summary: your relationship with your father had always been less than ideal since you were a kid. too much emotional weight on a child and not enough support from the adult supposed to be taking care of her. robby thought you were just an easy kid, but he didn't seem to realize that you are in fact his daughter, even as you constantly remind him of such
warnings/tags: Michael Robinavitch... your daughter is your carbon copy and YOU are the reason, angst, daddy issues, platonic/father-daughter relationship, Robby slander (sorry to his three fans), not proofread
wc: 5.6k
notes: this is the first part of a series/oneshot collection i'm working on, so please bear with me... it's not as fleshed out as I initially wanted it to be, but then I actually thought about how many parts this series was gonna be and realized it would be okay lol
"You always went looking for an easy way out"
When your parents first got divorced, you were still fairly young, so it didn't really make sense. It broke your little heart, regardless, because all you knew was that your parents wouldn't be in the same place, and even though you already didn't see your dad much, now you really wouldn't be seeing him.
Michael Robinavitch wasn't initially a bad father, just a busy one. One who was still learning how to fight his own demons and balance his life out. He made the effort to show up to your events, rarely missing one, and when he did, he'd make it up to you with ice cream and a movie.
You loved both your parents equally, but some would say you were definitely a daddy's girl. You craved his attention more than anything, since it was such a rare gift, and you cherished every second he used to spend doting on you.
But divorce changes people, regardless of how detached they may or may not be.
Robby's attendance became less and less over the years, with the excuse of work being present every time. It really only started bothering you when he began dating Janey, and suddenly he wasn't so busy at the hospital.
Suddenly, he couldn't come to your softball game because he was at Jake's baseball game. Or he couldn't make your award ceremony because he was taking Jake to a concert. Or he couldn't pick you up from your friend's house because he was having dinner with Janey and Jake- with his new family.
You tried to be mature about it, thinking that might win back your father's attention if you stayed an easy child. You told yourself you understood why he was running away from his responsibility as your father- that it was because you just reminded him too much of your mother, and it made sense that he didn't want to be reminded of her. But eventually you realized how unfair it was for you to be punished for your parents' failed marriage, and the resentment started to fester.
"Leave the pain you can't solve with the folks you let down"
You know exactly why he is the way he is. It's the same reason why you are the way you are. The type of darkness that courses through you is one that consumes far too many people on a daily.
Your mother died when you were about thirteen, forcing you to go back to relying on your father. He made no fuss about it to you, at least not to your face, at least not for a while...
You saw him more now that you lived together again, but he was always gone before you even woke up for school and came back sometimes as you were already in bed. You were an easy kid- you made all your meals on your own, making sure there were leftovers for Robby to take to work, even if he forgot them, or never got around to eating them, or Janey already packed him a lunch. You kept your spaces clean and didn't leave mess behind you. You got good grades and were involved in school. You somehow got yourself everywhere you needed to be without ever asking Robby for help.
He was so consumed with his own battles that he never took a moment to consider how much harder yours could've been hitting you. All Robby saw was a young girl who seemed to be handling grief much better than anyone could imagine, and he ran with that...
Sometimes you really felt like your father didn't care about you at all, and that he was just a depressed middle-aged man with control issues and a lack of self-awareness. So you confided in the people closest to him in an attempt to learn more and try to understand why your father seemed to want nothing to do with you.
Jack Abbot was a man you had already grown up with in your life, long before your father became absent, so that made it easy when you began reaching out to him for things instead of Robby. Did it absolutely break Abbot's heart? 1000%. Did he tear Robby a new one as soon as he figured out what was going on? Abso-fucking-lutely.
"And you tell yourself lies, and disguise them as facts"
Michael Robinavitch didn't start considering he was a shitty father until you were 15. That's when you began to lash out-
The first time you ever argued with your father was over a sleepover. Your friend was having a birthday party, and for what seemed like the first time ever, you asked your father to drive you to get her a present and then take you to her house. He released some sort of overly dramatic sigh and groan before complaining about being tired and not wanting to leave the house again.
Robby had been completely unaware of your festering resentment toward him until you snapped. "You seriously can't just help me this one time?"
He immediately sat up, snapping his genuine, confused gaze to you, "excuse me?"
"I never ask you for anything- I never ask you to take me anywhere- and I understand you work hard and are tired, but I just need help doing this one thing, and you won't even do that for me?" Robby was genuinely flabbergasted at your outburst. You'd never reacted like this to anything; it felt so out of left field.
You'd never been spoiled in your whole life, never acted as such, but suddenly that felt like the most fitting insult Robby could throw at you, deflecting his responsibilities as not only your father, but as a mature adult in general. It escalated rapidly into a screaming match, ending with you in tears and him simmering with rage and astonishment- both of you wallowing in the new low you've reached as individuals and within your relationship.
That became the pattern. You'd question him at the wrong time, and he'd get snippy- or the other way around- which would result in more sarcastic jabs that got escalated into full insults, both of you too stubborn to back down from anything. It always ended with Robby pulling some sort of parent-card or saying something about respect and authority, and you walking away, pushing back tears because you just desperately wanted to be seen and understood by your father.
Robby just didn't get it... You had nice clothes, a beautiful house, and he'd even bought you a car for your 16th birthday! You never had to worry about affording anything you needed, and it didn't make any sense to Robby why you couldn't seem to grasp that concept, no matter how many times you argued over it.
Even about a year and a half later, when he actually realized he was a shitty father, it didn't change much. In fact, it probably got worse because of the emotional whiplash he was causing you.
He would scream at you after telling you to watch your tone when speaking to him. He would escalate what should've been a simple conflict resolution into full-blown arguments, accusing you of being the most disrespectful child anyone could imagine because you questioned his logic.
But then he would occasionally make something he knew you liked for dinner and would ask you to watch movies with him if he got home early enough. Or he'd spend part of his day off with you at the market downtown, enjoying the rare moment of peace where you were actually able to joke and laugh with each other.
Both types of moments made you bawl your eyes out when they ended. You weren't the best at hiding your tears from your dad- you were typically able to hold them off until he threw a direct insult at you, shattering your hopes that maybe this time he'd see your point. But you also frequently clocked how quickly you got misty-eyed while smiling with your dad over the smallest things, because you wished for nothing more than to have more moments like that with him.
You felt like you were dealing with a shitty toxic relationship, the way you would think, "when it's good, it's so good- but when it's bad..."
"It'll hurt half as much if you drive twice as fast"
You always understood that Robby worked very hard and did a lot to make sure you were well off, which is why there's a constant underlying guilt any time you argue with him.
As if your needs not being met made you a terrible daughter, and the thought of even mentioning needing something he hadn't already provided made you sick with anxiety. Which you of course overthought because you were too self-aware for your own good.
"I don't think I should have to feel like this... he's my dad for fuck's sake-"
"Language..." Dana chided, though she didn't care that much, already used to your father's foul mouth. "But you're absolutely right- you shouldn't feel guilty for wanting your dad to be around more."
"But i understand he's busy so like... I don't know" you tried to defend but ended up shrugging sadly and putting as your rested your head on your hand, leaning on the nurse's counter. Dana peered up at you over her glasses and sighed, stepping out from behind the desk.
She wrapped her arm around your shoulder and squeezed you against her, "Sweetheart, your father has always been a busy man, but you and i both know he's very capable of making time for people, so don't sell yourself short."
You had shown up to PTMC early one Thursday morning as a last-minute attempt to ask your father to accompany you on a college visit in a couple of weeks. He had already said no to the last few because of work, including the one you were leaving for later that day, all by yourself.
As if you summoned him with your daughterly yearning, Robby appeared around the corner, seemingly shocked to see you. It wasn't unusual for you to show up at the Pitt, but it was odd for you to show up unannounced.
He took in your anxious stature and Dana's hovering and picked up his pace as he made his way over to you.
