logs for you; they work miracles."

Most of the white doors were closed. Brooke walked him back to the end of the hall, where two doors stood open. "You're at the end of the hall, next to me, with a loo just across there." She nodded him on, so Robby walked in—

To find a nicely-appointed room—a full bed with tan bedding and fluffy pillow, a nightstand beside, a dark wooden desk and chair, and a window opening out onto the courtyard, matching tan curtains pushed open to let in the fading light. A set of blue towels sat on the end of the bed. It was...nice.

"Not what I expected," Robby said, hearing the surprise in his voice as he set his duffel down just beyond the patterned tan rug that covered much of the marble floor, followed by his backpack. He'd kind of expected to be in a closet. Or a tent.

From the doorway, Brooke snorted. "You and me both. Iraq's an odd one. Even under Saddam, it had a relatively-advanced economy and educational infrastructure. Some missions, you're trying to explain germ theory to people who believe in humors, but not here. Sadr City is poor and underserved, but its people live in the modern world. Their hospital staff is decent. Our national staff is great."

Robby studied her, curious. "You sound like you don't think MSF should be here."

Brooke tipped her head. "I reckon you've heard that debate. Why pour all these resources into Iraq, which is the focus of the whole world, while places like Sudan get ignored?"

"Would it really be MSF if we weren't complaining about something?" he asked, dry. Because MSF's mouthiness and zero-fucks attitude was legendary. It was what attracted Robby to the organization in the first place.

She flashed a sly grin, entirely charming. "Professionally stroppy, that's us." She regarded him expectantly. "Do you need to sort yourself or you good to see the rest?"

Robby gestured her out. "Lead on."

***

Brooke led him back down the stairs and through that long hallway. She paused in the kitchen, where a middle-aged woman in a hijab was pouring the contents of a pot into a serving dish. Whatever she was making smelled amazing—spiced and tangy; it instantly reminded Robby that he hadn't eaten since he'd left Brussels.

"And this is our cook, Salima. She speaks only a little English," she told Robby as she turned to Salima. She gestured to Robby. "This is Dr. Robby," she said.

"As-salamu alaikum," Robby said, bringing his right hand to his chest.

Salima smiled softly and nodded. "Wa alaikum assalaam."

Brooke gestured him on, heading down the hall. "What languages do you have?"

"A little French and Hebrew. And the few phrases that stuck from my Arabic guidebooks."

She shrugged. "Not much help here, but you'll get by. Enough people speak English because of the Yanks. If you ever want to do missions in much of Africa or Haiti, you should get conversational in French." As she walked, she gestured to an ornate room off to the side, the centerpiece of which was a long polished-wood table and matching upholstered chairs. "Dining room here. We don't have a formal meal schedule, but end up eating with each other for the most part. And then down here," she said, continuing down the hall, "are the offices for the field coordinator, log, and watsan."

Brooke knocked at the first open door. "I found a rogue doctor." She looked to Robby. "Stijn's our long-suffering coordinator."

A harried blond man sat behind a heavy wooden desk piled with files, surrounded by phones, a computer, printer, and fax—the sprawl of modern administrative tech a stark contrast to the ornate décor of the rest of the house. "Is that Robinavitch?" he asked with an accent Robby couldn't quite place. German, maybe.

Brooke stepped inside, Robby following and nodding in greeting. "Robby's fine."

Stijn nodded, but his brow was furrowed. The lines there marked him as early 40s, easily. "I hear talk of you treating wounded Americans?"

Brooke looked over at him sharply. "Did you?"

Reminded of Jack's warning, Robby shrugged. "There was an RPG attack on the way here. I helped out."

Stijn blew out a slow breath. "While I appreciate the ethics of this, our biggest challenge is convincing the locals that we're independent. It does not help to be seen treating soldiers."

"Well, then it's a good thing Brussels told me not to wear my MSF shirt," he quipped because he wasn't about to apologize for treating someone in need, no matter who it was.

"Yes," Stijn said in a begrudging sort of way, like he was used to stubborn doctors and knew it was a useless argument. "Please be mindful of this in the future."

"You got it. If it helps, they didn't seem too wild about me, either."

Stijn went a little sharper, interested. "In what way?"

Robby shrugged. "The guy in charge, Darnell, he called me a tourist and told me not to get shot. Not exactly the welcome wagon."

Stijn just nodded. "Yes, we've met. The Americans have been more difficult about security escorts recently. It is...tense."

"They mentioned kidnappings," Robby offered. "Seemed worried about it."

"There is an American civilian missing," Stijn offered with a frown. "They have been looking for him. With the killing of the contractors in Fallujah, the rebel uprisings, and now the Abu Ghraib scandal, they are especially sensitive to what the media say. They don't like the appearance that they are not in control."

"It kinda sounds like they're not," Robby said, dry.

"We are in a tenuous moment," Stijn said, politic. Then he shot Robby a reassuring look. "As long as you follow our security protocol, there is no reason for concern. Karim and his team are quite experienced."

"I got the speech from Karim. I'll be good," Robby said, going for reassuring.

Stijn shot him a weary smile. "It is a relief to hear. Welcome to Baghdad, Dr. Robby. We are glad to have you."

***

A rush of voices drew them out, Brooke introducing him to the other doctors who'd collapsed on the red couches of the great room. Arnaud was mid-40s, a French surgeon with wavy brown hair, high cheekbones, and a pouty sort of mouth that probably got him a lot of attention. Giovanni was younger, late 30s, an Italian doctor of family medicine with olive skin and a short dark beard that did nothing to hide his incredible jawline. Maarten was Dutch and also in family medicine, maybe early-40s, a dirty blond with a scruffy beard and the palest blue eyes. All seemed welcoming, even amidst brief introductions.

"You'll see less of them since they're at the other clinics and in hospital," Brooke said as she guided him into the kitchen to grab dinner. She caught sight of the serving dishes and brightened. "Ooh, timman ahmar. It's spiced tomato rice with chicken. Salima makes ace rice dishes. Have the pickles and samoon bread, too. This mission has the best food of any I've been on."

