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Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 4.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.
Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?
This was premeditated, you were sure of it.
A way to get in your head.
Your therapist would say otherwise.
Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.
You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.
Yep, this is a terrorist attack.
It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?
“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”
Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.
“You can come in-“
“Is Mason awake-“
You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.
“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.
“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.
The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.
Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.
Your eye twitches.
“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”
You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.
“Coffee?” You call.
“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“
“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!
He was being weird. This is his fault.
You’re met with inhumane silence.
“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.
You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.
“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.
God, it pissed you off.
Why? Whatever.
“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.
Dangerous.
Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.
Crack the egg.
Whisk.
Pour into the pan.
Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.
“Would you like some help?”
“No.” You say automatically.
Silence stretches again.
You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.
Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.
Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.
Realized what?
That this wasn’t his kitchen?
That last night changed something?
That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?
The knot in your chest twists painfully.
“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”
For a second, he just looks at you.
Then quietly, “yeah.”
The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.
For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.
That should probably bother you more than it does.
Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.
Your entire body locks.
The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.
Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Again.
God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.
A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.
It’s a stand off.
“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”
Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.
You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.
“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.
Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”
“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”
And there it is again.
That guilt.
You regret softening enough to notice it.
“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”
He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.
You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”
Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.
Robby glances up immediately.
“He likes peanut butter?”
“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”
Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.
Point one mommy.
Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.
“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”
Mason squealed.
“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.
“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.
You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.
“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.
Mason protested loudly.
“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.
He answers with another indignant squeak.
“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.
The sound surprises both of you.
His smile vanishes almost immediately.
Right. He’s the weird one.
“Gets it from his father.”
Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.
Traitor.
You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.
“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”
You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.
Distance. Good.
“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.
You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.
The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.
“It’s on my way.”
“Mine too.”
“Michael.”
Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.
“Right.”
You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.
“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.
“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”
“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”
Robby blinks.
“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”
“Exactly.”
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.
“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”
You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.
“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.
“Oh?”
“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.
Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.
“At your work?”
“They had an opening.”
His jaw works for a second.
“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”
You cross your arms, squinting at him.
So?
“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”
“Okay.”
“It’s closer to home.”
“Okay.”
“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”
His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.
“That makes sense.”
It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.
“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”
Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.
Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.
Great.
Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.
Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.
Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.
“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.
“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.
You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.
“Well?” Katie asked.
“Well what?”
“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.
“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.
You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.
Katie beamed.
“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?
“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”
Wonderful.
“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”
“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.
“Very cute.”
You narrow your eyes.
Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.
“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”
“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.
Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”
“I’d like to run a few more test-“
“Same puppy eyes.”
You nearly walked into the supply cart.
Katie’s eyes light up.
“WAIT!”
“Katie, I’m with a patient-“
“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”
“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.
“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”
“Katie.”
She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”
“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.
“There absolutely is!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”
“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”
“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.
“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.
“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.
“Doctor-“
“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.
It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.
Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.
Here.
In your hospital.
In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.
He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.
Breathe.
Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.
Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.
It is good for Mason.
You knew that.
Two parents were better than one.
That didn’t mean you had to like it.
Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.
Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?
Doesn’t matter.
Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.
Everyone knew everything.
Or at least they thought they did.
You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.
Five more minutes.
Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.
Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.
Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.
Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.
Awesome.
Your phone buzzes.
Robby: Here.
Your stomach drops.
Ridiculous.
You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.
Still, you glance at the door automatically.
Nothing.
The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.
Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.
Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.
“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”
You closed your eyes.
Fuck.
Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.
A volunteer was laughing at something he said.
A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.
Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.
The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
He looked tired.
He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.
Then he spotted you.
The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.
Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.
Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.
Just happy.
Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.
“No.”
Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.
“What?”
“You can’t smile at me like that.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.
“Then why are you saying it?”
Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.
“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.
Coward.
The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.
His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.
Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.
Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.
“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.
Then his attention shifts.
Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.
The daycare worker behind him laughed.
“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”
You both froze.
Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.
“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”
The daycare worker shook it.
“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.
Silence.
You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.
Robby focused very hard on Mason.
Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.
No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.
It probably was.
“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”
Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.
“Really?” Robby asked seriously.
More babbling.
“No way.”
Another squeal.
You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
Robby nodded thoughtfully.
“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”
Mason shrieked with delight.
Drama queen.
“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.
Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.
“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”
Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.
Effortlessly.
Like he’d been doing it forever.
It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.
Fucking stupid.
“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.
You were already moving.
“I’ll handle it.”
The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“
“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.
Your fingers tightened on the pen.
Of course he would.
That was normal.
Fathers signed daycare forms.
Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.
“Ba!”
“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”
You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.
You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.
Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.
“Middle name?” He asked.
“You know his middle name.”
“I know his middle name.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m making conversation.”
“Don’t.”
Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.
His entire body lunged.
“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”
Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.
You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.
“He won?”
“He always wins.”
Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.
Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.
The peanut butter.
You laughing.
Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.
“He likes literally everything.”
“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.
Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”
Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.
You signed another form without looking up.
Neither of you thought twice about it.
The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.
Emergency contacts.
Authorized pick ups.
Medical releases.
Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.
“Doctor!”
You pretended not to hear it.
“Doctor!”
Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.
God hated you.
“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.
“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.
Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.
Once.
Then again.
You frowned. “What is he doing?”
Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”
You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.
“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“
You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”
“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.
“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”
Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Katie.” You scold.
“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”
She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”
Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.
“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”
You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.
Persistently.
His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.
A knot forms in your stomach.
No.
No, that wasn’t there before.
“Mason?”
Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”
Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.
A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.
Maybe drool rash.
Maybe from rubbing his face.
Maybe-
“Robby.”
Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.
The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.
Angry.
Raised.
The air in the room seems to get heavy.
No.
No no no no.
Not him.
Mason lets out another wheezy cough.
“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.
“Nothing abnormal-“
You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.
Not drool rash.
Hives.
“Oh, fuck.”
You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.
The emergency department was three halls away.
Too far.
Farther than it had ever been before.
“MOVE!”
Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.
Mason coughs again.
Not that sound.
You’ve heard that sound before.
And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.
The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?
Fucking move!
You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.
“Weight?”
You know his weight.
Of course you know his weight.
Why can’t you remember it?
“Possible allergen?”
You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?
Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.
No.
They can’t do that.
They can’t close the doors.
You’re a god damned doctor.
Mason is in there.
Mason is in there.
“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”
Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.
Mason’s eyes
No.
Michael’s.
“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.
You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”
“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”
A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.
Mason.
Thank fuck.
The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.
Good.
“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”
Responded well.
Stable.
Observation.
Words you used everyday.
Words you had said to parents a thousand times.
Words that meant absolutely nothing.
The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.
Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.
You’d spent years learning how to save children.
Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.
Mason was twenty feet away.
Twenty feet.
Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.
That’s all.
Twenty fucking feet.
You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.
You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.
Two minutes.
Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.
All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.
Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.
You spend years learning how to save children.
Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.
You know what I want to see in the Pitt season 3? A paramedic or EMT who is working on certification and doing their ER rotation.
A lot of people don’t know that they do ER rotations like med students do when working on their certification.
I want to see someone turn to this poor EMT and ask them to put in an IV or some shit and the EMT student just stands there like 🧍♀️ “I can’t legally do that.”
Ngl I’m kinda starting to hate tumblr/tiktok after the new pics of Noah, like why is it always the same “ discourse”. Like no Noah is not jealous ofShawn, like they’re friends. And no Noah his reason for no night shift isn’t because of Shawn. Also why is it always those mfs upset that people sometimes find Noah more hot than Shawn or finds both to be hot! Like stop bring up Clooney as a way to bring down Noah. Like motherfuckers are so bored and it’s tiring.
Also, another thing that I realized that is New especially being in fandoms for over 10 years. Is that when I go on the tag #robby x reader or #jack x reader for ex, and I understand not every different type of Trope is for everyone. But it’s always some mfs complaining about stupid shit like if you don’t like it just block the account or go look in search. it’s always like, “guys I hate that in fics when they always make Robby be a dad or have him in a pregnancy fic” or “I hate how we have reader being so naive/bunny like,etc”. 