"Hey, honey, what're you doing here? You alright?" Robby placed a hand on your shoulder as he glanced over you, making sure there weren't any immediate medical concerns- a habit he's had since you were little.
"Hi, Dad... I'm good." you reassured softly, but your anxiety seeped through, and your words did very little to actually ease your father's mind. He cocked his head slightly, obviously not believing you, but not in the mood to fight it.
"What's up? Why are you here? You never show up without telling me first." you opened your mouth to answer, but paused, glancing at Dana. Robby clocked this immediately and started to grow impatient as his own anxiety began to spike
"Y/n. Why are you here?"
"It's nothing- really- I should've just... I should've just texted you." Your voice died off at the end, breathy and nervous, as your gaze fell to the floor. Robby scoffed, glancing away for a moment with his hands on his hips.
"Alright, so then what is it?" his impatience showing through his rapidly increasing irritation. You watched him get more and more antsy as the seconds passed. His shift from concern to irritation initiated the change in your own demeanor. Your body tensed and you crossed your arms over your chest, closing yourself off even more than you already had been.
You cleared your throat to fight off the tightness that suddenly appeared, "I need to confirm whether or not I'm bringing a parent or guardian with me to Cornell for my visit in two weeks..."
Robby rubbed a hand down his face and sighed, looking around, "That's it?"
Your lips parted slightly in disbelief, then you bit your cheek and nodded, "Yeah, Dad, that's it. So are you coming or not?"
His irritation manifested physically in the way he shifted and huffed, "Y/n... you know how hard it for me to get out of here, especially for more than a day-"
You took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then exhaling with a nod. A frown pulled at your lips as you attempted to push back tears.
"Okay..." you hovered for a moment, then sighed, "well, I won't see you until Monday then..."
"Where are you going?"
"Omaha... Clarkson? That's the school I'm visiting this weekend"
"You're driving all the way there by yourself??"
"Well, yeah... Abbot and Dana don't have that many days off in a row so I'm just going by myself-"
"wait- what do Abbot and Dana have to do with this? Why wouldn't you ask me?"
"Uhm... I did ask you... you said the same thing." you pursed your lips awkwardly, hating that this conversation was happening in the middle of the ED.
Robby reeled slightly and shook his head, "That never happened- I wouldn't have just said no to taking you on a college visit"
"I mean, you told me you couldn't take off work so like- I get it..." he shook his head more profudely this time, holding up a hand to pause you,
"We'll talk more about this later." he gave you a stern look before turning to walk off. Your brows furrowed as you called back out to him, "No, we won't... I'm leaving right from here."
Your father whipped back around, pausing in his tracks before storming back up to you, trying to seem as composed as possible before whispering harshly
"This is not a decision you get to make- you can't just up and leave the state on your own- you're a kid!"
"No one else was gonna take me and it had to get done... can't you just yell at me when i get back, or at least over the phone when I'm already there?" Robby's eyes widened, absolutely blown away by your tired response and audacity.
"You think I'm kidding right now, y/n? This isn't a fucking joke- you are not driving yourself halfway across the country- absolutely not. That is final." he turned and stormed back off to his next patient, avoiding the actual responsibility of parenting you.
Your turned, glaring at him over your shoulder and leaving in the other direction. You nearly shoulder-checked Dana as you moved through the ED, throwing her a somber "see ya next week, Dana- I'll make sure to send you pictures..." as she considered following you out and discouraging you from going- not to ruin your trip, but to save you from whatever heartache your father will cause because of it.
You cried most of the way there and drove much faster than you definitely should've. Maybe your father was right in the sense that you shouldn't have driven alone- clearly not reliable enough to drive safely, but at the end of the day, why would you listen to your hypocrite of a father anyway?
And boy, were you in the most trouble you'd ever been in when Robby realized you'd left anyway. Of course, it wasn't until about day three into your trip, when you were packing up to come home, that he realized, furthering your upsetment, thus making the inevitable argument ten times worse when it all played out.
"Look at you go, crossin' state lines with your shadow"
You can't believe it took multiple years for Robby to realize you'd been asking Abbot and Dana to fill in for things he should've been doing. But when the truth did come to light- it was practically like a nuclear bomb went off in your home.
You felt guilty, of course you did, because at some point you did just stop asking him to do things with you. Jack took you on weekend trips to different states for tournaments, college visits, and concerts- posted about all of it like you were his kid. Dana helped you pick out dresses for all your school dances, and would show up to your school events right from her shift if she was able to make it in time.
Fuck, even Heather Collins put in more effort to be active in your life, and she had only been dating your dad for a little less than a year by the time you left for college.
The dread and anxiety that flooded your nervous system one random tuesday during your senior year of high school, honestly, should've been enough to send you into a catatonic state.
You'd called Abbot to ask if he was still coming to your senior night, and the sigh he let out was enough to scare you. He never cancelled on you; he made sure of it. But you would've rather him cancelled then tell you what he did insetad
"Yeah, I'll be there, sweetheart... why didn't you tell your dad though?" there was silence on your end for a few seconds as you felt your heart squeeze
"...cuz I already knew he wouldn't come" you heard him breathe out a soft sigh
"C'mon kid, that's not fair... you didn't even give him a chance-"
"he's had years worth of chances, Jack... my dad's not coming." you hadn't said in a definitive way that came across as "i don't want him there", but rather a bit watery and reading as "i know how he is, he's not gonna show up".
"Well, I told him I would meet him there, and he had no clue what I was talking about... actually seemed pretty hurt when I explained it to him..." and of course, you felt guiltier than any child should have to feel in regards to their own parent.
You were filled with anxiety as you stood next to your teammates. You remember scanning the crowd to look for Jack, now expecting to see your father there with him. Abbot was about three rows in with his old camera old, ready to record, with Dana and Heather sitting next to him. You managed a small smile seeing them all together, but immediately felt your throat tighten up once you realized Robby was missing.
The announcer called out your name and your plans for after high school, and the entire PTMC support team stood and cheered as loudly as possible, almost making you forget the absence of the person you needed there most.
They wanted to take you out to dinner afterwards, but you insisted on going home, especially since Abbot still had to get to his shift and Dana and Heather hadn't been home since at least 5 am. You made it home and thanked them for getting you flowers and for just being there in general.
You walked in to see Robby in the kitchen, working over the stove. The house smelled like something familiar and savory, and it would be comforting, had you not felt like you were walking on eggshells from the minute you stepped out of the car.
You toed off your shoes and let your bag fall onto the armchair near the door, eyeing the figure ahead of you, "I'm home."
Robby glanced over his shoulder briefly before returning to whatever he was cooking, "Hey, kid... how was the game?"
You wandered into the kitchen and leaned on the counter behind him, hovering like you were waiting for him to blow up on you, "It was good... we won, so..."
"that's good..." he glanced back at you again, "I'm just finishing up some rice. Chicken's staying warm in the oven right now."
You hummed and nodded, fingers tapping against the countertop. Robby put the lid on the pot of rice and fully turned to face you. You both looked guilty and anxious as you stared at the floor and he stared at you.
Robby cleared his throat and sniffed, "Why didn't you ask me to come?"
There was more silence as you spared him a quick glance before flitting your eyes back down. "I knew you had to work..."
"But you told Abbot... and Dana- and for some reason, Heather, too-"
"Yeah, I know, and they all showed up..." he tilted his head at your clipped tone and shaky glare as you gazed up at him.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Robby shifted his weight to lean against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
You shrugged, "Nothin'... just that they made time to be there, that's all"
Robby chuckled humorlessly, shaking his head, "Are you serious right now? I mean- c'mon you know I was at work all day"
"Obviously, but Jack said you talked about it with him and that you'd be there..."
"I can't just rush out of the ED-" you cut him off, softly
"Dana and Heather came right from their shifts, and Jack went into work late... where were you?"
"Don't try to make me seem like a shitty father because you didn't tell me-"
"Jack said you would be there!"
"He doesn't make decisions for me!"