He followed her lead in making himself a plate, Salima nowhere to be found. "How many have you done?"

"This is my fifth." Brooke waited until he filled his plate, then walked with him to the dining room. "Afghanistan, South Sudan, Sri Lanka, and Haiti."

"You know French then," he said, dry, as they both took seats.

"Oui, mais mon accent est horrible," she said in a kind of mixed Australian-French accent that made Robby laugh. She pointed at him. "That's the response I get everywhere. I reckon it helps put people at ease."

Arnaud walked out with a plate then, teasing Brooke as he took a seat. "Is the Aussie attempting my language again? Butchering the language of love," he said, mournful, hyping up his French accent.

"The language of love is deadset wasted on you," she shot back, making both Robby and Arnaud laugh just as Giovanni and Maarten walked in with their own food, chatting in animated Italian.

Maarten leaned into Robby as he sat beside him. "From the way he talks, you would think Arnaud is the only one to speak French. Instead of everyone at the table."

"I am the only one to speak real French, this is true," Arnaud shot back, seeming entirely serious.

Giovanni gestured floridly at Arnaud. "There you go. The arrogance of the French. 'You don't speak French unless you were born within Paris city limits. We invented human rights, we invented triage, we invented the baguette,'" he drawled, a snooty kind of mocking to it.

Robby tipped his head. "Well, you gotta give them the baguette."

The others laughed, Arnaud raising a hand imperiously. "I will apologize for none of these things. In fact, you're welcome."

It got another round of laughs, Maarten breaking off a piece of his samoon and throwing it at Arnaud.

Arnaud just made a face at him and ate it, then gestured to Robby. "But we have an American now; we get a new brand of arrogance: that which is unearned."

Robby grinned and shook his head. "You won't hear me denying it." He took a bite of the rice dish—delicately spiced and rich and delicious. Jesus.

Maarten thumped him on the shoulder. "All in jest, friend."

"Oh, I get it. Believe me. We're the ones who got us into this mess," he acknowledged, knowing that everyone had to be thinking it, not wanting it to be some kind of elephant they tiptoed around.

It had the intended effect, sobering the mood. Brooke shook her head. "That Abu Ghraib bullshit is right fucked," she said, taking a defiant bite.

Maarten nodded. "All the patients are talking of this. National staff, too."

"It is the same in hospital," Arnaud said, going more serious. "It has inflamed the street."

Robby swallowed his bite and nodded. "Rightly so. It's horrific. Soldiers should end up in jail. Probably won't. Just like the people who decided to invade another country for no reason. The whole war's a fuckin' crime."

Swallowing a bite of bread, Giovanni looked at him in sympathy. "Is this why you come? Penance."

And there was that why again, always the question at hand. But Robby had an answer for this one, shaking his head. "I'm just here to do what I can, however small that is. Penance is more of a Christian thing," he said, adding, "I'm Jewish."

At that, the others went...careful. Robby had run into more than a few bigots in his life, but this didn't have that vibe; it was more concerned than anything.

Brooke had paused in the middle of taking a bite. She finally said, "Jesus, an American Jewish doctor in Iraq. You have some stones, mate."

The others chuckled, Maarten shaking his head at her, like he despaired.

"Perhaps it is best to stay quiet about that," Giovanni said to Robby, delicate, clearly knowing this could be a minefield.

Arnaud made an agreeing noise "Al Jazeera has been linking Abu Ghraib to Israel. Calling this the Zionist occupation. Trying to connect the two, even though they are different. Here, everyone hates Israel and they don't distinguish the state from the religion. The patients won't let you treat them if they know."

"Stuff that, they'll send a suicide bomber into the clinic," Brooke cut in.

Arnaud took a bite of rice, gesturing toward her. "That, too."

Robby shot them an obvious look. "Gee, you mean I shouldn't go announcing myself in a war-torn Muslim country? You don't say," he drawled because come on.

He'd told the Brussels staff—even though if he'd been a member of any other religion it wouldn't matter—figuring it was better to be upfront in case it would be a problem. As with all things, they'd focused on the frank realities. Robby wasn't observant, so he didn't need any accommodations, and MSF staff had respectfully asked if he was comfortable keeping it to himself, which he was. The only outward indication of his religion was the gold Magen David he wore around his neck, a gift from his bubbe, and that stayed next to his skin. But he wasn't about to hide it from his peers. Maybe that wasn't what MSF would consider 'keeping it to himself,' but whatever. There were limits.

Arnaud grinned, seeming delighted. He gestured to Robby grandly. "Arrogant and sarcastic. We get the full American experience."

This time Giovanni threw a piece of bread at him. Robby got the sense that happened a lot.

Maarten gripped Robby's shoulder, companionable. "It's good that you tell us," he said, heartfelt. "To be yourself where you can." The others nodded, even Arnaud softening a shade. In his own way.

It unexpectedly struck Robby, touched by the simple sentiment, even if it should never be an issue at all. But Robby wasn't naïve; he knew that wasn't the world they lived in. So he appreciated this easy acceptance.

Brooke slapped her hand on the table, light. "Right, that's enough of that." She paused. "Oi, where's Stijn?" She leaned back and called out, "Stijn, dinner!"

Arnaud shot her an unimpressed look. "You realize you are a common boor?"

Brooke made a rude gesture at Arnaud as Stijn called back, "I'll eat later!"

"Island of criminals," Arnaud sniffed at Brooke, like this was an old joke.

Brooke made a kind of come-hither gesture. "Come over here and say that again. See how it goes for you," she said, smiling sweetly.

"No threats of violence in the villa," Giovanni said, hand cutting through the air, but it was exasperated, another comfortable joke.

"Boring," Brooke sing-songed, but she was smiling. She looked to Robby then, blue eyes glittering. "Robby, the most important question: do you play cards?"

"Not well," he said gamely.

Brooke grinned. "Even better."

***

Dinner went on just like that—the food delicious, the doctors affectionately mocking each other or swapping stories of past missions, all united in common purpose. Robby found himself smiling as he went back up to his room to shower and unpack, getting ready for tomorrow.

After that he joined everyone for that card game, Brooke handily beating all of them, because of course she did.