Like, yes, you’re allowed opinions but at the same time if you don’t like it then leave! Or block the account or look somewhere else that caters to YOUR interest. Some mfs even have the audacity to tell writers or people interested in those tropes to stop because they don’t like it. Like there are different types of reader characteristics from different blogs just because a few cater to a specific reader characteristics/trope that is popular doesn’t mean you can start posting up the tag list with your complaints.
Like back then people just used to ignore, find other blogs or make their own without bringing down and insulting those who feed into those tropes/characteristics. And especially without going to blogs & tell them to stop posting their interest w/characters. Like I understand if some tropes need warning but why are yall going into pages and spamming on their content for YOUR amusement. This is especially with the Pitt fandom which I’m seeing currently 😒. Also sorry if it’s random. I don’t usually write in these ask things. 
agree!!! i don’t see a lot of discourse anymore bc i blocked the tag on here and i don’t really use other apps but it’s super annoying.
also with the people complaining about fics thing!! like i’ve been so mad about this for so long!!! like you can literally just not read it!! i know @blehbarbie is getting a lot of anon hate for ‘infantilising’ her reader (she’s not) and it’s like???? if you don’t like it, just don’t read it?? it’s super fucking easy to just not read something you don’t like?????
how sad and pathetic do u have to be to go to a creators page and type out a whole nasty message in their ask box just bc u don’t like their writing style???? get a jobbbbb!!! its so insane actually!!!
not everything on the internet is made for everyone!!! and if u don’t like it no one is forcing u to read it! and not everyone needs to know ur opinion on everything all of the time, shit pisses me off so bad!!
i’ve been in fandom and reading/writing fanfiction for 14 years and have only started seeing this trend of people publicly ridiculing creators and their fics in the last year or so. i can’t help but feel like it comes from tiktok with the rise of ‘what-about-me-ism’
like someone will post a recipe on tiktok called ‘meat pie, it’s got meat in it, and the crust is made out of meat and also the plate’ and some mf will be in the comments like ‘okay well i’m vegetarian so what about me?’ !!?!? what do u mean what about you? don’t fucking make it 😭 same with fanfiction ‘i don’t like this trope so what about me?’ don’t fucking read it if u don’t like it!!! i actually don’t know what’s so hard to understand about that 😭😭
anyway rant over this has been pissing me off for a long time and i’m SOOO glad u brought it up so i could say what i’ve been wanting to say.
anyways don’t have a lot of thoughts about the noah/shawn drama outside of what i’ve already said about it in another post.
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Not sure why it's a new trend among fic readers to assume if the fic has not been posted within the week it's inappropriate to comment on it, like the fic has to be hot out of the oven to give feedback for.
I got a comment on a fic that is less than a year old and it was mostly an apology for being a comment on an "old fic" and how late they were in commenting.
Just comment on the fic. Doesn't matter how old it is.
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 4.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist
(Masterlist) (Previous) (Next)
The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.
Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?
This was premeditated, you were sure of it.
A way to get in your head.
Your therapist would say otherwise.
Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.
You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.
Yep, this is a terrorist attack.
It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?
“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”
Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.
“You can come in-“
“Is Mason awake-“
You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.
“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.
“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.
The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.
Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.
Your eye twitches.
“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”
You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.
“Coffee?” You call.
“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“
“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!
He was being weird. This is his fault.
You’re met with inhumane silence.
“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.
You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.
“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.
God, it pissed you off.
Why? Whatever.
“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.
Dangerous.
Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.
Crack the egg.
Whisk.
Pour into the pan.
Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.
“Would you like some help?”
“No.” You say automatically.
Silence stretches again.
You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.
Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.
Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.
Realized what?
That this wasn’t his kitchen?
That last night changed something?
That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?
The knot in your chest twists painfully.
“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”
For a second, he just looks at you.
Then quietly, “yeah.”
The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.
For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.
That should probably bother you more than it does.
Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.
Your entire body locks.
The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.
Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Again.
God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.
A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.
It’s a stand off.
“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”
Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.
You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.
“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.
Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”
“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”
And there it is again.
That guilt.
You regret softening enough to notice it.
“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”
He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.
You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”
Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.
Robby glances up immediately.
“He likes peanut butter?”
“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”
Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.
Point one mommy.
Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.
“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”
Mason squealed.
“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.
“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.
You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.
“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.
Mason protested loudly.
“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.
He answers with another indignant squeak.
“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.
The sound surprises both of you.
His smile vanishes almost immediately.
Right. He’s the weird one.
“Gets it from his father.”
Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.
Traitor.
You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.
“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”
You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.
Distance. Good.
“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.
You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.
The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.
“It’s on my way.”
“Mine too.”
“Michael.”
Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.
“Right.”
You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.
“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.
“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”
“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”
Robby blinks.
“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”
“Exactly.”
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.
“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”
You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.
“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.
“Oh?”
“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.
Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.
“At your work?”
“They had an opening.”
His jaw works for a second.
“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”
You cross your arms, squinting at him.
So?
“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”
“Okay.”
“It’s closer to home.”
“Okay.”
“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”
His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.
“That makes sense.”
It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.
“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”
Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.
Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.
Great.
Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.
Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.
Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.
“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.
“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.
You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.
“Well?” Katie asked.
“Well what?”
“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.
“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.
You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.
Katie beamed.
“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?
“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”
Wonderful.
“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”
“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.
“Very cute.”
You narrow your eyes.
Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.
“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”
“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.
Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”
“I’d like to run a few more test-“
“Same puppy eyes.”
You nearly walked into the supply cart.
Katie’s eyes light up.
“WAIT!”
“Katie, I’m with a patient-“
“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”
“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.
“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”
“Katie.”
She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”
“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.
“There absolutely is!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”
“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”
“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.
“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.
“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.
“Doctor-“
“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.
It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.
Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.
Here.
In your hospital.
In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.
He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.
Breathe.
Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.
Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.
It is good for Mason.
You knew that.
Two parents were better than one.
That didn’t mean you had to like it.
Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.
Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?
Doesn’t matter.
Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.
Everyone knew everything.
Or at least they thought they did.
You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.
Five more minutes.
Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.
Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.
Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.
Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.
Awesome.
Your phone buzzes.
Robby: Here.
Your stomach drops.
Ridiculous.
You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.
Still, you glance at the door automatically.
Nothing.
The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.
Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.
Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.
“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”
You closed your eyes.
Fuck.
Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.
A volunteer was laughing at something he said.
A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.
Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.
The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
He looked tired.
He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.
Then he spotted you.
The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.
Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.
Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.
Just happy.
Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.
“No.”
Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.
“What?”
“You can’t smile at me like that.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.
“Then why are you saying it?”
Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.
“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.
Coward.
The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.
His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.
Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.
Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.
“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.
Then his attention shifts.
Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.
The daycare worker behind him laughed.
“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”
You both froze.
Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.
“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”
The daycare worker shook it.
“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.
Silence.
You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.
Robby focused very hard on Mason.
Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.
No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.
It probably was.
“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”
Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.
“Really?” Robby asked seriously.
More babbling.
“No way.”
Another squeal.
You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
Robby nodded thoughtfully.
“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”
Mason shrieked with delight.
Drama queen.
“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.
Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.
“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”
Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.
Effortlessly.
Like he’d been doing it forever.
It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.
Fucking stupid.
“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.
You were already moving.
“I’ll handle it.”
The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“
“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.
Your fingers tightened on the pen.
Of course he would.
That was normal.
Fathers signed daycare forms.
Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.
“Ba!”
“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”
You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.
You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.
Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.
“Middle name?” He asked.
“You know his middle name.”
“I know his middle name.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m making conversation.”
“Don’t.”
Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.
His entire body lunged.
“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”
Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.
You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.
“He won?”
“He always wins.”
Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.
Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.
The peanut butter.
You laughing.
Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.
“He likes literally everything.”
“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.
Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”
Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.
You signed another form without looking up.
Neither of you thought twice about it.
The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.
Emergency contacts.
Authorized pick ups.
Medical releases.
Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.
“Doctor!”
You pretended not to hear it.
“Doctor!”
Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.
God hated you.
“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.
“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.
Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.
Once.
Then again.