"Okay, so you decided not to come, even though you could've??" he groans and runs his hands down his face, before raising his voice
"You seem to forget that YOU are a child, and couldn't possibly understand the shit I have to deal with on the daily. I do not care what Jack Abbot tells you- he is NOT your father." You flinch at the emphasis and heightened volume.
"If you want me to show up somewhere, you have to tell me- not wait until the last minute and then act like i'm failing as a parent when i can't make it." you understood to an extent, but on the other hand, you saw things from a very different perspective.
The perspective of a little girl who had asked multiple times and been shut down. The perspective of a child who had to rely on other adults to get things done instead of her parents. The perspective of someone who wanted to run away and find something better, but stayed in hopes of finding the change within the things that were holding her back.
"Tryna run away, change your zipcode"
You remember all the times your father seemed genuinely proud of you as a child, and can't help but compare them to every reaction now. Everything always came with a contradiction nowadays- either that or his last bits of energy being given to share a tired smile and hug- but never anything more.
So when you graduated from high school and began preparing to move away for college, you weren't really sure what to expect. Over the last few months before officially graduating, you had been discussing schools with your dad- or trying to discuss schools, rather. He was confused about why every one of your top choices was hours away from home- he really did lack self-awareness...
It inevitably sparked an argument, as most things did between the two of you, coming to a head when you finally decided that you were, in fact, moving to Nebraska to attend Clarkson for pre-med.
"So you're just not gonna see your family for months?"
"I mean... yeah, I guess. I don't really see you to begin with," you tried to laugh it off as you continued to refill your water. Robby tensed, processing the reality of your statement, still bothered by it and still willing to make it a problem just for the sake of it.
It continued like that for the following months until you moved- passive aggressive remarks about your future, accusations of leaving people behind, jabs that escalated to screaming matches with no resolution- the usual.
But it mostly came to an end once you were officially moved out. Your contact with your father was limited. You both tried to keep in touch, but at the end of the day, you were still your fathers daughter, and you easily fell into the same habits of overworking and under-asking for help.
"All your new friends look a lot like your last"
You visited home once during your whole college career. During that singular visit, you stopped by the Pitt to revisit one of the few find memories you had of home, only to be greeted by Frank Langdon and Samira Mohan, who reminded you far too much of Jake and yourself.
It was hard watching your dad interact with the two new med students, who couldn't have been much older than you. Langdon was charming and outgoing, pulling praise easily from your father. While Samira was more gentle and kindhearted, garnering the attention of those around her and gaining the trust of her patients.
Watching Langdon receive mostly praise, while Samira received mostly correction, put you in an even odder position with Robby, only making you want to leave sooner than intended.
You met and became friends with both of them, the three of you chatting about your future and how you were also going to school to be a doctor, but you were only a freshman at the time. You stayed in touch with them after you went back to school, both of them checking in on you fairly often, along with the preexisting clan of Pitt doctors and nurses who had already been checking on you since birth.
"It ain't our fault that you aren't suddenly somebody else 'cause you worked on yourself"
You made the brave adult decision to actually reach out to your father on your own and let him know that you'd be returning to Pittsburgh to finish out medical school. The last time you'd seen him in person was your college graduation, two years prior. You'd talked on the phone, texted occasionally, but no visits from either of you.
So even Robby himself was extremely shocked when you called one day to let him know you'd be moving back home and working at the Pitt for your emergency medicine rotation.
What you were not aware of was how hard your dad cried after that call, shocking even himself with how relieved he was that his little girl was coming home. But of course, in true Michael Robinavitch fashion, he would never let you know how he really felt about it all.
You returned, and you seemed different. Robby actually noticed something about you on his own for once, and it scared him. You didn't seem like his kid anymore... you seemed distant. Healthier, maybe even happier, but so distant. And that realization made him sick.
Everyone else saw it too- Abbot had organized a dinner to welcome you back, and even asked Robby to help- which he, of course, tried to deny, saying something sad like "oh, no- that's okay... I don't think she'd want me to be part of that", which made his best friend want to scream and rip his hair out. He ultimately forced Robby into helping him, promising a billion times that you would absolutely want your father to be a part of this.
Robby still remembers you arriving with Samira, a bright smile on your face as the table erupted in joyous chatter at your return. He remembers Langdon rushing to scoop you up in a tight hug, and how you giggled in shock as he spun you around, then ruffled your hair after putting you down.
His heart ached at the sight of you being appreciated, overwhelmed with pride over the young woman you'd become over the years. He felt glued to his seat as he took it all in, a loving smile pulling at his lips. He could feel his nose start to sting with emotion as you continued to greet everyone, circling around and ending near him and Abbot.
You greeted Abbot first, giving him a big hug, which he reciprocated with an even tighter squeeze, "Good to have you back, kid... can't wait to see you take over the ED."
You chuckled into his chest, then backed out of the embrace. You glanced over to Robby, your smile never dropping, your face not even shifting a little bit. "Hi, Dad."
His breath hitched, "Hi, Honey."
You pulled him into a tight, overdue hug. He stalled for the smallest sliver of a second, then wrapped his arms gently around you. You stayed in the embrace for a few seconds, allowing the air of a new beginning to flood the room.
"Thank you for setting this up." you mumbled. Robby felt his heart stall for a moment as he glanced over your head toward Jack, who just shrugged and smiled knowingly.
The dinner went great- you shared stories of your years at Clarkson, and then some from your first two years of med school. Everyone yapped about how excited they were for you to join the team at the ED, and how there were so many new team members they couldn't wait for you to meet.
The night ended with everyone bidding their farewells and making their way home. You finished chatting with Langdon about how he was going to help you hand up some shelves in your apartment soon, and Robby couldn't help but smile at the interaction.
He always loved your dynamic, finding it easier to stomach one of his residents being a sort of older sibling figure to you, rather than another attending trying to step in as father. At least with Langdon looking after you, Robby still maintained some of the control...
You were originally going to drive back with Samira, since she picked you up and you arrived together in the first place. But you ended up driving back with your dad, surprisingly having a good conversation with him.
"Ya know, I really wouldn't mind if you and Langdon-"
"Absolutely not!" you squealed, embarrassed, but giggling, pulling laughter from Robby as well.
"You didn't even let me finish!" he continued to chuckle through his words, eyes never leaving the road ahead.
"I didn't have to! Whatever you were going to give me permission for, it would never happen- Frank's like a brother to me at this point..." You stare out the window, shaking your head with a smile, before jerking back to face your father
"And isn't he married??" this had Robby barking out even more laughter. The two of you continued to giggle over nothing for the rest of the ride.
"Do you remember the one time I got in trouble at school, and they had to call you-" you almost couldn't get out the sentence because of how much you were giggling, "but you were like- in the middle of helping with surgery or some shit- and Dana showed up,"
Robby's smile already started dropping before you even finished the story, "God, I thought she was gonna start swinging at Mr. Wallace- she should've- but it's still one of the funniest things ever to me..." you sighed blissfully at the memory, gazing ahead. Robby cleared his throat
"Yeah, I remember being upset with you for a good three days at least... and being even more upset with Dana, for some reason..." neither of you were really sure if it was supposed to make you laugh, but it definitely sucked all the air out of the car.
That awkward tension you became accustomed to when talking to your father found its way back to you. You sighed, then bit your lip, unsure of where you could take the conversation at that point.
You played on your phone for the rest of the ride back to your place, knowing anything you said could cause an argument, and over the past six years, you'd learned to pick your battles and protect your peace.
Once you pulled up to your apartment, Robby parked right in front. You hesitated for a moment, then released a sigh and unbuckled your seatbelt, "Thank you for driving me, and for putting together the dinner..."
You reached for the handle and popped the door open. You were mostly out of the car, about to close the door when your dad spoke, "It was Abbot."
You leaned back down slightly to glance back at him in confusion, "what?"