Deep inside, something in Robby unclenched, a bit of tension easing at the realization that he liked them. For so long, the mission had been an idea, abstract and daunting, looming large in the distance. Now that he was here...he could do this. Surrounded by these people, he'd be okay.

***

The card game broke up at a reasonable hour, the guys grumbling at Brooke's domination. He got the sense it wasn't the first time.

Robby joined her as she left the dining room. "Am I to understand you regularly beat the pants off them?" he teased.

"Oh, they can keep their pants on. In fact, they should," she drawled, dry.

Robby grinned. "Language of love, indeed," he shot back.

She laughed. "None of that now. You should've got the same lecture from Brussels we all did."

"I was impressed with the many and varied ways they had to say, 'Don't bang your teammates,'" he said, still smiling.

"It's good advice, hey. An affair completely stuffed up my mission to Haiti. One of the doctors got pregnant, which given how many condoms we hand out, was deadset impressive. She had to leave and they had a hell of a time replacing her." Brooke shook her head. "It's not as much of an issue here, though. Usually missions are about half women, but not this one. It's a right sausage fest."

Brooke paused in the great room, nodding for him to follow her. She headed to one of the doors to the courtyard, opening it and stepping outside.

It was still warm, even in full dark, the only lights from inside the villa—

And then flashes lit up the inky darkness, the sky seeming almost hazy. That was followed by booms and ominous crack crack crack sounds in the distance. They were mostly muffled indoors, but outside it was a constant barrage. Robby looked to Brooke. "Is that—"

"Welcome to war, mate. That is why we have a 5pm curfew. That's the Yanks and Mahdis battling it out in Sadr City. Usually MSF likes to house us closer to our facilities, but there was just no way we could be near the city; it's too dangerous. Karim calls the villa a 'defensible position,' whatever that means."

"That's a little ominous," Robby said, marveling at the continued rapidfire crack crack crack in the distance. Gunshots.

Brooke's usual cool broke as she shook her head, worried. "I'm pretty sure Karim has some kind of weapons cache in the security building, but I've no intention of confirming that."

"Karim's on our side, right?" Robby asked, half-joking.

From Brooke's expression, the thought had occurred to her. "MSF pays national staff well. A right bit better than other NGOs and because of that it vets them carefully. But it's Iraq; it's the chaos of war. Who the hell knows anything," she said, quiet.

That was when a deafening boom sounded, the distant sky lighting up bright orange before quickly fading away.

Robby let the moment settle and then finally said, "MSF pays us for shit."

Brooke cracked up, thumping him on the arm companionably. "What, that 1400 a month not doing it for you?"

"Minus the cost of food," Robby shot back, smiling a little.

"Yes, but you're a rich doctor and can take the hit," she mocked.

Robby scoffed. "Tell that to my student loans."

"Every time I talk to an American, I thank God for government-funded schooling," she said, like she was appalled.

"Rub it in, why don't you," he muttered.

More gunfire rang out, this time two different kinds. Robby had always thought of gunfire as a monolith, like gunshots were all one thing, maybe faster or slower, but of a piece. Listening to it now, he could tell a difference in the quality of the gunfire.

"Are those different types of guns?"

Brooke nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Yeah, the Mahdis use AK-47s and the Yanks have something else. Well, a lot of somethings. Apparently when they hear gunfire they can tell if it's their people or not just by the sound. Which is probably good because they don't seem able to talk to each other a lot of the time."

Something fast and piercing whizzed over the villa, disappearing into the night.

She gestured to it. "And that is why we don't eat out here even on nice nights. Too risky. All sides know this is where we stay, so they probably won't mortar the villa. But you know."

Robby inclined his head. "It's the 'probably' that makes that sentence a treat."

"My gift to you. Now come on. Time for bed."

Brooke led the way back inside and upstairs, to their rooms. The others had already gone ahead, their doors closed, no lights underneath. Stijn never had made a reappearance.

Robby paused by Brooke's room. "Hey, I just want to say...thanks. For the orientation. I know I'm the babe in the woods over here."

Brooke smiled. "We all do it, mate. A week on, you'll be the welcome wagon for the next hapless newbie."

Robby couldn't imagine. He felt like he didn't know anything. "Yeah, right."

She gestured to herself, a tiny smile playing about her lips. "I should know."

He blinked. "You've only been here a week?" he asked, faint. She seemed like she had a handle on everything, an old hand.

Brooke grinned. "The learning curve is steep, but you master it quickly. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be overwhelming."

Robby nodded and with a knock to her doorframe, went.

***

His mattress was thin, but even so, Robby slept like the dead. His alarm woke him on a gasp, from deep under. Half in a daze, he pulled on his scrubs and then did his morning ablutions, heading down to the kitchen to see what smelled good.

Brooke was there, also wearing scrubs, but with a black long-sleeved undershirt, her hair in a ponytail, spooning eggs in some kind of sauce into a bowl. "You should have the makhlama. It's eggs in a meat and tomato sauce. There's no time to eat at the clinic, so fill up now," she advised.

There were also pastries of some kind, various fruits, and more bread. Most importantly, several brass coffee pots with distinctive crescent-shaped beaks. Fuck yeah. He went there first, pouring himself a cup before getting some food, following Brooke's advice and loading up on eggs and sauce.

He joined her at the table, starting with his coffee. He made a surprised noise at the taste, Brooke laughing at him. "Arabic coffee, mate. That's cardamom you're tasting. Not bad, hey?"

Robby made an agreeing noise and took another sip. It wasn't something he'd have sought out, but he liked it. Then he dug into the eggs. As before, delicious. "What's on the agenda for today?" he asked as he ate.

"I'll introduce you to one of our best nurses, Aya, who will be your right hand throughout. Her English is excellent, so she'll be able to bridge the language gap for you. Brussels told you about being hands-on?"

"Meaning that we're really not? Yeah, they hit that pretty hard."

"I reckon we're like the teachers at a teaching hospital. You should be used to that. The goal is that the national staff handle things on their own. Obviously when cases are urgent or tricky we step in, but a perfect day would be a day where you never touch a patient."