You frowned. “What is he doing?”
Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”
You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.
“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“
You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”
“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.
“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”
Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Katie.” You scold.
“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”
She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”
Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.
“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”
You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.
Persistently.
His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.
A knot forms in your stomach.
No.
No, that wasn’t there before.
“Mason?”
Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”
Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.
A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.
Maybe drool rash.
Maybe from rubbing his face.
Maybe-
“Robby.”
Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.
The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.
Angry.
Raised.
The air in the room seems to get heavy.
No.
No no no no.
Not him.
Mason lets out another wheezy cough.
“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.
“Nothing abnormal-“
You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.
Not drool rash.
Hives.
“Oh, fuck.”
You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.
The emergency department was three halls away.
Too far.
Farther than it had ever been before.
“MOVE!”
Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.
Mason coughs again.
Not that sound.
You’ve heard that sound before.
And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.
The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?
Fucking move!
You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.
“Weight?”
You know his weight.
Of course you know his weight.
Why can’t you remember it?
“Possible allergen?”
You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?
Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.
No.
They can’t do that.
They can’t close the doors.
You’re a god damned doctor.
Mason is in there.
Mason is in there.
“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”
Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.
Mason’s eyes
No.
Michael’s.
“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.
You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”
“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”
A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.
Mason.
Thank fuck.
The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.
Good.
“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”
Responded well.
Stable.
Observation.
Words you used everyday.
Words you had said to parents a thousand times.
Words that meant absolutely nothing.
The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.
Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.
You’d spent years learning how to save children.
Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.
Mason was twenty feet away.
Twenty feet.
Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.
That’s all.
Twenty fucking feet.
You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.
You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.
Two minutes.
Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.
All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.
Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.
You spend years learning how to save children.
Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 4.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist
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The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.
Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?
This was premeditated, you were sure of it.
A way to get in your head.
Your therapist would say otherwise.
Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.
You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.
Yep, this is a terrorist attack.
It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?
“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”
Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.
“You can come in-“
“Is Mason awake-“
You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.
“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.
“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.
The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.
Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.
Your eye twitches.
“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”
You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.
“Coffee?” You call.
“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“
“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!
He was being weird. This is his fault.
You’re met with inhumane silence.
“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.
You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.
“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.
God, it pissed you off.
Why? Whatever.
“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.
Dangerous.
Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.
Crack the egg.
Whisk.
Pour into the pan.
Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.
“Would you like some help?”
“No.” You say automatically.
Silence stretches again.
You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.
Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.
Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.
Realized what?
That this wasn’t his kitchen?
That last night changed something?
That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?
The knot in your chest twists painfully.
“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”
For a second, he just looks at you.
Then quietly, “yeah.”
The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.
For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.
That should probably bother you more than it does.
Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.
Your entire body locks.
The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.
Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Again.
God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.
A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.
It’s a stand off.
“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”
Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.
You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.
“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.
Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”
“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”
And there it is again.
That guilt.
You regret softening enough to notice it.
“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”
He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.
You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”
Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.
Robby glances up immediately.
“He likes peanut butter?”
“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”
Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.
Point one mommy.
Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.
“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”
Mason squealed.
“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.
“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.
You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.
“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.
Mason protested loudly.
“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.
He answers with another indignant squeak.
“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.
The sound surprises both of you.
His smile vanishes almost immediately.
Right. He’s the weird one.
“Gets it from his father.”
Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.
Traitor.
You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.
“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”
You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.
Distance. Good.
“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.
You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.
The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.
“It’s on my way.”
“Mine too.”
“Michael.”
Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.
“Right.”
You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.
“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.
“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”
“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”
Robby blinks.
“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”
“Exactly.”
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.
“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”
You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.
“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.
“Oh?”
“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.
Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.
“At your work?”
“They had an opening.”
His jaw works for a second.
“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”
You cross your arms, squinting at him.
So?
“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”
“Okay.”
“It’s closer to home.”
“Okay.”
“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”
His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.
“That makes sense.”
It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.
“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”
Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.
Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.
Great.
Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.
Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.
Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.
“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.
“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.
You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.
“Well?” Katie asked.
“Well what?”
“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.
“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.
You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.
Katie beamed.
“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?
“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”
Wonderful.
“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”
“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.
“Very cute.”
You narrow your eyes.
Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.
“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”
“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.
Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”
“I’d like to run a few more test-“
“Same puppy eyes.”
You nearly walked into the supply cart.
Katie’s eyes light up.
“WAIT!”
“Katie, I’m with a patient-“
“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”
“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.
“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”
“Katie.”
She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”
“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.
“There absolutely is!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”
“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”
“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.
“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.
“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.
“Doctor-“
“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.
It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.
Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.
Here.
In your hospital.
In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.
He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.
Breathe.
Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.
Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.
It is good for Mason.
You knew that.
Two parents were better than one.
That didn’t mean you had to like it.
Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.
Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?
Doesn’t matter.
Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.
Everyone knew everything.
Or at least they thought they did.
You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.
Five more minutes.
Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.
Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.
Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.
Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.
Awesome.
Your phone buzzes.
Robby: Here.
Your stomach drops.
Ridiculous.
You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.
Still, you glance at the door automatically.
Nothing.
The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.
Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.
Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.
“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”
You closed your eyes.
Fuck.
Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.
A volunteer was laughing at something he said.
A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.
Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.
The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
He looked tired.
He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.
Then he spotted you.
The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.
Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.
Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.
Just happy.
Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.
“No.”
Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.
“What?”
“You can’t smile at me like that.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.
“Then why are you saying it?”
Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.
“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.
Coward.
The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.
His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.
Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.
Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.
“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.
Then his attention shifts.
Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.
The daycare worker behind him laughed.
“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”
You both froze.
Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.
“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”
The daycare worker shook it.
“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.
Silence.
You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.
Robby focused very hard on Mason.
Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.
No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.
It probably was.
“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”
Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.
“Really?” Robby asked seriously.
More babbling.
“No way.”
Another squeal.
You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
Robby nodded thoughtfully.
“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”
Mason shrieked with delight.
Drama queen.
“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.
Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.
“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”
Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.
Effortlessly.
Like he’d been doing it forever.
It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.
Fucking stupid.
“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.
You were already moving.
“I’ll handle it.”
The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“
“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.
Your fingers tightened on the pen.
Of course he would.
That was normal.
Fathers signed daycare forms.
Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.
“Ba!”
“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”
You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.
You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.
Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.
“Middle name?” He asked.
“You know his middle name.”
“I know his middle name.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m making conversation.”
“Don’t.”
Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.
His entire body lunged.
“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”
Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.
You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.
“He won?”
“He always wins.”
Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.
Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.
The peanut butter.
You laughing.
Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.
“He likes literally everything.”
“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.
Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”
Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.
You signed another form without looking up.
Neither of you thought twice about it.
The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.
Emergency contacts.
Authorized pick ups.
Medical releases.
Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.
“Doctor!”
You pretended not to hear it.
“Doctor!”
Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.
God hated you.
“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.
“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.
Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.
Once.
Then again.
You frowned. “What is he doing?”
Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”
You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.
“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“
You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”
“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.
“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”
Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Katie.” You scold.
“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”
She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”
Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.
“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”
You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.
Persistently.
His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.
A knot forms in your stomach.
No.
No, that wasn’t there before.
“Mason?”
Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”
Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.
A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.
Maybe drool rash.
Maybe from rubbing his face.
Maybe-
“Robby.”
Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.
The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.
Angry.
Raised.
The air in the room seems to get heavy.
No.
No no no no.
Not him.
Mason lets out another wheezy cough.
“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.
“Nothing abnormal-“
You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.
Not drool rash.
Hives.
“Oh, fuck.”
You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.
The emergency department was three halls away.
Too far.
Farther than it had ever been before.
“MOVE!”
Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.
Mason coughs again.
Not that sound.
You’ve heard that sound before.
And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.
The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?
Fucking move!
You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.
“Weight?”
You know his weight.
Of course you know his weight.
Why can’t you remember it?
“Possible allergen?”
You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?
Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.
No.
They can’t do that.
They can’t close the doors.
You’re a god damned doctor.
Mason is in there.
Mason is in there.
“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”
Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.
Mason’s eyes
No.
Michael’s.