Robby pinched his eyes shut and took a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel before glancing in your direction, not meeting your eyes, "Jack organized the dinner... it was his idea..."
Your heart dropped slightly, and you felt your chest squeeze, pressure rising and stopping behind your eyes, "oh..."
"Yeah."
"Okay..." you sighed, "I'm gonna go to bed now"
"Okay. Good night, kid..." he finally looked you in the eye, and it was misery on both ends. Robby's heart immediately shattered, seeing the shine of tears in your eyes, something he hadn't had to witness in a long time. And you're reminded that healing is nonlinear as you feel the familiar guilt that had a tendency to surface when confronting your father.
"Love you..."
"I love you too, Dad." you closed the door, and Robby watched you go inside until the door closed behind you. He gripped the wheel again and let out a distressed yelp.
Robby drove back to his house and barely got any sleep that night (even less than usual). He didn't have to say what he did. He didn't have to say most of the things he's ever said to you. He didn't know why he was like that with you- his pride and joy, his sweet baby girl- maybe it was because you were more like him than he wanted to admit, and that scared him. Maybe he subconsciously thought that pushing you away would make you try to be the exact opposite of him. And in some ways, it seemed to work, but in many of the ways it mattered, you'd always be your father's daughter.
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Itβs 90 plus degrees in Chicago right now, and I have nothing else better to do than respond to things I see that I find unfair or inaccurate.
I want to make my larger point about this whole Noah Wyle discourse clear, because I feel like sometimes people are responding to what they think I am saying instead of what I am actually saying.
I do not have a problem with people critiquing Noah. I do not have a problem with people criticizing the Pitt. I do not have a problem with people talking about representation, character development, writing choices, interviews, or anything else. Public figures and people involved in creating media can and should be criticized when criticism is warranted.
My issue is that the criticism needs to be fair, accurate, and based on what was actually said or done.
If you are going to say Noah said something in an interview, article, podcast, or wherever else, then you should be able to pull up that source, reference it, and give the actual quote. And the quote needs to actually say what you are claiming it says.
It should not be separate quotes taken from different parts of an article, mashed together, rearranged, and then presented as if he directly said one specific thing. That is not criticism. That is misrepresenting what was said to fit the point you already wanted to make.
And that has been one of my biggest issues with this discourse.
I also feel like people are taking things Noah has said critically about himself and turning that into βthis is what his co-stars said about him,β when that is not always the case.
From what I have seen, Noah has been very critical of his own behavior during his ER years. He has talked about being difficult, competitive, insecure, or not always welcoming to people who joined the show. That is fair to criticize. He said it himself.
But I think there is a difference between saying, βNoah has admitted he did not always behave well back then,β and turning that into βeveryone around him said he was horribleβ or βhe bullied people off the showβ without actual proof of that.
Those are not the same thing.
It seems to me that Noah has reflected on his past behavior, has been aware of where he fell short, and has either made attempts to rectify those situations or at least speak honestly about them. That does not erase the behavior, but it does matter.
And when people take something that happened 20 plus years ago and use it as proof that someone is forever terrible, it gives me the impression that they do not believe people are capable of making mistakes, learning from them, and growing.
That is where the moral superiority part of this discourse starts to bother me.
Some of this criticism does not feel like, βI disagree with what he said,β or βI dislike this creative choice.β It feels like people positioning themselves as more ethical, more socially aware, more enlightened, and just generally better than him.
And I do not believe anyone is better than anyone else.
We are all people trying to figure out life. We all have blind spots. We all have things we could have worded better. We all have moments where we missed something, mishandled something, or failed to see something from someone elseβs perspective.
That does not mean people should not be held accountable. Accountability matters. Growth matters. Criticism matters. Social justice matters. Inclusivity matters. Representation matters.
But fairness matters too. Accuracy matters. Context matters. Grace matters.
And I am saying this as someone who does have criticisms of the show.
I have said more than once that I do not like what felt like a rollback in representation from season 1 to season 2, especially when it comes to certain demographics. I have also said that representation matters. It matters in TV, movies, books, advertising, and all mainstream media. If a show is praised for realism, then the people in that world should reflect real life too.
I also understand why people are concerned about Supriya Ganesh not returning as a part of the show, and now Shabana Azeez not returning in the same capacity. These are women of color who were fan favorites, and I understand why people are upset or side eyeing those decisions.
But what I also find interesting is that I have not seen that same level of heat when it comes to Black characters on the show, especially Black women.
And as a Black woman, I notice that.
I notice when people are loudly concerned about representation and inclusivity, but Black people are still somehow the afterthought. I notice when people are speaking about women of color, but Black women are not centered or even given the same level of urgency. I notice when the discourse becomes about women of color in general, but the specific absence or reduction of Black women does not get the same energy.
To me, that shows unconscious bias too.
The Black community is often the community people think about last. And I do not think everyone doing this is aware of it, but I definitely recognize it in a lot of the discourse I have seen.
So while some people are trying to come across as the ones who care the most about inclusivity, representation, and people behaving the βrightβ way, they are still not fully hitting the mark they are expecting other people to hit.
That is part of why the moral high ground bothers me.
Because if the conversation is really about representation, then it needs to be about representation for everybody. Not just the characters people personally connected with the most. Not just the women of color who became fan favorites. Not just the characters who are easiest to rally around.
Black characters matter too. Black women matter too.
And again, this does not mean people cannot criticize Noah. He is the lead actor. He is an executive producer. He has written and directed on the show. He wears a lot of hats when it comes to the Pitt, so I understand why people look at him as one of the faces of the creative direction.
But I also think people need to be more critical of the production and writing team as a whole, not just Noah as an individual person.
The show is not made by one man sitting alone in a room with a laptop and a bad attitude. There are writers, producers, directors, network decisions, scheduling decisions, contracts, creative plans, and a whole production machine involved.
And if people are going to have such strong opinions about the showβs handling of representation, then I think it is also worth acknowledging that a large part of the writing team includes women and people of color. That does not mean the show is above criticism. It absolutely is not. But it does mean the conversation is more complicated than βwhite man bad, everything is his fault.β
And listen, I understand why people have strong feelings about white men.
I am a Black woman in America. My ancestors were enslaved. I can trace slavery through both my maternal and paternal sides of my family. So if anyone understands why people feel anger, exhaustion, distrust, or resentment toward white men and the systems they have historically benefited from and upheld, trust me, I understand that.
I am not confused about that part.
But I also understand how the world treats Black people. I understand how often Black people are expected to support everyone elseβs causes while being treated as optional in return. I understand how Black women specifically are constantly expected to show up, understand, advocate, and empathize, while still being left out of the center of the conversation.
So yes, I find it very interesting when people are loud about inclusivity and representation, but still seem to miss the ways their own discourse leaves Black people behind.
That is why I keep coming back to fairness.
Criticism is fine.
Misquoting is not.
Accountability is fine.
Assigning ugly motives based on assumptions is not.
Disliking a creative choice is fine.
Turning every creative choice you dislike into proof that someone hates women, Black women, women of color, or marginalized people is a much bigger claim. And if you are going to make that claim, you need to be able to back it up with more than vibes, stitched-together quotes, and personal frustration.
People can criticize Noah Wyle. People can criticize the Pitt. People can criticize the writing, the interviews, the representation, the character arcs, the structure of the show, all of it.
But criticize what actually happened. Criticize what was actually said. Criticize the work in front of you.
Do not take what was said, add what you think he meant, mix in every other frustration you have, and then present that as fact.
Because at that point, the conversation is no longer about accountability. It is about narrative building.
And if we are going to have these conversations, especially conversations about misogyny, racism, representation, and bias, then we need to be careful. Those topics are serious. They matter. Which means we should not be careless with them.
So no, my issue is not criticism.
My issue is unfair criticism.
My issue is inaccurate criticism.
My issue is people acting morally superior while holding someone else to a standard they do not even hold themselves to.
You do not have to like Noah. You do not have to defend him. You do not have to agree with me.