Robby nodded, getting it. "You said the national staff is great?"

Brooke swallowed her bite and warmed. "There are varying levels of experience, but yes, and all are eager to learn. We have six doctors, fourteen nurses, and around a dozen support—cleaning, transport, security, that sort of thing. We handle about two thousand consultations a week these days and anything crazy we transfer to Al Thawra hospital and make it Arnaud's problem." She said it like she relished the idea.

"Transferring using our ambulance service?" he asked, still unable to believe that MSF was pulling that off in the middle of a war.

Brooke grinned. "That's the beauty of MSF. You need something, they find a way to do it. No red tape, no endless meetings, no delay. In Sudan, we needed a new measles ward to isolate cases and stop the spread. We told the log in the morning and workers were building it by the afternoon. Here, we needed ambulances, so Jamal got us ambulances."

"Just like that," Robby said, marveling.

"The upside of not being tied to government funding."

"What's the downside?"

"We're smaller, can't do as much. The pay's less than elsewhere. Plus, other NGOs get absolutely filthy about us." Robby just looked blankly at her, not following that. "They get mad when we tell them no," she clarified. Then she tipped her head. "And that we won't have a chat with them when we're out and about."

"Do we tell them no?" he asked, dubious. He knew MSF had a reputation for pushing back at governments, but they were still trying to do good. As were other NGOs.

Brooke broke out into a grin. "Oh, do we. We were dealing with a diphtheria outbreak in Afghanistan and the WHO and ministry of public health didn't want us sending the patients to hospital in Kandahar. Said they were going to build a little hospital at the refugee camp. But the diphtheria antitoxin has to be kept below thirty-five Celsius and if a patient went anaphylactic, hospital was too far away. So the PC told them to fuck off. That's the beauty of being independent. We can just say no."

"What happened?"

"They let the PC have it and then backed down and we sent the patients to Kandahar." She shook her head once. "There's surprising power in saying, 'No, we're not doing that.'" Brooke raised her coffee cup in a kind of toast. "To MSF. The pay may be shit, but we do shit the right way."

***

As good as his word, Karim picked them up in front of the house, Robby following Brooke into the back of the van and sliding the door closed behind him.

"Sabah el kheir," Karim greeted them brightly. He seemed like the kind of person who had a little slice of sunshine in his pocket. Robby couldn't relate, but he didn't begrudge it.

"Sabah el noor," Brooke returned as Karim started the car. She looked to Robby in explanation. "His was 'morning of goodness' and mine was 'morning of light.'"

Robby nodded in thanks. "That's nice."

Brooke smiled and settled back on the bench seat as the van exited the villa's gates, presumably heading for Sadr City. "Greetings and farewells are fun. They can get very elaborate."

"You westerners shorten everything. So abrupt," Karim sniffed, but it was kind, like he was bemused. "You have lost your poetry."

Robby smiled. "You're not wrong."

"We will fix this in you, inshallah," Karim said sagely, like it was going on his to-do list.

At that, Robby huffed a laugh. "My friend, if you're trying to fix me, we'll be here a while," he drawled, dry as dust.

Karim made an uncaring gesture. "There is always time."

But Brooke was shooting him a teasing look. "Why, Robby, are you broken? Do tell."

He promptly flipped her off.

She just laughed, Karim shaking his head from the driver's seat, but Robby could tell it was amused.

As they got closer to the city, Brooke turned to Robby. "When we get to the clinic, I'll introduce you to the staff. Convention is that people are addressed by their title and first name. Do you want to go by Robby or—what is your first name?" she asked, like she was surprised she didn't know.

He shrugged. "Michael, but I really do go by Robby."

Brooke nodded as she pulled some black fabric from her backpack. "I'll use that then." Unraveling it, the fabric turned out to be a wide scarf, which she quickly wrapped around her hair.

Surprise swept Robby. "You cover your hair?"

Still tucking the scarf in, she nodded. "It's not required outside of religious sites, but it draws less attention. From what I'm told, things have gotten more conservative since the start of the war. And I'm a bit of a ginger. People notice, make comments. This makes everything easier."

Robby nodded, getting it. "Guess we're both keeping something under wraps."

"Me less than you, I think," she said, sympathetic. "But we all make compromises. And hope it's worth it."

***

Al Ma'amil Clinic was a decent size and surprisingly clean given the literal shit in the streets. It had a waiting room, patient floor with curtains to cordon off individual beds, birthing room, children's center, and pharmacy, along with some areas for office staff.

As she'd said, Brooke introduced him to the national staff as "Dr. Robby." He didn't catch everyone else's names—going on thirty people, it was a lot—but hopefully would soon enough. Most surprising of all was his own surprise at the group. It was mixed-gender, almost evenly split between men and women, including a woman doctor. Robby realized he'd assumed that most of the Iraqi medical staff would be men, even though that wasn't his experience in the US nor what he was used to seeing. It was just what he'd prepared himself for.

The women all seemed kind, welcoming in a reserved sort of way, and it was fascinating to see the variation in dress. Everyone wore scrubs, of course, but after Brooke had covered her hair in the van, some part of him must have expected any women to be uniformly covered up, as well. But it wasn't like that at all. Some wore the traditional hijab, others wore loose scarves showing a little of their hair, and the doctor didn't cover her hair at all. Robby was interested in his own surprise, his assumptions; something to think about there.

"And most importantly," Brooke was saying as she walked him through the dispersing staff, "this is Nurse Aya."

Aya detached from the group, late twenties and pretty, wearing scrubs and a pale pink hijab that matched her long-sleeved undershirt. She smiled and nodded. "Welcome, Dr. Robby."

"It's nice to meet you," he said, returning her nod, knowing it was improper to shake hands with Muslim women without their invitation and following her lead. "Dr. Brooke speaks very highly of you."

"I do what I can," she said, dipping her eyes modestly.

Brooke continued: "Nurse Aya also helped your predecessor, so she's got the process sorted."

"Great. Then let's jump in. What's the system for patient order?" Robby asked.

Brooke snorted, then cuffed him on the arm. "That's all you, mate. Good luck."