“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.
You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”
“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”
A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.
Mason.
Thank fuck.
The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.
Good.
“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”
Responded well.
Stable.
Observation.
Words you used everyday.
Words you had said to parents a thousand times.
Words that meant absolutely nothing.
The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.
Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.
You’d spent years learning how to save children.
Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.
Mason was twenty feet away.
Twenty feet.
Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.
That’s all.
Twenty fucking feet.
You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.
You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.
Two minutes.
Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.
All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.
Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.
You spend years learning how to save children.
Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.
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Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 4.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist
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The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.
Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?
This was premeditated, you were sure of it.
A way to get in your head.
Your therapist would say otherwise.
Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.
You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.
Yep, this is a terrorist attack.
It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?
“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”
Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.
“You can come in-“
“Is Mason awake-“
You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.
“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.
“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.
The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.
Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.
Your eye twitches.
“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”
You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.
“Coffee?” You call.
“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“
“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!
He was being weird. This is his fault.
You’re met with inhumane silence.
“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.
You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.
“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.
God, it pissed you off.
Why? Whatever.
“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.
Dangerous.
Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.
Crack the egg.
Whisk.
Pour into the pan.
Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.
“Would you like some help?”
“No.” You say automatically.
Silence stretches again.
You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.
Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.
Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.
Realized what?
That this wasn’t his kitchen?
That last night changed something?
That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?
The knot in your chest twists painfully.
“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”
For a second, he just looks at you.
Then quietly, “yeah.”
The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.
For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.
That should probably bother you more than it does.
Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.
Your entire body locks.
The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.
Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.
“Sorry,” he says immediately.
Again.
God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.
A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.
It’s a stand off.
“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”
Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.
You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.
“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.
Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”
“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”
And there it is again.
That guilt.
You regret softening enough to notice it.
“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”
He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.
You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”
Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.
Robby glances up immediately.
“He likes peanut butter?”
“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”
Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.
Point one mommy.
Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.
“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”
Mason squealed.
“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.
“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.
You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.
“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.
Mason protested loudly.
“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.
He answers with another indignant squeak.
“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.
The sound surprises both of you.
His smile vanishes almost immediately.
Right. He’s the weird one.
“Gets it from his father.”
Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.
Traitor.
You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.
“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”
You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.
Distance. Good.
“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.
You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.
The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.
“It’s on my way.”
“Mine too.”
“Michael.”
Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.
“Right.”
You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.
“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.
“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”
“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”
Robby blinks.
“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”
“Exactly.”
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.
“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”
You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.
“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.
“Oh?”
“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.
Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.
“At your work?”
“They had an opening.”
His jaw works for a second.
“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”
You cross your arms, squinting at him.
So?
“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”
“Okay.”
“It’s closer to home.”
“Okay.”
“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”
His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.
“That makes sense.”
It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.
“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”
Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.
Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.
Great.
Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.
Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.
Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.
“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.
“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.
You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.
“Well?” Katie asked.
“Well what?”
“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.
“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.
You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.
Katie beamed.
“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?
“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”
Wonderful.
“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”
“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.
“Very cute.”
You narrow your eyes.
Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.
“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”
“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.
Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”
“I’d like to run a few more test-“
“Same puppy eyes.”
You nearly walked into the supply cart.
Katie’s eyes light up.
“WAIT!”
“Katie, I’m with a patient-“
“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”
“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.
“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”
“Katie.”
She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”
“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.
“There absolutely is!”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”
“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”
“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.
“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.
“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.
“Doctor-“
“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.
It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.
Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.
Here.
In your hospital.
In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.
He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.
Breathe.
Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.
Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.
It is good for Mason.
You knew that.
Two parents were better than one.
That didn’t mean you had to like it.
Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.
Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?
Doesn’t matter.
Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.
Everyone knew everything.
Or at least they thought they did.
You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.
Five more minutes.
Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.
Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.
Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.
Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.
Awesome.
Your phone buzzes.
Robby: Here.
Your stomach drops.
Ridiculous.
You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.
Still, you glance at the door automatically.
Nothing.
The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.
Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.
Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.
“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”
You closed your eyes.
Fuck.
Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.
A volunteer was laughing at something he said.
A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.
Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.
The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
He looked tired.
He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.
Then he spotted you.
The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.
Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.
Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.
Just happy.
Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.
“No.”
Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.
“What?”
“You can’t smile at me like that.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.
“Then why are you saying it?”
Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.
“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.
Coward.
The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.
His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.
Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.
Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.
“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.
Then his attention shifts.
Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.
The daycare worker behind him laughed.
“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”
You both froze.
Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.
“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”
The daycare worker shook it.
“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.
Silence.
You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.
Robby focused very hard on Mason.
Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.
No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.
It probably was.
“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”
Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.
“Really?” Robby asked seriously.
More babbling.
“No way.”
Another squeal.
You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
Robby nodded thoughtfully.
“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”
Mason shrieked with delight.
Drama queen.
“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.
Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.
“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”
Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.
Effortlessly.
Like he’d been doing it forever.
It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.
Fucking stupid.
“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.
You were already moving.
“I’ll handle it.”
The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“
“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.
Your fingers tightened on the pen.
Of course he would.
That was normal.
Fathers signed daycare forms.
Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.
“Ba!”
“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”
You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.
You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.
Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.
“Middle name?” He asked.
“You know his middle name.”
“I know his middle name.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because I’m making conversation.”
“Don’t.”
Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.
His entire body lunged.
“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”
Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.
You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.
“He won?”
“He always wins.”
Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.
Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.
The peanut butter.
You laughing.
Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.
“He likes literally everything.”
“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.
Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”
Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.
You signed another form without looking up.
Neither of you thought twice about it.
The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.
Emergency contacts.
Authorized pick ups.
Medical releases.
Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.
“Doctor!”
You pretended not to hear it.
“Doctor!”
Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.
God hated you.
“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.
“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.
Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.
Once.
Then again.
You frowned. “What is he doing?”
Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”
You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.
“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“
You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”
“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.
“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”
Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”
“Katie.” You scold.
“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”
She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”
Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.
“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”
You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.
Persistently.
His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.
A knot forms in your stomach.
No.
No, that wasn’t there before.
“Mason?”
Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”
Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.
A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.
Maybe drool rash.
Maybe from rubbing his face.
Maybe-
“Robby.”
Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.
The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.
Angry.
Raised.
The air in the room seems to get heavy.
No.
No no no no.
Not him.
Mason lets out another wheezy cough.
“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.
“Nothing abnormal-“
You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.
Not drool rash.
Hives.
“Oh, fuck.”
You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.
The emergency department was three halls away.
Too far.
Farther than it had ever been before.
“MOVE!”
Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.
Mason coughs again.
Not that sound.
You’ve heard that sound before.
And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.
The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?
Fucking move!
You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.
“Weight?”
You know his weight.
Of course you know his weight.
Why can’t you remember it?
“Possible allergen?”
You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?
Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.
No.
They can’t do that.
They can’t close the doors.
You’re a god damned doctor.
Mason is in there.
Mason is in there.
“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”
Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.
Mason’s eyes
No.
Michael’s.
“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.
You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”
“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”
A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.
Mason.
Thank fuck.
The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.
Good.
“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”
Responded well.
Stable.
Observation.
Words you used everyday.
Words you had said to parents a thousand times.
Words that meant absolutely nothing.
The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.
Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.
You’d spent years learning how to save children.
Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.
Mason was twenty feet away.
Twenty feet.
Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.
That’s all.
Twenty fucking feet.
You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.
You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.
Two minutes.
Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.
All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.
Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.
You spend years learning how to save children.
Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.
I strongly encourage anyone experiencing Robby withdrawal symptoms queue up Falling Skies on their streaming service of choice.
You’ll get five seasons of a scruffy, whumpy Noah running around with a rifle (and occasionally on horseback) fighting aliens, raising kids in an apocalyptic hellscape, and falling in love.
The writing in the show falters at times, but Noah is really good in it, and very, very yummy.
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Series Summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 3.3K
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, they’re really bad at communicating, lot of swearing
(Masterlist) (previous) (next part)
You stood there a moment longer than you meant to.
The parking lot noise felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Your fingers tightened around the paper bag note.
I would have stayed all night.