But if we are going to talk about what he said and what he did, then letβs talk about what he actually said and actually did.
summary: single dad!robby hires a nanny after adopting baby jane doe.
contains: black!fem!reader, but anyone can read. feminine!reader. nanny!reader. age gap between reader and robby. yearning. 18+ fantasies about smut. robby lowkey being an old perverted man.
after that dreadful fourth of july shift, robby made the biggest decision of his life; fostering baby jane doe. he also made the decision to extend his sabbatical, and it wasn't filled with traveling across the country, instead he was taking care of a little baby girl. then robby got rid of that death machine called a motorcycle, and bought a suv, the kind a family man would own.
at first robby thought it would be hard for him to adjust to fatherhood, but with some help from jack and dana, everything worked itself together.
now it was six months later, baby jane doe was seven and a half months old and robby has officially adopted her, but he needed to return to the chaos of the emergency department. and he needed to find a nanny for his daughter.
during his nanny search, robby was very picky about who he wanted to hire to take care of his daughter. he's her father, obviously he wanted the best for her. he went through so many candidates, but in his mind, no one would be qualified enough for his daughter.
he began to give up hope, until he came across your resume. you had many years of experience in childcare, you used to teach daycare, and you had lots of recommendations from previous employers from babysitting and nannying jobs. he decided to set up an interview with you at a coffee shop close to his house, so he could interview you while he had jack watch his daughter for him.
he arrived early and was already seated in a booth near the entrance, facing the door so he could see who came in and out, and gripping a coffee cup between his nervous hands. the moment you entered the room, he knew he was in for it.
you walked through the door, beautiful, confident and smiling. you were wearing a white knit cardigan with a baby pink shirt underneath, a pair of light wash jeans, and pair of pink and white sneakers. you wore light makeup. your hair was pulled back half way by a pink bow and you left two strands out in the front. you looked so pretty, it made robby's cheeks flush red.
"hi, michael?" you approached him with your hand out for him to shake it. "i'm y/n."
"yes, but call me robby, please?" he stood and shook your smaller hand. "michael's too formal."
your beauty and energy captured him. robby stared at you for a moment too long and held your hand longer than he should have. he apologized, telling you he was just a little tired, and asked you to sit with him.
"i'm sure you've been through many candidates already," you started off the conversation. "but i assure you that i am perfect for this job."
god, you were so young and so confident, you made robby think of himself in his younger days. you couldn't have been more than thirty.
"y'know this job... it'll be alot." his voice trailed off. "you seem pretty young, this job will take up a lot of your time and energy."
you stared at robby like he had offended you.
"i'm 29. i know what this job entails and i love what i do." you assured him. "any of my previous employers will let you know that i am true to this."
during the interview he was easily distracted by you. you were so sweet and beautiful, and you had the kind of smile that radiated good energy. the interview went great. you answered all of robby's questions with the answers he wanted. you were so confident in your abilities, and constantly reassured him that you were the person he needed, to take care of his daughter of course.
a few days after the interview, robby finally called to let you know that you got the job. truthfully, after he interviewed you, he had no one else in mind to interview or hire. his mind was consumed with thoughts of you. you were so pretty and so sweet, and your references from previous employers helped too of course. you were perfect for him and his daughter.
the job required you to live in his house. recently robby moved into a new house, the kind with a white picket fence, a pool and a pool house in the backyard, and friendly neighbors. robby wanted to raise his daughter in a neighborhood where she'd be friends with the neighbor's kids throughout her life, where he knew she'd be safe and have a community.
the day you moved in robby informed you that you'd be living in the pool house. you would have your own bedroom, living room, bathroom, and kitchen.
"i want you to have your own space," he explained. "it's basically your own apartment."
you were really grateful for his thoughtfulness, and thought it was sweet of him to consider you.
when you finally met robby's daughter, he informed you about how her adoption came about. it hurt your heart to hear about how someone left this little angel in the bathroom of his workplace like that. robby held her in his arms, so you could see her. when she laid her eyes on you, she was instantly drawn to you. her arms reached out to you, so you wrapped the precious little girl in your arms.
"in the ED, we originally called her "baby jane doe" because we couldn't identify her or her parents," he explained. "but when i adopted her, i named her charlotte, and lottie for her nickname."
"that's so adorable." you complimented as you smiled down at her in your arms. "i've always loved that name."
robby watched as you interacted with lottie for the first time, it felt so natural. this was your element, you were made to do this, made to take care of children. it was unspeakable how seeing you like this did something to robby. you looked perfect holding lottie, like she were your own daughter.
once you were fully settled in, you quickly fell into the routine of being lottie's nanny.
in the mornings, you woke early to make yourself breakfast, sometimes you had extra and would send it with robby to work. he was grateful for it, his breakfast would mainly be a cup of bad coffee from the break room of the ED and maybe a granola bar. it was nice to finally have some real food for once.
when lottie woke up you had her breakfast ready, which was mashed fruits, dry cheerios, and a bottle of formula. after she ate, she would take a nap and you'd complete some housework, like washing dishes or clothes, sweeping, mopping, dusting, anything to keep you occupied. when the afternoon rolled around, sometimes you would take lottie out for walks in her stroller around the neighborhood or in a nearby park, other times you would stay in the house and let her crawl around and play with her toys.
you and lottie got along really well. she was a calm baby, she didn't cry or fuss too much. your favorite activity to do with her was to go out to the park and have a little picnic. you'd bring a picnic basket and a blanket, set up under the trees, feed her some fruits as you ate your lunch, and read her a book while soft music played on your phone. you loved this little girl dearly and you enjoyed taking care of her.
robby missed being home with lottie, but you always kept him updated with how she was doing throughout the day and what the two of you did. he was grateful to have you taking care of her. he could tell you loved his daughter and that she loved you. it made his infatuation with you grow stronger. it may seem strange, but he knew you'd be the perfect mother to lottie, and in the back of his mind, you'd be the perfect wife to him. you took care of him even though you didn't have to, making him breakfast and packing a snack or two in his work bag, asking him if he slept alright, and telling him to have a good day at work.
it was wrong of him to think of you like this, but it was hard not to, you were just so lovable. it was so unfortunate that he was your boss, but it didn't stop robby from imagining a life with you.
when robby got home each night lottie would be fed, bathed, and asleep. sometimes he'd come home and you would be asleep in the rocking chair next to lottie's crib with a book in your lap or you'd be in the kitchen cooking. and you always made enough food for him.
"i made extra just in case you were hungry." you held out the plate you fixed for him.
"you don't always have to do that, y'know?"
"but i want to, i noticed you don't eat much." your face fell. "just wanna make sure you eat."
god, you were such a sweet thing. robby didn't understand what he did to deserve someone like you to take care of him and lottie.
he hated watching your face fall like that, he loved seeing you smile, so he grabbed the plate from you and sat down at the kitchen table. you still stood by the counter watching him with your plate in hand.
"i can stay and eat with you if you'd like." you offered. "i don't have anything else to do."
robby just nodded and gestured to the spot across from him. your smile returned as you eagerly sat down in the chair. for the first few minutes it was silent between the two of you, but as robby continued eating his meal, he couldn't stay quiet any longer. not when you sat across from him looking so pretty and fuckable. it took everything in him to not bend you over the kitchen table and fuck his fat cock into you as he told you how much he loved you and all about his life plans with you.
"so... what do you do in your free time?" he asked.