And then she fucking bounced.

***

After the momentary surprise, Robby shook it off. The same principles applied no matter where you were. See patients in order, the most severe ones first.

Aya introduced him to an elderly nurse who seemed to be keeping an eye on the waiting room, Zeina. Through Aya, he asked her opinion on who should be seen next. Zeina's dark eyes sparkled as she handed him a paper patient file, speaking in rapid-fire Arabic.

At which Aya smiled. "Wise move, Dr. Robby. You will do well here, inshallah."

***

The first patient was like a slap to the face, here to remind Robby that this wasn't an interesting cultural exchange; it was fucking war.

The seven-year-old girl was sweating, skin sallow, and shaking a little. She had a mess of gauze and bandages wrapped her around her leg from a bullet wound, not unlike the shrapnel wound Robby had assessed in the soldier the day before. Hers wasn't arterial, though, just painful and likely infected after her family had kept her home instead of seeking immediate care. Despite that, she didn't cry or whimper or make any noise at all. That was the most startling thing; how quiet she was.

Her mother had brought her in, lines of worry etched in her face, and she looked on silently as Dr. Safia carefully extracted the bullet and dropped it in a tray. One of the nurses assisted, while Aya quietly translated for Robby. He only had to step in once, to remind Safia to inspect the bullet, in case it had fragmented on impact. The nurse cleaned it with saline, Safia inspecting it and Robby checking. Thankfully, the bullet was intact, so Safia could clean and suture the wound, ordering antibiotics, as well.

The case was relatively simple, the treatment going to plan...and yet it shook Robby. Because here they were, pulling a slug out of a seven-year-old, a bullet that Robby had probably paid for with his goddamn taxes and it was just—

It was a lot.

After the patient was settled, the nurse moved to clean up, removing the used gauze and syringes and tray. Robby held up a hand for her to pause, moving in to collect the bullet.

A reminder.

***

The next patient was a thirteen-year-old boy with a goddamn refrigerator handle jutting from the side of his abdomen, his frantic father looking on. Aya translated his story, how some kind of blast had blown apart an old fridge in the street, sending shrapnel flying. The son had just happened to be nearby, wrong place, wrong time—an innocent caught unaware by war. Robby oversaw Dr. Emad as he explored and removed the handle. Incredibly, it seemed to have missed every major organ. The kid would need a tetanus shot and antibiotics, and lots of rest as the wound healed, but he got off lucky.

When Emad informed the father, the man broke down in sobs. Just another parent, desperately worried for his child. Because as different as people could be, deep down, they were all the same, too. Something the world seemed determined to forget.

***

It went on like that the whole day—pulling bullets and shrapnel from all kinds of people, the wounds of war. But there were other cases, too—unsurprisingly, a lot of diarrheal disease, as well as inexplicable headaches, burns, accidents, even cases of listless children who couldn't keep anything down. As Brooke had said, the doctors were professional, only needed guidance and reminders and help with differentials, Robby not needing to take charge, which was a relief.

Aya shoved a granola bar and water bottle at him sometime midday, which made him realize he was hungry. He scarfed those as he checked on the children's center, which was running a whole vaccination program. The nurses had things well in hand and the cases weren't emergencies, so he quickly left and focused his efforts on whoever Zeina put in front of him.

He was overseeing Dr. Sadiq suturing a head lac when Brooke's voice rang out across the clinic, an urgent note to it. "Dr. Robby, need you! Now."

Robby backed out of the curtained area, looking to Dr. Sadiq and offering, "You're doing very well. Keep it up." And then he was out, hearing Aya repeat his words in Arabic, a step behind.

He moved quickly, a nurse gesturing him into the birthing room—

Where Robby found a fucking horror show. Blood pooled on the floor underneath the patient bed, where an unconscious woman lay, draped and hooked up to IVs and monitors, her abdomen sliced open for a Cesarean, blood still welling. To the side, Safia and a nurse were working on resuscitating a newborn, while Brooke had her hands in the woman's abdomen, surrounded by Emad and several nurses assisting, all of whom were covered in blood, wide-eyed, and seeming entirely out of their depth.

Brooke saw him and started talking. "Failed vaginal home birth, Cesarean, uterine rupture, can't repair it. You ever done a peripartum hysterectomy?"

Robby reared back. "Fuck," he said, then shook his head. "Never even seen it."

"Well, today is your lucky day, mate. I need another pair of steady hands and a strong stomach. Glove up." Then she looked behind Robby. "You, too, Aya."

Robby went to don sterile gloves, Aya following. "You ever done one of these?" he asked Brooke.

She was focused on making a vertical incision along the midline for better access, a nurse suctioning. "A few times in the field," she said, almost offhand, like that was at all reasonable to say about one of the direst emergencies in obstetrics. "It's always a crapshoot, but no other options. You remember your anatomy?"

"That I do," Robby said as he stepped up to the patient, swapping out for a grateful Emad.

They were interrupted by a baby's cry, Safia successfully getting the baby back. It eased a bit of the tension in the room. "Good job, Dr. Safia. Now let's save that baby's mother, hey." She placed the retractors, nodding Robby on. "Help me pack the bowel away."

Robby started placing moist laparotomy pads as Brooke looked to Aya. "Clamps," she ordered. Aya promptly handed one over, Brooke diving in. To Aya, Safia, Emad, and the nurses watching—and maybe to Robby, too—she explained: "I'm clamping off the utero-ovarian ligaments bilaterally." Aya repeated her words quietly in Arabic so everyone could understand, translating on the fly, really fucking impressive.

Brooke worked quickly, hands steady and sure. "The round ligament needs to be doubly clamped lateral to the uterus," she said as she did. "Robby, can you handle ligating each pedicle?"

"Yep," he said, grabbing the Vicryl that Aya was already offering and suturing quickly, aware of the blood still pooling around them on the floor. "What's our blood status?" he asked as he worked.

"Restocked yesterday, thank God," Brooke said, glancing at the monitors. "The rebels have been attacking supply lines, but Jamal's a wily one. We have a warehouse in the city with literally tons of supplies. Getting anything out to Fallujah, Najaf, and Karbala has been a nightmare, but we've been holding up okay."