Of course he’d say that. That was the problem.
You got into the car before your thoughts could turn into something louder.
In. Out.
One.
Two.
Three.
The door clicked shut with a soft, final click.
For a second, you didn’t move. Just sat there with the note still in your hand, the steering wheel cold under your palms.
Dana’s voice surfaced first- calm, certain, impossible to ignore.
The man I know…
Then Jack’s, rougher around the edges.
He thinks he did something bad enough that you changed your entire life.
Your grip tightened.
That wasn’t the truth.
He had done something, but the result wasn’t bad. Not like he thought.
Something had changed in your life.
And the worst part wasn’t what you’d done to protect it.
It was how quickly your brain started building a world where it never existed at all.
There was separation between your worklife and your homelife. They always taught in Med school that you had to separate your outside life from what you had going on at home. Compartmentalize, detach, survive.
Maybe you had gotten too good at it.
You had left PTMC when you found out you were pregnant. Started over at St. Mary’s. New hospital. New badge. New life built carefully around silence and control.
No one knew. Not really. Not the part that mattered.
Your little boy had five people in the world that knew he existed. One of them was his pediatrician. One was your OB/GYN. Dana and Jack were just necessities. Pieces you’d stolen from your old life just to keep him safe.
This was supposed to feel controlled. Responsible. Safe.
It didn’t.
It felt like you were erasing the most important part of yourself. You had built your entire world around your son… and still had to hide inside it.
How was that fair?
You finally started the car.
The engine filled the silence before you could spiral any further.
Breathe.
It’s time to clock in.
You had to be a mother now. Not the doctor. Or the woman with a past.
Just Mason’s mother.
The wall in your mind was coming back up- familiar, practiced, necessary.
You didn’t know how long it would hold this time.
Your apartment was quiet, save for the soft whir of the baby monitor. Mason was asleep in his crib, one tiny fist curled near his cheek. You stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching him breathe. Dana’s words echoed in your mind.
He’d see a son.
There was a knock on the front door, sharp and insistent in the quiet. You froze. No one ever visited this late. Through the peephole, the hallway light illuminated a familiar, weary face.
Robby stood on your welcome mat, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to hide the fact that they were shaking. He wasn’t in his scrubs anymore.
What. The. Fuck.
You checked in on Mason before you made a move to open the door. You peer into the dim nursery. He was still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Reassured he wouldn’t wake up, you walked back to the front door. You unlocked the deadbolt and opened it just a crack, the chain lock still engaged.
“Robby,” you said, your voice low. “It’s late… and you’re on my doorstep.”
He stood on the other side, the hallway’s harsh fluorescent light casting harsh shadows under his eyes. He looked…unstable.
He didn’t push the door. Just stood there, looking at you through the narrow gap like it might close if he moved too fast.
‘I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.
His jaw tightened, like even saying that felt like crossing a line.
“Jack gave me your address.”
Shit.
He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t quite looking at you. He was looking through you like he was trying to put a square peg in a round hole in his mind.
“He’s been… off. The past few days.”
A small, humorless exhale.
“You didn’t see him when his wife died. It’s like that. It was eerie. Like he knows something and won’t say it out loud.”
His eyes flickered up to yours, searching, then away again.
“I asked him what was going on and he just-” he stopped, shaking his head, frustrated. “Nothing. Wouldn’t give me anything.”
You took a breath. Control this.
But he kept going before you could get a word in.
“Then I went in to cover Chen’s shift and Jack just… snapped.”
His voice dropped.
“Said if I didn’t come now, I might not get another chance to fix whatever I broke.”
Another breath- shakier this time. You were sure if it was yours or his.
“And then he handed me your address on a crumpled piece of paper like he had been carrying it around for a while. He-” He cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing his words.
Silence stretched for a second.
“He still wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong,” Robby said, quieter now. “But I saw you at lunch.”
His eyes finally locked onto yours- and this time he didn’t look away.
“You said it was the opposite of someone else. I’ve been stuck on that all day. The opposite of someone else isn’t no one. It’s… more than one person.”
His gaze was intent, searching your face in the sliver of light from your apartment. “Please,” he said, “Either let me in… or tell me to go to hell. But don’t make me stand out here and guess anymore.”
“Fine. Okay,” You said, your voice barely a whisper. You carefully shut the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could hide this from him.
What was the harm in a quick visit if it got him off the scent?
He was exhausted. Confused.
Not-
Not close enough to see it.
You moved through the living room in a frantic, silent dance.
The brightly colored mat- rolled and shoved under the sofa.
The stack of clean burp cloths went into a kitchen drawer.
The dirty bottle in the sink- covered with a dish towel.
You paused at the entrance to the short hallway, breath catching as you glanced in the nursery.
Mason was still asleep. The monitor glowing softly beside him.
You pulled the door completely shut.
And immediately felt it.
Guilt. Sharp and instinctive.
Fuck, what if something happened and you couldn’t hear him?
You push the door back open. Just a crack.
Breathless, you returned to the front door, unhooked the chain, and opened it fully.
You hoped you didn’t look like a mad woman who had just speed cleaned her house.
Robby hadn’t moved. His eyes flickered to your face- then past you, into the apartment.
Taking it in.
Too carefully.
He stepped inside. You closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sealing you in your personal hell. He was in Mason’s space. And he didn’t even know it.
“Can I get you something?” you asked, your voice too cheery. “Water? Coffee?”
He didn’t answer.
His gaze moved through the room. Slow. Quiet. Not casual.
Taking things in.
The too-clean surfaces. The faint, unfamiliar smell in the air. Something… off.
Then his eyes caught on the sofa.
A small shape tucked between the cushions.
He stilled.
A pacifier.
Like Mason had planted it there himself. Like he wanted to be found.
He was farsighted, not nearsighted. Then his eyes traveled to the almost-closed nursery door. A soft, questioning hum came from his throat.
You followed his gaze to the pacifier then to the door then back to him.
No. No no nonononono-
“It’s not what you think,” you said, forcing a short, casual laugh that sounded brittle even to your own ears. “I’ll make some coffee, yeah? You can tell me about your trip.” You quickly grabbed his hand- his skin was cool like the blood had drained from it- and pulled him toward the kitchen, away from the damning pacifier on the couch.
He let you pull him, his body moving, but his eyes stayed fixed on the nursery door. In the kitchen, you released his hand and turned to the coffee maker, your back to him. You fumbled with the filter, your fingers clammy and clumsy.
Get. Your. Shit. Together.
“The trip was… fine,” he said, like he wasn’t really present in the room with you.
“Long. Quiet.”
“I read a lot of books I’d been meaning to read.”
“Saw some mountains.”
“It was… fine.”
You could feel his gaze pierce through your back. The silence felt like a lifetime, thick and heavy, broken only by the gurgle of the coffee maker starting to brew.
He whispered your name. Not ‘baby.’ Your real name. Said so softly you almost didn’t hear it over the machine.
You didn’t turn around. You gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles white.
“...whose baby is that?”
“A real one,” you said, your voice thin. Your hands shook, making the carafe clatter against the base. “Can we ignore the baby for right now? Please?”
You hear how insane that sounds, but you say it anyway.
Robby didn’t answer. He just stood there, in the doorway of your kitchen, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. The coffee maker began its noisy, gurgling cycle, filling the small space with the smell of dark roast. It was a normal sound, a normal smell, in a moment that felt anything but.
“Ignore the baby,” he repeated, his tone hollow. “There’s a baby in your apartment. And you’re asking me to ignore that.”
He took a step forward, not towards you, but to the side, as if to get a clearer view down the hall. His face was pale, his expression one of dawning, terrible comprehension. All the pieces- your disappearance, your new job, your evasions, the ‘opposite of someone else’- were clicking into a picture he clearly hadn’t let himself consider.
“How old?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.
“Please, Mikey,” you said, your voice cracking on the old, soft nickname you’d never used before. Your hands were trembling as you stepped directly in front of him, trying to block his view. You place your palm flat against his chest, a feeble attempt to push him back. “Please… let’s have coffee. Please.”