"not much, most of my time is spent with lottie," you explained. "so i either get some rest or watch tv, sometimes i'll paint or read."
you and robby continued having a conversation and learning more about each other. he enjoyed talking with you, you were a breath of fresh air. you were so kind and calm, unlike the people he dealt with working in the ED. you never made him feel like he had to rush to finish his sentences and you listened to his every word. his daughter was his pride and joy, but having you in his life made robby an even happier man.
some nights after robby got home and you retired to the pool house, he'd look out the window to see you taking a night swim out in the pool. he never got the chance to use it himself, so he was glad someone was making use of it. it felt wrong, but seeing you in those little bikinis you wore made robby grow stiff in his pants. the tiny material clung to the plush of your ass and hardly covered your tits, it was impossible for robby to not be turned on by you. he felt like you were doing this to him on purpose, there's no way you didn't feel him staring at you through the upstairs window like a creep.
and like the old perverted man he was, robby would later fuck his cock into his fist while in the shower, thinking of you, the pretty little thing you were in that tiny little bikini. he would moan and groan your name underneath his breath, thinking about how pretty you'd look as he fucked into your little pussy and what sounds you would make taking his fat cock.
he felt like you were waiting to be his, not just so he could fuck you, his to love and cherish, to take care of mind, body, and soul. he wanted to provide you with a lifetime of stability and happiness. you two already had lottie, but if you wanted more children he'd give them to you. thinking of your belly swollen from being pregnant with his child made robby want you even more. robby was so in love with you. you and lottie were his entire world and all he needed was the two of you.
dividers: @/cursed-carmine
πa/n: there's definitely going to be a part 2 to this, but idk when it'll be uploaded! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! (i'm a slut for feedback)
yeah. the show is not meant to make YOU feel seen and represented, unless youβre in the healthcare field and is burnt out, hopeless, depressed and suicidal like dr. robby or dr. abbot, or nurse dana, even.
the pitt has always been about dr. robbyβs mental health journey to healing and the show is merely an invite for us, non healthcare workers, to understand better what itβs like to be a doctor or nurse in the united states of america, through the lenses of a very mentally unstable doctor.
i am genuinely shocked to see the lack of reading comprehension from some of you. youβre attacking the actors/crew for not doing what you want???? this is so embarrassing, acting like you know them personally. acting like they owe you anything. they donβt!
this show is not about shippers, get over yourselves. itβs not about what you want it to be. the pitt has a target audience and... itβs not you. that doesnβt stop you from enjoying the show, obviously, but youβre not the audience they want to please and impress.
dOeS nOaH wYlE eXpEcT mE tO wAtCh fIvE sEa-
babe, he doesnβt care about you, he doesnβt know you, he cares about healthcare workers, he has been an advocate for over thirty years. he has always used his fame and influence to shine a light on the fact that doctors, nurses, patients, are all victims of a terrible government who sees illnesses as dollar signs.
I agree with about 97% of your post, truly. The one part that made my face go βhmmβ was the beginning section about representation.
I do think representation matters in mainstream media. It matters in TV, movies, books, advertising, and really any media we consume on a regular basis. It matters because the world we live in should be reflected in the stories being told.
One criticism of The Pitt that I have agreed with is that from season 1 to season 2, there seemed to be a noticeable decrease in representation, especially when it comes to Black women.
I am not saying the cast needs to be 50% POC or that every show has to check every possible identity box. That is not my argument. My argument is that if one of the biggest selling points of the show is realism, especially realism about the day to day life of an emergency room, then the people in that emergency room should also reflect real society.
Society is not one ethnicity, one race, one gender, one body type, one sexuality, one background, or one kind of person. A realistic hospital setting should reflect that variety too, not just in the patients, but in the staff, the leadership, the social workers, the nurses, the doctors, and everyone else moving through that space.
Speaking personally as a Black woman in America, it was disheartening to look at the Black female medical professionals we had in season 1 and then compare that to what seemed visible in season 2.
In season 1, we had Dr. Collins, Kiara the social worker, Gloria, Dr. Ellis, Nurse Bridget, and paramedics like Ziegler and Crow. That is not even including patients. I am only talking about medical professionals within the world of the hospital and emergency response.
From what I remember seeing in season 2, and from what I checked afterward, the only Black women from that group who seemed to carry over visibly were Dr. Ellis and Paramedic Crow. So no, it is not that Black women were completely absent. I want to be accurate about that.
But there is still a noticeable difference between having several Black female medical professionals visible in the world of season 1 and then having that number and visibility reduced in season 2.
I understand that part of realism in healthcare is that not everybody works the same shift every day. People rotate. People transfer. People go on vacation. People are not always in the same place at the same time. I get that.
But still, it was hard not to notice that the presence of Black women, especially in professional roles, felt reduced. And when a show is praised for realism, that kind of reduction stands out.
And yes, someone could say, βBut there are still women of color.β And that is true. But Black women are not interchangeable with the broader category of women of color. Anti-Blackness exists, including within POC communities, so Black representation specifically still matters. I do not want to derail this into a separate conversation about that, but I do think it is important to name.
To be clear, I do not agree with every criticism people have made of the show or the fandom. I do not agree with people jumping straight to calling specific people racist, misogynistic, narcissistic, or saying they hate women based on assumptions. I think a lot of those takes go too far.
But do I understand why people have raised concerns about representation and inclusivity? Yes, absolutely.
I also do not think this was necessarily intentional in the sense that anyone sat down in a meeting and said, βLetβs reduce the presence of Black women.β I do not believe that. But I do think unconscious bias can show up in creative decisions. And when the end result is that the visible presence of Black women is reduced from one season to the next, that is something worth questioning.
And before anyone says it, yes, I recognize that Black representation was not completely absent in season 2. Donnie had professional growth, Louie went from having a smaller role in season 1 to becoming a much more central part of season 2, and Cruz was introduced as a Black doctor. I am not ignoring any of that.
But that is also why I am being specific. My criticism is not that there were no Black characters at all. My criticism is about the noticeable reduction in Black women specifically.
Black men being present does not erase the reduced presence of Black women. A Black male character getting more development does not replace the Black women who were no longer as visible in the world of the show. Those are related conversations, but they are not interchangeable ones.
And that is where the issue becomes frustrating. It felt like a give and take. Yes, we gained or expanded some Black representation in certain areas, but the Black women who helped make the world of season 1 feel fuller and more reflective of reality were not carried over with the same level of visibility.
So again, I am not saying the show had no Black representation. I am saying the showβs Black woman representation took a noticeable hit, and I think viewers are allowed to notice that without being accused of asking the show to cater to them.
Representation is not separate from realism. Representation is part of realism.
Also, I want to be very clear that this is not a personal attack against you or me saying that I think you are anti-Black, racist, or that you do not care about representation. You have not said anything that would make me jump to that conclusion, and that is not what I am trying to imply here.
My concern is more about how that part of your post could be taken by other people who already believe representation does not matter. I would hate for someone to read that and use it as βproofβ that conversations about representation are unnecessary, because I do think those conversations are necessary.
I do not think you were saying representation is unimportant. I think you were talking more about the fandom infighting, the constant discourse, and the way people have been projecting a lot onto the show and the people involved since episode one. And honestly, I think a lot of us are tired of that too.
So this is not coming from a place of hostility. It is coming from a place of wanting to add nuance to a conversation that I think is important. I agree with most of what you said. I just felt like this specific piece about representation needed to be expanded on, because representation does matter, and I do not want that point to get lost.
Hey, so letβs be mindful of stereotypes and the way we talk about actors that are part of historically persecuted groups when criticizing them and their behavior.
An actor being part of a minority group does not make them exempt from saying bigoted things. Also, an actor saying bigoted things is not an excuse for you to be a bigot towards them. Both things are true and it should not be that hard to understand.
Wyle saying something biased is not and will never be an excuse for you to make the decision to be antisemitic. Calling a Jewish man power hungry is disgusting when there is practically zero evidence to support that.
He has done so much great work for healthcare workers. He has gone to Capitol Hill twice now to push for their rights. He has been an advocate for mental health for a while, and he is doing incredible work with The Pitt bringing awareness of mental health matters, the abuse of healthcare workers, and so many other problems going on in this country right now.
It is not an attack on him to say he is coming across as misogynistic with the way he talks at times. It is also not discounting the incredible things he has done. It is also not an excuse for you to use that to be an antisemitic dick and use stereotypical language to describe your views on Wyle.