She nodded as he finished. "Good, okay, now we want access to the anterior leaf of the broad ligament," she said, again looking to Aya, who just kept on translating, and then the others who watched. She gently moved the clamps applied to the utero-ovarian ligaments, revealing the broad ligament. "We want to create a window lateral to the uterus, beneath the utero-ovarian ligament and fallopian tube, but it must be in an avascular space," she said, probing for it. "Here we go. Mayo scissors," she called for.

Aya handed them over, Brooke promptly cutting into the tissue. As she did, she addressed Emad and Safia. "There's a lot of blood flow to this area in pregnancy, so make sure that you find an avascular space. Once you create your window, you're going to place two clamps. Robby, you got this?"

"On it," he said, already placing the distal clamp holding the fallopian tube and utero-ovarian ligament as well as the medial clamp on the uterus while Aya explained what he was doing in Arabic.

Brooke promptly cut between the clamps. "We leave the medial clamp on for the rest of the surgery, to be removed with the uterus. Now we doubly suture ligate the tissue proximate to the distal clamp," she said, doing so at lightning speed, really impressive. "This preserves the blood supply to the ovary."

That done, Brooke looked around, making sure everyone was still with her. "In the next phase, we need to reflect the bladder off of the lower uterine segment. To do that we have to develop the plane between the uterus and the bladder from both sides. This is very important; one of the most common complications of this surgery is urinary tract damage. So, here's how we do that..."

***

"Good showing back there," Brooke said as they both washed up, post-surgery. Incredibly, both mother and child had made it, Brooke calmly explaining her way through the ordeal, Robby just following her lead, Aya translating along.

Robby shook his head, still buzzing with that surgery, one that should only be performed in a full OR with no involvement from him...and yet they'd just done so in a clinic. "That was all you. She'd be dead if you hadn't been here."

"A doctor is only as good as their team. The last bloke would have lost his marbles at that one. Cheers," she said, generous. "I'm back to it. Give me a shout if you need something."

And then she was off, like nothing notable had happened, just another day at work. Hell, maybe for her it was.

Robby sucked in a breath and shook himself. When he'd made the decision to come here, he knew he'd deal with crazy shit. Of course it would be the kind of crazy he'd never expect.

But right. He had work to do.

***

By the end of their shift, Robby's brain was mush. All the shrapnel wounds, blast wounds, gunshot wounds, and even some smaller amputations left him furious at the war anew, even as he felt like he'd actually done some good today. Like he'd mattered.

He supposed that was something. Not nearly enough. But something.

As the medical assistants ushered the last patients out and closed up shop, Robby paused to chat with Aya. "Where did you study English?" he asked, curious at how very expert she seemed. She hadn't tripped up once, even among tricky medical jargon.

"Cairo," she said with a soft smile. "I was born here, but did my training there. My husband is from there."

"You moved back after your training?"

Something trembled across her face. "No, I came back on my own before the war started. My mother wouldn't leave and join us. He understands."

Robby nodded, his heart going out to her. "That must be hard."

She smiled and waved an airy sort of hand. "This will not be forever, inshallah." Then she peered at him closer. "And you? Your wife does not mind that you come here?"

Robby huffed a laugh. "No wife to mind."

Aya blinked, like that didn't translate. "But...you are a doctor? With a job in America?"

Robby nodded gamely. "Yes, true."

"A handsome doctor can find no wife in America?" she asked, like what the hell was wrong with America if that was the case.

Robby laughed outright. "My ego thanks you for that one," he said, bowing a little. "I think the problem is me."

"Bah," she said, making a dismissive gesture. Then she went a little canny. "I will keep this lack of wife to myself. So that the girls don't get ideas," she said, brown eyes sparkling in a way that made Robby realize he was being teased.

"Oh, please do," he said, teasing right back. "I don't think I could bear being judged wanting by the women of two countries."

She arched a brow. "Take care or it might be even more countries than that," she advised—

Just as Brooke joined them with, "What's this chinwag about?"

Robby shot Aya a quelling glance. Aya just smiled sunnily. "Dr. Robby was telling me of America. But our day is done. Ma'a salama," she said as she withdrew.

Robby shot her a genuine look. "Good work today."

With a final smile and nod, Aya was off.

Brooke nudged his shoulder. "Come on, then. Don't want to get Karim in a strop by being late."

***

Robby didn't realize how tired he was until he got into the van, barely even hearing Karim's greeting. Without patients in front of him, the exhaustion became crushing, his whole body feeling leaden, and he was suddenly starving.

Brooke thrust a juice box at him with a short, "Drink."

Knowing it would help with the adrenaline crash, Robby toasted her, sucking it down as she crunched on something. Karim was uncharacteristically quiet as he drove them to the villa—or maybe this was part of it, recognizing that they'd be exhausted post-shift and not wanting to bother them.

Robby barely even tracked their journey and suddenly they were at the gate as it was pulled back, Karim driving them to the path to the front door. What had seemed like decadence yesterday now seemed downright necessary, Robby not wanting to walk a step further than absolutely necessary.

"Thanks, Karim," Brooke said as she closed the door behind Robby, waving at Karim as he drove the van to the back. Only then did Robby realize he hadn't said thank you—

But Karim was already gone. Shit.

"Don't worry, he gets it," Brooke said, seeming to read him. "Let's go. You'll feel better after you have a shower and a kip."

***

Robby showered automatically, then collapsed into his bed and was out.

He startled awake at the bang on his door, which was promptly thrown open. Brooke stood in the doorway, snorting at him. He must look pathetic.

"Up you get," she said, amused. "You pass out now, you'll wake starving at 2am, regretting all your life choices. Food's ready. Up," she said again, tone brooking no argument.

Robby dragged himself up.

***

Brooke was right, of course. The food woke him up, as did the energy of the others, all asking about his first day. Everyone went pale at the mention of a Cesarean hysterectomy.

"Walker, you are a tyrant. You couldn't be easy on him for one day?" Arnaud sniffed.

"Does that sound like me?" she challenged, taking a bite of another delicious rice dish, one Robby hadn't caught the name of.