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. There were bricks being thrown at your carefully crafted walls. You had to patch the holes before the whole structure came tumbling down.
You can’t.
He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable. He looked down at your hands on his chest, then back up at your face. His eyes, usually so expressive and warm, were wide with a kind of horrified clarity.
“‘Mikey,’” he repeated, the name sounding foreign and broken in his mouth. “You haven’t called me that. Ever. You thought nicknames were stupid.” He gently, firmly, took your wrists and moved your hands away from him. He didn’t let go. “How old is that baby?”
The coffee maker beeped, signaling it was done. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the soft, precious coo that sounded from Mason in his room.
He was waiting. They both were waiting. Neither was going to be moved, distracted, or ignored anymore.
You shook your head, tears welling up and blurring the stark lines of his face. “You left,” you whisper, the words a choked accusation and a plea all at once. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the inevitable sob, but your body betrayed you with a violent, silent shudder. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You stared at the floor, at his scuffed boots, anywhere but at the dawning realization you knew was there.
Robby’s hands, still holding your wrist, went slack. He released you. For a long moment he was perfectly still. The only sound was your ragged breathing.
He did the math. His eyes lost focus as he calculated backwards.
“Three months,” he said. He didn’t need to lay eyes on Mason to know that. His voice was eerily calm, detached, as if he were diagnosing a complex case from a distance. “That baby is three months old.”
“Oh, God,” he breathed. He took a stumbling step backwards, bumping into the kitchen counter. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth. “Is it… is it mine?”
‘I…” You couldn’t get the words out fast enough between the sobs. A sharp, startled cry from the nursery cut through the tension- Mason, woken by the commotion.
In a blur, you turned and rushed down the short hall, pushing the nursery door fully open. The secret was out. The soft nightlight cast a gentle glow over the crib. Mason was on his back, his face scrunched, working up to a full wail. You scooped him up instantly, his warm, solid weight a familiar anchor against your racing heart. You cradled him close, your back to the doorway, rocking gently. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Mama’s here.”
The crying subsided into soft, hiccuping whimpers. You could feel Robby’s presence in the doorway behind you, a silent looming shadow. A part of you hoped this was a horrific nightmare you were going to wake up from any moment. You pressed a kiss to Mason’s dark hair, breathing in his sweet, clean scent.
“I’m not a bad mother.” you spoke into the dim room. You repeated it to yourself. Maybe it was to convince yourself your decisions weren’t wrong.
“You’re not a bad mother.” Robby confirmed, “You’re a careful mother.”
When you finally dared to glance over your shoulder, he was in the doorway. Staring at Mason, his expression utterly shattered. He took one hesitant step into the room, then another, moving as if he was in a dream. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the details of his son’s face in the dim light.
His breath hitched. “He has your chin,” he whispered, his voice raw with awe and devastation.
You held Mason tighter, his little body a warm shield against the world collapsing around you. “He…” you managed through hiccuping sobs, “He has your… everything. Spitting image.”
Robby made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. He took another step closer, his hand lifting as if to touch, then fell back to his side. His eyes never left Mason’s face, tracing every feature with a desperate, hungry intensity.
“What’s his name?” he pleaded.
“Mason.”
“Mason,” he breathed, testing the name.
You nodded, fresh tears spilling over. ‘Mason Robinavitch,” you whispered, giving your son the full name you’d only ever written on official forms.
At the sound of his name, Mason turned his head, his big dark eyes- Robby’s eyes- blinking sleepily in the low light. He stared curiously at the strange man looming in his room.
Robby’s composure shattered. A single, silent tear tracked down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, utterly cracked open, looking at his son for the very first time.
“I left,” he said, his voice thick with a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. “And you had our baby. Alone.”
It wasn’t an accusation or question. It was a broken statement of fact.
“I had our baby. Alone.” you nodded, rocking Mason for some semblance of comfort for both of you. “I think I had to be pregnant a month before you left. I… I don’t think I noticed I was pregnant until three months in. S-stress, I think.”
A doctor’s explanation felt absurd in the face of the living, breathing child in your arms. Robby listened, his gaze still locked on Mason, absorbing the timeline. The math was brutal. He’d been walking around, packing for his sabbatical, while you were carrying his child and didn’t even know it.
How selfish was he?
“Three months,” he echoed. He finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. The heartbreak, not just at the loss of time with his son, but the heartbreak for you was so complete it stole your breath. “You went through your whole pregnancy. The birth. The first three months. And I was… reading books in the mountains.”
He said it without a trace of self-pity, just a stark, horrifying statement. He took one more step, closing the final distance between you. He didn’t reach for Mason. He reached for you, his rough palm coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. His own tears were falling freely now, silent and unchecked.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered, the words ragged with a grief that seemed to be etched on his very bones. “Baby, I am so, so sorry.”
“You didn’t know. I… I didn’t want you to know. I’m so angry.” You shook your head, looking down at Mason, who had finally fallen back asleep, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks.
Robby’s hand was still on your face, his touch achingly gentle. ‘I know you are,” he said, his voice a raw scrape. “You have every right to be. I left. I didn’t… I didn’t fight for us. I just went.”
He let his hand fall, but he didn’t step back. He stood so close you could feel the heat of him, could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Mason slept peacefully, unaware of the storm he had just caused.
“Can I…” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He looked up at you, his eyes pleading. “Can I hold him? Just for a minute?”
“He’s sleeping… he startles easily,” you said, the truth a flimsy shield for the real, primal fear coiling in your gut; that if you handed Mason over, you’d never see your son again. It was ridiculous, you knew that. You know Robby. But some little primitive part of your brain was resource guarding. “Maybe… another time? I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask. I… I don’t mean to be cruel.”
Robby’s face crumbled. He took a slow, shaky breath, his eyes closing for a second as he wrestled with the rejection. When he opened them, the raw hurt was there, but so was a dawning understanding.
He looked from your terrified face to Mason’s peaceful one, then back to you. He took a deliberate step back, putting more space between himself and his son, a physical gesture of surrender.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Tomorrow. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back tomorrow.”
He looked utterly lost, standing in the middle of your son’s nursery, like a man who had found treasure only to be told he couldn’t have it.
You just nod once. It’s easier than trying to form words around the conflicting emotions in your chest.
Robby lingers for half a second longer- like he wants to say something else, like leaving now might cost him something he just got back- but he doesn’t.
For once… he listens.
He turns and walks out of the nursery, slower than he came in. You hear the soft creak of the old floorboards, the quiet click of the front door.
And then-
Nothing.
Real silence this time.
Not the kind you built.
Not the kind you forced into place.
The kind after a hurricane passed.
Mason shifts slightly in your arms, a soft, sleepy sound leaving him as he settles deeper against your chest.
Your son is still with you.
You press your cheek to the top of his head, your eyes closing as your grip tightens just a fraction.
Breathe.
One.
Your lungs don’t cooperate.
Two.
Your chest aches like it’s trying to relearn how to expand.
Three.
Air.
Shaky. Uneven. But yours.
You survived.
Barely.
But you did.
And for the first time since you found out you were pregnant.
Series Summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and you’re left to pick up the pieces. But now he’s back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 3.5K
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, they’re not the nicest to each other right now, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, they’re really bad at communicating, Dana Evans will not put with with this bullshit, lot of swearing
(Masterlist) (previous) (next part)
Mason had woken up screaming that morning. 5am on the dot. It really was a wonder how your neighbors hadn’t called the cops yet. You had just managed to get Mason to calm down when your doorbell rang. Great, there goes the wailing again.
Don’t people know doorbells are just for show.
You were in sweatpants, a blubbering Mason propped on your hip, a bottle half-warmed in the microwave. Through the peephole, you saw Dana. She stood on your doorstep, her expression that same look she got when you knew she was going to make you hear what she had to say, a familiar PTMC badge on her gray scrubs.
You opened the door. Dana stood there, her expression softening immediately as her eyes landed on the baby in your arms.