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summary: reconciliation, labels, i love you's and a dinner alone together
a/n: sometimes im maybe good sometimes im maybe shit. they sound like teenagers fucking talking it's a little embarrassing. BUT i will defend my honor here and say that although there was compromise it was due to the power of love that they can't stay away from each other. trauma bonded for life. also i only have two more chapters planned so this series is winding down. thank you and enjoy :)
tags: mentions of suicidal ideation!!!
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ΛβΰΏΰ»β β
Robby can't sleep. He sits on the couch in the dark as his mind races. The hotel's channel service plays on the television as his only light source. He rubs his hands over his face as he thinks about you. He was so sure something was wrong and he took the letter at surface value.
Now, you could be anywhere, doing god knows what. He tried looking for you around the hotel. Walking the dark path to the pool and around the bar and even checked Crystal's bungalow but everything was closed. He returned to the bungalow feeling helpless. A particular looming feeling of dread burrows in his heart.
He goes into your room and looks into your suitcase to see Monty's urn. He sits beside it your luggage and he sighs, "Let her come back safe." He sniffles, "Please."
The next morning, you wake up feeling awful. Your body is cold and the clothes you were wearing are still wet. It looked to be sunrise now, the sun's rays peaking just over the mountain behind you. You sit up and hold your head feeling a headache. You also feel an itch in your throat and a runny nose. "What a fucking train wreck." You mutter to yourself.
"Excuse me Dr. Adamson?" A steward from the hotel approaches you.
"Yes?" You put on your sunglasses as you look at him.
"Glad to see you okay. Your husband has been looking for you this morning." He says.
"He has?" You expression softens.
"Yes, ma'am." He smiles, "Would you like a towel? We can escort you back to your bungalow where he's waiting."
"Yeah, that would be great, thank you." You stand up and take a towel from him before following him to a cart taking you back to your suite.
You knock on the door and after the second knock, it swings open quickly. "Hiβ¦" Is all you can muster. You probably looked a hot mess to him. Hair damp, make-up running, and wrinkled clothes. He didn't look any better. Dark circles around his eyes and the clothes from yesterday still on. He steps to the side and lets you in.
You walk into the room and set your purse on the counter with your sunglasses. He walks slowly behind you and the guilt starts to settle in. You look outside to see dinner was still sitting on the table in the yard.
"I am going to take a warm shower if you don't mind." You fiddle with your fingers nervously as you shuffle to the bedroom. Your eyes are trained at the ground. If you dared to look at him, you just might cry.
"Where did you go?" He asks.
"The beach⦠I went for a late night swim." You purse your lips as you turn your head to him. "I think I needed it?"
"Yeah?" He stands behind the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.
"Yeah. I'll be right back." You enter the room and peel the cold wet clothes off your body. You enter the bathroom and take a much needed warm shower to rinse off the salt and sand from the beach. You don't feel as bad when you get out but still have the soreness in your throat and the guilt in your chest.
You come back out of the room in fresh clothes and purse your lips. Robby is still standing in the kitchen leaning against the counter facing the rest of the living area. "Feeling better?"
"I may have gotten a little sick." You clear your throat.
"Let me check you over." He goes to the living room and digs in his bag for his penlight.
"You don't have to, some home remedies should suffice."
"Let me just check." He pats the couch cushion. You comply and sit down. He checks you eyes and throat with the light. He clicks it off and puts it in his pocket, "It could develop into a cold so we should get some juice for you."
"Thank you for that." You fiddle with your fingers. "I haven't been kind to you. Or my dad. All I ever wanted was justification; that what ever I was doing was the right thing. I think my dad knew that and⦠and he knew that giving that to me wouldn't do anything⦠I am constantly letting my emotions get the best of me and I have tried to cut them off. I wrote that letter 2 years after my dad died. I was drowning in grief and loneliness; I wrote it all down. It was in case of emergency. In case I couldn't carry the weight anymore." Tears well up in your eyes again. You look over at him bite the side of your lip. "I'm sorry."
"I've felt that way too." He clears his throat, "After your dad died, I realized I had no one left. You were living your life and I was living mine. We felt worlds apart. COVID was taking people away. People weren't coming back. Things started to get difficult to manage as chief. Everyone is looking to me for help and I can barely help myself."
You gaze softens and you place your hand on top his, "Have you felt like⦠hurting yourself?"
"Sometimes. I've thought about not coming to work. Walking into the river with concrete shoes. Driving until I run out of gas in the middle of nowhere." He turns his hand over so your hand rests on his palm, "I was not kind enough to think about leaving a note."
"I would have missed you." You whisper.
"I would have missed you too." He whispers back. "I'm sorry that it seemed like I was only being nice so you wouldn't want to die. I meant what I said. I always cared about you. I knew I wanted you in my life."
"I'm sorry I thought that. I couldn't fathom the idea that you wouldn't have an ulterior motive." You rest your head on his shoulder. He spreads his fingers and yours sink between them, locking your hands together. "Did you really try to look for me all morning?"
"And all last night. They cut the lights at like eleven so I couldn't keep looking. I stayed up waiting for you."
"God, I feel like an ass." You sigh.
"Don't" He kisses your forehead, "You feel better,don't you?"
"Mhm. Emotionally yes. Physically I feel like I slept on a bag of rocks." You chuckle, "I ended up on those lounge chairs and it wasn't the most ideal sleeping spot."
He laughs with you, "Let's lay in bed for breakfast."
"I like that idea." You both stand up and go to bed.
About mid afternoon, you wake up to find Robby holding your waist and spooning you. You turn over to face him. He adjusts his positions still holding on to you but he still sleeps like a stone. You take a sharp inhale through your nose. Guilt sinks into your stomach now as you think about him staying up all night waiting for you. It reminds you of when you were med-students together and he would wait for you to walk together to your car.
You smile as you remember every grievance you've had with him. How it all seemed to melt away now that you knew his true feelings for you. He said it himself, he always cared. While you were busy fighting your inner critic, he was there trying to support you. With your cold nature, there was only so much he could do.
You lean in and place a kiss gently on his lips, "Thank you for not hating me." You feel him tighten his grip, pulling you closer.
"How could I?" He mumbles, "I love you."
"You're sleeping, you don't mean that." You whisper.
"I love you." His eyes open quickly as he says it again, "I'm awake now, so does that count?"
"I⦠I guess so." You trace the lines on his face, "But how do you know?"
"I've known for years and years." He kisses your neck. "It's what happens when you repress your feelings."
"Well, you already know how I feel. It was in my letter after all." You circle your fingers your fingers around the nape of his neck.
"Hm, I did get in trouble for learning that information so I may have disregarded it."
You click your tongue and swat his shoulder, "You just want to hear me say it."
"Is that wrong? You had me think you weren't coming back." He looks into your eyes with his deep brown ones.
You take a deep breath, "I don't think I realized how much I loved you until we were both old and wrinkled. Often, I would look at you and think about what could have been. Had I not been so self-centered, maybe we could have been something."
He grabs your hand and laces it with yours, "We can be something now." He kisses your knuckles.
"You're okay with having a wreck as a girlfriend?"
"I'm okay with that. As long as you're okay with all the paperwork that comes with dating your superior." He presses his lips against yours.
You groan back, "I was kinda hoping we keep it low key for a bit. That's what I was getting at last night before⦠you know. I hate change and paperwork. And the fact that everyone would know."
"Is there something wrong with people knowing you're dating me?!" He looks at you taken aback.
"No, well, what I mean is we have this reputation about us."
"Uh huh."
"And I would hate for it to change immediately."
"You still want to hate me at workβ¦"
"If that's okay? A couple pokes and prods here and there. I just don't want people thinking I've gone soft with you after sleeping with you."
"Sure, how dare anyone think you have a heart." He squeezes you tightly, making you laugh out the air in your lungs.