He waved a piece of bread at her. "This is why you have no husband. You terrorize the men around you."

Brooke laughed aloud. "Because that's every woman's dream. To have a husband," she said in the tone of someone saying, to have cancer.

A flurry of raised voices from down the hall cut through the laughter, Stijn's, "What?" dripping with outrage. Stijn and Karim rushed by the dining room, Stijn looking over to them with, "The Americans are at the gate demanding to be let in."

The other doctors all exchanged ominous looks, a particular kind of quiet settling over everyone. "I take it that's unusual?" Robby asked, breaking it.

"Yes," Maarten said, nodding in emphasis. "And unwelcome."

Giovanni shot him a meaningful look. "All the groups have people watching the villa, especially the Mahdis. It would not look good to seem inviting."

"But it is not like we can stop them," Arnaud said, a little disdainful. "If the Americans want to go somewhere, they go. Boundaries are suggestions, nothing more."

Brooke was more blunt: "Jamal is going to have kittens. Brussels, too," she realized.

They ate quietly for a bit, listening for more...

Not that they had to listen very hard when the front door banged open. "—an outrage," Stijn called, voice frayed.

"So you've said," another voice responded—

And a whisper of recognition stole through Robby. He knew that voice.

A suspicion that was confirmed when Stijn walked by the dining room, this time with Darnell. Another soldier trailed them. Interestingly, neither were armed.

The doctors were all silent as they passed...

But once out of sight, they all looked to each other. "Well, fuck," Brooke said, summing it up.

***

Robby left the others to their attempted eavesdropping. He figured soldiers never went anywhere on their own. If Darnell was here, all his soldiers probably were.

A fact that was confirmed when Robby pulled on his shoes and stepped outside into the twilight, the heavy heat lessening, finding the wrought-iron gate open, army Humvees visible outside. A soldier Robby didn't recognize stood on the threshold of the gate, holding two extra rifles—probably belonging to the men inside. Stijn must have insisted they disarm.

He ignored the soldier's look, just crossed the dead grass over to that open gate. With the soldiers inside, and their Humvees stationed outside, there was no reason to close it. As soon as he got to the threshold, every soldier in sight looked over at him—checking to see if he was a threat, probably. They instantly looked away again, out to the street, dismissing him as harmless.

Robby was amused at his own prickle of offense. Especially because, well, they were right; he was harmless. In his cargos and MSF t-shirt, he posed absolutely no threat whatsoever, which they instantly decided. And yet some tiny, prideful part of Robby wanted to be looked at as important. Funny, that.

"Well, look who it is," Jack's voice drawled from...somewhere. The thing about their camouflage was that it may not blend them into the scenery, but they all looked the fucking same.

Robby scanned the line of Humvees, spaced out evenly down the street, and finally spotted him coming around the back of one, rifle hefted easily, no sunglasses in the gathering dark. His eyes sparkled as he neared. "The humanitarian."

Warming at his look, Robby nodded in greeting. "Jack. Any news on the kid from yesterday?"

Jack settled beside him, hooking his rifle to his vest so he could hold it with one hand, casual and everyday. "The corporal? Yeah, he'll be fine. I put him on a Blackhawk to the combat support hospital in the Green Zone. That shrapnel nicked the femoral, but they fixed him up. He's already pestering my CO about when he can come back."

Robby felt his eyebrows rise. "Your CO?"

"Colonel Jacquemin. Technically, I'm attached to the hospital, but after shit popped off last month, they pulled in a bunch of docs to staff it. I just finished my residency, so I'm the new guy, and I have combat medic experience. Which means I'm getting loaned out to whoever needs me. Right now, that's Camp War Eagle, though the grunts call it Dirty Bird. First Cav is running the show there for the next year; that's these guys," he said, gesturing to the soldiers on watch, spread out around their Humvees. A few looked over and nodded in acknowledgment before looking away again. "They're in charge of patrolling Sadr City. Showed up a couple days before the insurgency went hot and it's been nonstop fighting ever since."

That explained why Jack seemed set apart yesterday, not really part of Darnell's crew. He was just on loan.

Robby nodded, curiosity tugging at him. "What'd you do your residency in?"

"Emergency medicine. You?"

There was no reason for Robby to warm at the idea that he and Jack shared a specialty...and yet he did. "Same. I'm an attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."

"Well, you're in the right place," Jack said, dry. "The doc in charge of Dirty Bird is a fucking pediatrician."

Robby huffed a laugh. "Bet he's glad to have you."

"He's doing all right. I keep getting pulled to roll with the company commanders. Darnell's decided he likes me."

"Has he met you?"

Jack promptly flipped him off, which made Robby grin.

God help him, he liked Jack. He'd given zero thought to the soldiers as anything other than a nameless, faceless force, and yet here he was. Charmed.

Jack watched him, a glint of interest in his eyes. "And how was popping your Iraq cherry?"

Robby startled, blinking at him dumbly as sudden heat swept him.

Jack flashed a smile, at his expense, he was sure. "Your first day?" he clarified. Then he went wicked: "Although that blush makes me wonder where your mind just went."

Robby ran a hand over his stubbly chin, trying to will his skin into compliance. He reminded himself of exactly what he'd done today...and that took care of any distraction right quick, his mood plunging. "Long day. Cleaning up your mess, it turns out." He pulled the bullet from his pocket, tossing it at Jack.

Lightning quick, Jack snatched it out of the air, turning it over in his gloved hand.

"That was my day," Robby continued, "pulling your bullets out of kids."

It was harsh—probably too harsh—but it was also true, sitting heavy in his gut.

Jack pulled those green eyes away from the bullet, studying Robby for a moment. "That'll be your whole mission," he said, like it was just a fact of life. "The Mahdis use women and children as shields. On Black Sunday, they put a layer of them in front of their fighters, so that our guys would have to shoot through them. It was either that or let themselves be overrun and killed. So they mowed them all down, including the fighters. Mahdis have eight-year-olds dropping Coke can IEDs into Humvees. Our guys are sick about it, but what do you do with that? Let yourself get killed? That's the way they've chosen to fight."

