the pitt | russian doctors 2000 au | reader x character | headcanons vol.1
✦ Jack Abbott x Reader
Surgical Unit, Third Floor, East-Facing Window
You meet in the hospital cafeteria. He gets tea in a faceted glass and a cheese sandwich that's clearly been there since morning. He sits down across from you because there's no other seat. He doesn't introduce himself. You don't either. Then it turns out you've been working in the same wing for six months.
His apartment is a typical two-room apartment in a panel building on the fifth floor. The elevator doesn't work every now and then. The kitchen has floral linoleum and a ZIL refrigerator that hums at night. There's a flower on the windowsill that he clearly doesn't water—but it's alive, somehow. You start watering it silently. He notices and says nothing.
It's always cold in his place in the winter—the radiators are heated every other day. He's used to it and sleeps under two blankets. The first time you stay, he takes the third one out of the closet—a Soviet-era, heavy, checkered one—and places it on your side without a word. That's more than many people do in years.
He's a bad cook. He only knows how to make scrambled eggs and pasta with stewed meat. You bring him something—he eats it all and says "okay," which in his language means "very good," "thank you," I don't remember when I felt so good.
The phone is a Nokia push-button phone, the case is cracked, held on with tape. It rarely calls. If he calls you in the middle of the night, it means something happened during his shift and he simply can't get into the apartment and is standing at the entrance, needing your voice. Specifically, yours. You always answer.
He texts briefly and without punctuation. "You're home. You've eaten. I'll be late." Not questions, but statements. He's checking. It's his way of worrying.
On May 9th, he becomes quiet. You don't ask why. You walk together to the eternal flame—no agreement, you both just happen to be there. You stand next to each other. He looks at the flame for a long time. Then he takes your hand, just once. Firmly. He lets go as you walk back. He never talks about it.
In the summer—a balcony. Two chairs, an ashtray, a view of courtyards and garages and other people's windows. He smokes, you sit next to him, somewhere below, kids are kicking a ball and the TV blares from the neighboring apartment. He says something about work. You listen. Then silence. A good silence, Soviet, thick, like those blankets.
One night he says, "I don't know how to do all this." You ask what exactly. He's silent for a minute. He says, "I don't know how to explain." You say, "Don't explain." He exhales. It's the first time you've seen the tension leave his shoulders.
✦ Robbie Micheal Robinavitch x Reader
Emergency Department, Elective Hospitalization, Exit
First impression: a leather jacket over a lab coat and a cigarette in his mouth right at the entrance to the department. The head doctor has already made three comments. Robbie says "understood" each time and continues. You walk past. He looks. The next day, he greets you first—briefly, using your last name, as if you've known each other for a long time.
His JAW is red, noisy, and starts every other time in the cold. He fiddles with it in the hospital courtyard during lunch break, his hands greasy, cursing quietly. One day, you bring him tea right there. He looks at the glass. He looks at you. He says "Put it on the hood" and continues fiddling. But he drinks the tea while it's hot.
In the fall, he offers you a ride. Once. Then it becomes every day. You sit in the back, holding onto his jacket, the city flashes by—blocked apartment buildings, wet asphalt, beer and cigarette stands, women with bags, construction sites, lights. He drives longer than necessary. You don't say you noticed.
The apartment is a one-room apartment, books are everywhere, records are in a drawer under the bed, magazine clippings and diagrams you don't understand hang on the wall. It smells of coffee and old paper. The window faces the dawn—he never closes the curtains, saying he doesn't need an alarm clock.
The apartment is a one-room apartment, books are everywhere, records are in a drawer under the bed, magazine clippings and diagrams you don't understand hang on the wall. It smells of coffee and old paper. The window faces the dawn—he never closes the curtains, saying he doesn't need an alarm clock.
Crosswords are everywhere. In his robe pocket, on the kitchen table, in the glove compartment. He never finishes them. One day, you pick one up and finish it while he's in the shower. He comes out, sees, and is silent for a long time. Then he gets the third line wrong. You argue. He takes out a dictionary. You sit on the floor and argue about the crossword until one in the morning. It's the best evening you've both had in a long time.
He texts as he thinks—quickly, out of sync, sometimes in the middle of the night. His Nokia beeps in the dark: "Listen, do you know why?" Then a minute later: "Never mind." Then ten minutes later: "No, listen anyway." You answer. He texts until two in the morning about something completely unimportant and incredibly important at the same time.
If he's feeling unwell, he disappears for a day or two. He doesn't answer. Then he reappears as if nothing had happened, a little haggard, saying he was busy. You don't press him. You just say, "I was making tea; your mug was standing there." He looks at you. Something in his face changes. He sits up. He stays.
In winter, when it's pitch dark and the city outside glows with a thousand identical windows, he lays his head on your shoulder and says out of the blue: "It's good you're here." He doesn't look at you. He looks out the window. You look out the window too. That.