“Look, it’s your favorite Grammy, Mason,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt. Your son cooed, reaching his chubby hands towards Dana.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dana murmured, her sternness melting away. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her hands already coming up to take Mason from you. He settled against her shoulder, finally quiet and content.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, closing the door and leaning against it. God it felt good to just rest for a second.
Dana bounced Mason gently, her eyes scanning your small apartment- the baby swing in the corner, the stack of clean bottles on the counter, the faint smell of formula. Then she looked at your rumpled, exhausted form. You had seen better days. “Jack told me he saw you at some work event,” she said simply, not looking at you. “Not the details. Just that you had… responsibilities.” She finally met your gaze, her own sharp and knowing. “Jack knows now, huh? He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. And I’ve got a bone to pick with you, but that can wait.”
She walked over to your sofa and sat down, Mason now babbling happily in her lap. Maybe he just needed a friendly face. “He looks just like you,” she observed, her voice thick. “But he’s got Robinavitch’s sad eyes. Poor kid.”
“He’s Robby’s identical twin,” you said, moving to the kitchen to fill the kettle. “You told me so after I pushed him out. My genes didn’t put up much of a fight.”
Dana let out a soft huff of laughter, her fingers gently stroking Mason’s dark hair. “I remember. I also remember telling you he was perfect. And he is.” She was quiet for a moment, the only sounds Mason’s happy gurgles and the click of the stove. “Honey… why?”
The question shouldn’t have surprised you. You’d been waiting for it- for a year. From Dana. From your family.
From yourself.
You leaned against the counter, watching the blue flame. Your thoughts tripping over each other, trying to land on something that sounded reasonable. Something that didn’t make you sound like the villain in your own head.
Nothing did.
“You know why.”
Your voice was steady, but only just.
“He left. I was pregnant and alone and terrified.”
You swallowed.
“Telling him felt like… a trap. Either he’d stay out of obligation and resent me, or he’d leave anyway and I’d have to watch him go twice.” You shook your head. “It was easier to just… make a clean break. Build something new.”
“Easier for who?” Dana’s voice was gentle but firm. “Not for him. Not for you, carrying this all by yourself. And not for this little guy, who deserves a chance to know his father.”
The kettle began to whistle. You poured the steaming water over two tea bags, the familiar ritual giving your hands something to do. “He doesn’t need a father,” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant it to.
You stared into the cup, watching the color bleed into the water.
The weight on your chest settled heavy again, but you pushed through it, forcing the words into something steadier.
“He needs stability. Someone who stays. I’m not-” You swallowed hard, ““I’m not risking him getting attached to someone who might leave.”
The word hung there longer than you meant it to.
Dana didn’t let it pass.
“He has a father who is a good man,” Dana corrected, standing up with Mason still in her arms. She walked over to you, taking the offered tea in one hand while holding Mason in the other. “A man who is currently destroying himself because he thinks the woman he loves left him for no reason.”
You shook your head immediately, too fast. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“You know I’m right.” Dana said simply.
The certainty in her voice wasn’t something you could ignore.
“This isn’t about him leaving,” she continued, softer now. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sure. “If it was, you would have yelled at him. Then you would have given him the chance to prove you wrong.”
You opened your mouth, ready to argue- but nothing came out.
Dana shifted Mason higher on her hip, her gaze steady on yours.
“You’re not protecting him,” she said gently. “You’re protecting yourself from what happens if he stays… and then you have to trust that he won’t go again.”
The words landed harder than anything she’d said so far.
Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter. “That’s not-”
But it was.
You swallowed, your voice coming out quieter this time. ‘I don’t get to be wrong about this, Dana.”
Your eyes flickered to Mason, small and warm and completely yours.
“Not when it’s him who pays for it.”
Dana took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving yours.
“Honey,” she said softly. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years. I watched him through his first week at PTMC, through the pandemic… and I watched him with you.”
She set the mug down.
“He was different with you. Lighter. Like he wasn’t carrying so much weight all the time.”
A pause.
“Then he left.”
Her voice softened.
“And I don’t think he was running from you. I think he was running from whatever he thought he couldn’t be with you still in his life.”
Another beat — sharper now.
“And what he’s doing now? The exhaustion. The overworking. The way he can’t sit still for five minutes without looking like he’s losing something?”
Her gaze locked on yours.
“That’s grief. He just doesn’t know what he’s grieving.”
“He does not love me, Dana.” It came out sharper than you meant to. Defensive. Immediate. Like you could cut the whole thing off before it got too close.
Dana didn’t flinch.
Dana shifted Mason to her shoulder, patting his back until his breathing evened out again.
“Love doesn’t always look the way you expect. Sometimes its quiet. Sometimes it’s a man showing up in the rain because the idea of losing you is worse than the humiliation.”
She exhales softly through her nose.
“You don’t have to believe it yet,” she added. “But don’t lie to yourself about what it was.”
The words sat too heavy in the air.
Mason gave a small, frustrated sound from her shoulder- breaking whatever hold you still had on yourself.
You sighed and took a seat on the counter. “Mason is three months old. I’ve survived this long. I don’t want pity from Robby. And I’ll be damned if I let him think I was trying to baby trap him.”
Dana watched as Mason began to make insistent, grabby hands for you.
You adjusted him, instinctively as he latched on to nurse.
“Pity?” she repeated. ‘Honey, look at this child. He’s half of each of you. That’s not a trap. That’s a miracle Robby doesn’t even know exists.”
She hauled herself onto the counter next to you, her voice dropping. “ And you didn’t just ‘survive.’ You built a whole life. You’re a good doctor and a damn good mother. Telling him isn’t about needing his help. It’s about giving him the truth. Letting him make his own choices with all the facts.”
She reached out, her fingers gently tracing Mason’s cheek as he fed contently.
“The man I know,” she said, “he’d see a son. And he’d see the woman who was strong enough to bring him into the world alone.”
She stood up, collecting her purse. “The longer you wait, the harder it gets. For everyone.”
She let herself out, leaving you in the quiet apartment with only the soft sounds of Mason nursing. The weight of her words settled around you, heavier than any silence.
The decision still coiled, unresolved, in your chest days later.
Dana had said he would have stayed.
Jack had said the same thing.
You’d turned Dana’s words over and over in your head until they lost their edge. Or you told yourself they had.
You were in the middle of a hectic afternoon shift at St. Mary’s ER. They needed someone to cover a shift and a little extra money never hurt.
Hey, maybe it’d satisfy that ache in your chest… or maybe you just would be too busy to think about it.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket with a text. When you pulled it out Mason’s smiling face lit up your lockscreen, the text affectionately labeled Sperm donor did not have the same happy effect.
It’s Michael. I’m in your lobby. Not to fight. I brought lunch. Can we talk? Please.
You stared at the screen, the noise of the department fading to a dull roar around you. He was here. In your hospital. He’d found you again, but this time… with lunch?
You sent one text back.
I’m working.
Then you slid your phone back in your scrub pocket and tried to focus on the chart in front of you, the words blurring into meaningless lines.
Dana had said he would show up.
That he already was- just in ways you didn’t want to see.
A low, excited whisper rippled through the nurse’s station behind you. You didn’t need to look to know the source. You could feel it- the weight of his sad doe eyed gaze settling between your shoulder blades.
Slowly, you turned.
There he was. Stood at the edge of your ER’s central desk, holding a brown paper bag in one hand. He looked… better. Not as waterlogged. But the deep shadows under his eyes had persisted. He wore dark scrubs and that stained grey hoodie. He tapped the metal splint on his finger against the counter. He was chatting politely to the receptionist, but his eyes kept shifting over to you.
When your eyes met, he didn't smile. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging a fact. You’re here. I’m here.
One of the younger nurses, Katie, giggled and nudged her friend. “Who’s that?” She not so quietly whispered.
You turn back to your chart, your face heating.
Not because of him- because this was exactly what you were trying to avoid.
People looking. Noticing. Asking questions.
That’s grief, Dana had said.
You didn’t have time for that. Not here.
The professional barrier of your workplace, which usually felt like armor, now felt transparent. Not only had he shown up in the rain, but now he was showing up during your work. He was in your territory, calm and patient, and the entire department was noticing.