"A war we started," Robby pointed out.

Jack just nodded. "Yep. No one argues that. But First Cav, these guys, they were trained for stabilization. Cleaning shit up, establishing reliable power, water, sanitation, making life better. That's the mission they expected. Do you know what they were doing when they first got attacked? Escorting the trucks that we hired to suck up all the shit in the streets. The literal shit in the streets. They attacked the cleanup crew," he said, pointed. "Yeah, we started this war, but we're also trying to limit casualties, to fix some of the damage. Not that they'll let us."

He tossed the bullet back to Robby, who caught it instinctively. "It's a nice story you got there. Too bad it's not true."

Robby frowned, something pitching in his gut. "What?"

"That's a seven-six-two. We fire five-five-sixes. That's an AK round. Your kid was shot by one of theirs."

The breath left him, Robby looking down at the bullet with new eyes. "Fuck," he said on a rush.

"Your point still stands," Jack said, almost gentle. "You are going to be treating the people we shoot. It just wasn't that kid." He shrugged. "It's probably not even intentional. Iraqis are really loose with their fire. And they spray their guns in the air in celebration and shit. Those bullets have to go somewhere. It sucks."

"Fuck," Robby said again, because he didn't know what to do with all that. This may not be an American bullet, but Jack wasn't even trying to argue his point, just acknowledging that they would end up hurting civilians, it was an inevitability. Lamenting it, even.

Jack just looked at him, eyes big and green and sympathetic. "Everyone's trying to make this simple, when it's not. If we left tomorrow, we'd be leaving behind a country whose infrastructure we destroyed and that's poised for a civil war. Would that be better? I mean, it'd be better for me. I don't like getting shot at, mortared, having to amputate young guys' legs. That's not a fun time. But in the grand scheme of things, would it be better? The brass says no and so here we are. It is what it is and we're trying to make the best of it. I dunno, man. It's a shit sandwich no matter how you slice it."

Robby scrubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling a headache pounding. He sucked in a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, not agreeing, just acknowledging it.

Jack studied him, eyes faintly narrowing. "If this is all so much for you, why are you even here?"

And there was that question again. So Robby deflected. "Like I said, I'm here to help."

"Yeah, except for how that's bullshit," Jack shot back, like he knew. Like he had some insight into Robby after five fucking minutes.

Robby jutted his chin out. "Hey, you asked."

Jack hmmed something noncommittal, still watching him. "And did you? Help today?"

It seemed genuine, like he really wondered, softening Robby. "I think so," he said, slow. "Got pulled into a Cesarean hysterectomy."

Jack whistled, low. "That's a new one."

Robby blew out an overwhelmed breath. "For me, too, man."

"Did the patients make it?" Jack asked, a little more gravity to it, because that was an emergency that could easily go either way.

Robby found himself inexplicably fond that he'd asked after patients, plural. Like both mother and child mattered, like Jack cared.

"Yeah, actually. Both made it. No thanks to me, though, I can assure you."

Jack regarded him with some kind of measuring look. "I bet that's not true," he murmured, a kind of weight in it.

Robby had no idea how to respond to that—

"Robby?"

Brooke's voice turned him around, Robby pulsing with relief that he wouldn't have to figure out what to say to Jack. He still had no idea...nor did he know why his heart was suddenly racing. He spotted Brooke at the gate threshold. She was still wearing her usual khaki shorts and MSF shirt, her strawberry blond hair down. Robby could actually feel the rumble go through the nearby soldiers at sight of her, catching the sound of mutters he was glad he couldn't really hear.

"Gents," Jack chided, crooking a charming grin at them, his dimples flashing.

It did something because they seemed to settle, Brooke sweeping an unimpressed gaze across all of them before landing on Robby. "Curfew," she reminded, pointed, gesturing at the deepening dark, almost full night now.

Jack made a low noise in his throat, some kind of sexy implication in it, and looked to Robby, sly. "Yeah, Robby. Curfew."

Robby shot him a fuck off kind of look and gestured between Jack and Brooke. "Dr. Brooke Walker, meet Dr. Jack Abbot."

Brooke came out from the villa grounds to join them on the street, favoring Jack with a look that could cut glass. "A doctor with a gun."

"Two, actually," he said, kicking out his right leg, where he had a pistol in a black thigh holster. "Perks of being an officer."

"Is that a perk?" she shot back.

"It is when you're getting shot at."

"I wonder if all the children I'm treating would say the same," Brooke said, so innocent as to be damning.

Jack's look hardened slightly, not as open to the discussion with her as he was with Robby. "Take it up with their parents and the Mahdis that are using them as shields. That's on them."

"Is it," she said, not a question.

"Okay," Robby interrupted, elongating it to break the tension, looking to Jack. "If you'll excuse us, we're not allowed to be out after dark. I'm glad your corporal will be okay."

Jack tipped his head, back to his affable self. "See ya, Robby. Nice meeting you, Walker."

She simply raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure," she drawled, then turned and headed back for the villa.

Robby glanced at Jack to catch his grin—unrepentant, delighted—his eyes meeting Robby with a knowing kind of look. He returned something exasperated and hurried after Brooke.

Robby caught up with her as they crossed the scrub grass, headed for the front door. "Little hard on him?" he offered, soft.

"Not even close," she shot back. She paused before going inside. "He's a bit of alright, though, isn't he?"

Robby had never heard that term, but her appreciative tone translated just fine. "Brooke," he scolded with a laugh.

"What? I have eyes. It's annoying is all." She shook her head and headed inside.

Robby looked back out to the street. He couldn't see Jack, but he was out there, standing watch. "Yeah," he agreed. "Annoying." And that little niggling thing at the back of his mind resolved into sudden clarity, Robby finally realizing what he was feeling. How he wanted.

He wanted to hear about Jack's mission, his training, his family, where he was from, what he liked about medicine, if he was staying in the army forever. He wanted to do a lot more than just scratch the surface of Dr. Jack Abbot.

Robby paused on the threshold, letting himself feel the yearning within him, the insistent voice that said to turn around and go right back outside.

Shit.

***