“He’s single, ladies,” you said to the giggling nurses, trying to tug your metaphorical armor back on. You needed him out of here. Away from the stares. And you knew he wasn’t going to leave.
You pulled your phone out and typed quickly.
Wait in the family consult room. Last door on the left.
You saw him swipe to open the text with his good hand, then glance down the hallway. He gave you one more look- a question, an acknowledgement- before turning and walking in the direction you’d specified. The whispering at the nurse’s station intensified.
You finished your chart, handed it off, and took a steadying breath.
You can do this. Just get through the next few minutes.
The family consult room was a small, windowless space meant for delivering bad news or difficult conversations. It felt fitting.
When you pushed the door open, he was standing by a small table, the paper bag placed neatly on it. He’d taken his hoodie off, leaving him in his dark scrubs. A year ago you might have noticed the way his arms looked or the way he filled out the scrubs.
Now… you noticed that you noticed.
Your mind refused to do anything with it.
The room was quiet, just filled with the sounds of you placing your hands in your pockets to ground yourself and Robby rubbing the back of his neck.
“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than you remember him being capable of.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you replied, but the edge was gone from your words. You just kept thinking of Mason and what Dana and Jack had said. Maybe you weren’t protecting Mason. Maybe you really were yourself.
The thought slipped in anyway- quiet, insistent.
Mason deserves-
You cut it off before it could finish.
Fuck.
This was too much.
He looked at you for a long moment, then pulled out a chair for you.
“You always used to forget to eat when you were stressed,” he said, almost absently.
“You can hate me later,” he added, leaving the chair pulled out like an option you might take, and sat across from it.
“Just… sit down. Eat. That's all I came for.”
“What’s in the bag?” Like the answer actually mattered.
“Turkey club from the deli you like,” he said, “And a chocolate chip cookie. I remembered.”
He stayed sitting there, hands loosely clasped on the table, looking tired in a way that didn’t match his voice.
“I’m not here to fight,” he started, then stopped himself- shaking his head slightly like he was choosing different words.
“I just. I just needed to see you. To talk. Not in a parking lot. Not like that.”
He flexed his fingers once, the metal splint clicking on the table- subtle, almost absent. Then stopped.
You noticed it anyway.
Slowly, you walked over to the small table and sat down.
“Okay,” you said, your voice flat. “Talk.”
Robby watched you for a moment. He didn’t reach for the bag. Just looked at you like he was trying to find something that used to make sense.
“I tried to call you,” he began. “After I got back.”
He paused.
“You got a new number. I went to your old apartment. Your landlord said you’d moved out months before. No forwarding address.”
His jaw tightened slightly, like he didn’t know how easily he could say it.
“I asked Dana.” His eyes flickered. “She told me you were at St. Mary’s. That was it.”
He exhaled once, slow.
“She looked… sad for me.”
A faint, humorless shake of his head.
“I didn’t understand that part.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table but not committing to it.
“I thought I was doing the right thing. Giving you space from it all.”
A beat.
“But when I came back and you were just… gone. I didn’t know how I was supposed to handle that.”
He finally slid the bag towards you, like he needed to give his hands something to do.
“Then Jack came to see me last week.” He added.
That made his voice rougher. Less controlled.
“He told me he’d seen you. That you had… responsibilities. That I should-” a breath, “-stop being an idiot and try again. But gently.”
His eyes stayed on you now. Open, worn down.
“So I’m trying. I brought lunch. I’m not yelling.”
His voice dropped.
“I just need to understand what I did.”
Slowly, you took the sandwich from the bag. The wax paper crinkled softly as you unwrapped it. You split the turkey club in two, the action methodical, giving your hands something to do. You slid half across the table to him.
Not generosity. Just… efficiency.
“We’ve been through this, you left,” you said. It was the simplest answer, the bedrock truth everything else was built on. “And I dealt with it.”
Your fingers tightened briefly on the wax paper before you let go.
“I wish it hadn’t happened,” You added, quieter- but not softer. “But it did.”
Robby looked at the sandwich, then back at you. He didn’t pick it up.
“I know,” he said, “I wish I hadn’t, either.”
“I thought time away meant distance. From work, from everything. Not from you.”
He finally reached for his half, but he just held it, his fingers tightening on the bread.
“I kept trying to find the moment it broke,” he said quietly. “And I can’t.”
His throat worked.
“I keep thinking… maybe I just missed the part where you stopped waiting.”
He hesitated.
“Did I come back too late?”
The question was so ironic, it was almost funny. Almost. Like your body didn’t know whether to laugh or flinch. A bitter sound slipped out anyway- small, sharp, immediately regretted.
You took a bite of your sandwich to cover it. The flavors familiar and somehow painful. You chewed, swallowed.
Mason flashed in your mind- sleeping, warm, real.
“It’s not someone else,” you said finally, meeting his confused, searching gaze. “It’s…the opposite of that.”
You let out a short, disbelieving breath- half laugh, half something tighter.
“That’s really what you’re worried about?”
Your grip tightened slightly around the sandwich.
“Robby…” you paused, “you left.”
Not accusation. Just a fact.
You gesture towards his untouched portion, “Eat, please. Before this turns into… whatever this is.”
He picked up his half of the turkey club and took a bite, chewing slowly. For a fleeting moment, you could pretend this was just two people sharing lunch in a quiet room.
“Okay,” He said after he swallowed. “That’s on me. Let’s just talk. Like we used to.”
His eye flickered briefly between you and the table then.
“Before everything got… complicated.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
He was trying. You don’t like to admit it, but you can see it in the careful way he held himself, in the absence of the defensive sarcasm that usually coated his words. The simple act of sharing the food he’d remembered you liked created a fragile, neutral ground. The secret sat between you on the table, invisible but palpable. You took another bite. The words were there, lodged in your throat.
When you left, I was pregnant. We have a son.
The door to the consult room swung open. Katie, the young nurse from the station, stood there, her eyes wide.
“Doctor, sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice breathless. “EMS called. Infant, febrile seizure, incoming in two minutes. They need you.”
The switch flipped instantly. You were on your feet, the sandwich abandoned where it was.
“On my way,” you said, already moving.
You followed Katie at a quick clip down the hall. Whatever had been building in that room- unfinished confession, the weight of Robby waiting- it got pushed down, sealed off behind the practiced part of your brain that didn’t hesitate.
The ambulance bay doors hissed open.
The infant, a tiny bundle wrapped in a striped blanket, was being transferred from the gurney to the warmer by the paramedics. His little body was rigid, then jerking with the fine tremors of a post-ictal state, his face flushed and skin hot to the touch.
“Temp,” you barked, snapping on gloves.
“104.2 rectal,” a paramedic called out.
“Get me cooling blankets, Tylenol suppository, and start a line for fluids,” your voice was steady. Automatic.
Your hands moved on autopilot- airways, circulation, access. The world narrowed to this small, feverish body, the beep of the monitors, the rustle of the nurses around you.
Not the room you had left. Not him.
The infant’s tremors gradually subsided as the medication took effect. Slowly, the chaos drained out of the room, replaced by the steady beep of monitors and the soft rise of a small chest.
You stepped back, exhaling once more, controlled.
You peeled off your gloves, the latex snapping. Only then did your mind try to return.
The door to the consult room was still closed.
Fuck. He had waited.
Robby. Waiting.
The guild came sharp- but not clean. Not simple.
You turned back to the infant, now sleeping peacefully with his parents huddled around him.
Katie was tidying up the bay when you glanced over.
“Can you do me a favor?” You asked quietly. “The physician in the family room- Dr. Robinavitch. Could you let him know I’m tied up. He doesn’t have to wait.”
Katie’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. “Of course.”
You finished your notes, ordered a sepsis work up, and handed off care to the next shift. Only then, with your immediate duties complete, did you allow yourself to move again.
The hospital doors felt louder on the way out.
Your car was where you left it.
There was a piece of a brown paper bag tucked under the windshield wiper.
You pulled it free.
On it, a note.
Thank you. I would have stayed all night, by the way. -M