"Just for a bit. A month maybe?" You giggle. "I'll let you walk me to my car after work. Ease everyone into. Get a rumor started."
He chuckles, "Fine. But how about you walk me to my car?" You scoff and roll back over. He hugs you tight and kisses you ear. "That wasn't a noβ¦"
"Yes it was. Chivalry is dead anyways." He chuckles as he holds you tight against his chest.
You spend the rest of the day in bed until both of your stomachs growl to life. You head to the restaurant for dinner in more leisure clothes and get sat inside in a rather secluded booth inside the restaurant. You feel a bit grateful because you did not want to confront Crystal today. You sent her a text while you were in bed but you didn't really want to talk.
The two of you sit on the same side. You decide against alcohol for the first time this entire trip and decide to drink some pineapple juice instead. Robby sticks to water, making it a sober night for the two of you.
As you pick your plate, you speak, "I think I want to do it tomorrow."
"It?" He cocks an eyebrow, "There are a lot of things that could be 'it.'"
"You know what I mean," You elbow him, "I want to spread dad's ashes. Finally get the closure I want. Lay him to rest."
"Sounds good." He nods, "And it's okay for me to join?"
"No, actually, I want you to stay at the bungalow and keep an eye on our stuff." You say sarcastically, "Yes come. I don't think I can do it without you."
"Would you have? If I hadn't come on this trip?"
"Yeah. I probably would have done it the first or second day and been alone with my dark thoughts the rest of the trip. But with you here, I felt like it needed to be more serious. You've made me do a lot of reflecting."
"A teacher never stops teaching."
"Don't let it get to your head." You roll your eyes, "You've only got a year on me okay. And based on review I am a better mentor than you."
"Based on review?! Based on review, you are cold-hearted and your criticism is borderline personal and derogatory."
"That came from one review and that spoiled brat deserved that criticism. He was being pompous and deprecating to patients." You mutter into your cup. "Completely unfit for the internship."
He chuckles, "I'm glad you are my second pair of eyes."
After dinner, in the bungalow you take a bath in the jacuzzi tub to relax. The only light illuminates the sink and toilet area leaving you in near darkness. There were some electric tea light candles giving you a comfortable atmosphere as you sit in the jets.
Robby comes and sits on the landing beside the tub. He watches as you sit in the bubbles. You look back at him, "Worried I might sink in?"
"I wasn't thinking about it until now," He purses his lips, "I was just checking on you though. Make sure you're okay."
"I'm okay. I'm not going to get better instantly but I'm better than last night."
"Good."
"You should get in. It's big enough for the both of us." You smile.
Robby twists his lips in thought but you give him the biggest puppy dog eyes you can do. With the will of your pout he complies. He stands up and undresses, "Move over." You grin with excitement as he steps into the tub. You lay between his legs with your back against his chest. He rests his hands on your shoulders and starts to massage you.
You hear the wind against the glass as you make a satisfying sound. He leaves light kisses on your neck as warm water from his wet hands trickle down your shoulders over your chest. There is a small window above the tub. You can see the moon from where you lay. A small smile spreads on your face as you slowly doze off in the comfort of Robby's arms.
i hate to be the one to make a post like this, but iβm not sure where to go anymore.
my husband & i lost our jobs this past month & we are quickly running out of groceries. (our fridge/freezer is almost empty). it may be weeks or another month or so before we get any income in & our local food banks are over-booked in our town.
if anyone could spare absolutely anything, iβd be beyond grateful. i understand that the world is fucked & we are all struggling out here, so if you canβt, reblogging this post will also help a ton. thank yβall sooooooo much in advance. π«Άπ»π€
Chapter Thirty-Two: Broke Your Heart, I'll Put It Back Together
Summary: Itβs Dr. Michael βRobbyβ Robinavitchβs last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, youβve finally started choosing yourself β therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed⦠stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael βRobbyβ Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising
Word Count: 12.7k
A/N: Lots of italics in this oneβ¦ uhhhh and uhhhh a lot of implied love here, but they donβt actually say those three wordsβ¦ yet.
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/Pinterest. Iβm not a doctor or a nurse. Iβm dyslexic, and English isnβt my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Pahina by Cup of Joe, How You Get The Girl by Taylor Swift, and I Love You, Iβm Sorry by Gracie Abrams
Previous Chapter β Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
4 MONTHS LATERβ¦
CRUISE SHIP β DAY
The sea does something strange to grief. It doesnβt erase it or cure it. But it loosens its grip enough for a man to hear himself think again. And for the first time in years, Michael Robinavitch lets silence exist without trying to outrun it.
He takes Jackβs advice, actually takes it. Not the spirit quest or the endless highway.
A cruise. A ridiculous, almost embarrassing cruise Jack had half-joked about in Trauma One. He can still hear Jack Abbot saying itβGo on a cruise, man.
Somehowβhe did. The first week, he hates it, all the floating buffets and retirees line dancing at sunset, the aggressively cheerful steel drum music. He feels like a man haunting a vacation brochure.
But then, eventually, something changes. Maybe it was the salt air or the mornings he drinks coffee on the deck before dawn, wrapped in a windbreaker, watching the horizon bleed pink. The long, anonymous miles of ocean where nobody needs anything from him.
No trauma calls or overhead pages. No alarms and no dying. Only water, the sky, and breathing.
He starts sleeping, albeit at first in pieces. Then in real hours. He starts meeting with a therapist over Zoom from the shipβs wifi, awkwardly balanced in a tiny cabin while the ocean rolls outside the porthole.
At first, he treats it like a consult, detached and clinical. Then one day, he says too much, and doesnβt die from saying it. So he keeps talking about his mother, the abandonment, the dead, the guilt that clings to survival.
About how being needed became indistinguishable from being alive. Eventually, as time goes, he begins to talk about you. He doesnβt say your name at first. Then he does, and once he startsβhe canβt seem to stop.
He writes in the journal every day because he promised you. At first, it was only scraps. Room numbers. Coordinates. Bad drawings of ports. Finally, it all bleeds out, his thoughts, and confessions. Things he never says aloud. He tapes postcards inside, and buys you souvenirs at every stop.
So far, he has a pile of trinkets accumulated for you. A pressed flower bookmark in Lisbon. Sea glass earrings from Santorini. A tiny painted saint medal in Naplesβridiculous fridge magnets. A fountain pen in Marseille because you once complained hospital pens were instruments of torture.
He buys things with your laugh in mind, with your hands in mind, and with imagined futures in mind; he still does not trust himself to name. And when he finishes the last pageβtruly finishesβmonths later in a small cabin while rain needles the windowβhe remembers.
Your voice.Β
If you finish all the pages, thereβs something for you at the end.
His pulse stutters. At the back sleeveβtaped carefullyβthereβs a letter. His fingers begin to shake as he unfolds it, and your handwriting, immediate as touch.
He reads:
If youβre reading this, you kept your promise. Now keep one more.
Check the false bottom of the box.
He freezes.
The box, the one you made him swear to keep. The one still tucked in his bag this whole time. Because he kept his word, and you made him do so. He pulls it out, turns it over. Studies it, and thereβalmost invisibleβa seam. A hidden panel. His breath catches as he pries it loose, and beneath it is another journal.
Yours, more worn and lived in. Itβs recent, and incredibly personal. For a long moment, he only stares in such a way that touching it may alter reality. He opens it, and everything changes.
He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.
There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembersβand you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.
I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.
It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.
Another, in your writing, βHe keeps trying to save everyone but himself.β
He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Becauseβholy shit.
He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word⦠twice.
At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, βJesus Christ, Ducky.β As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers youβve receivedβ¦ and his stomach drops.
No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.
The number you have dialed is not in serviceβ¦
He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.
He leaves messages anyway. At first, itβs awkward. βHeyβ¦ itβs me.β Then, desperate and raw. βPlease, pick up. I read it.β His voice shaking, βI shouldβve known.β
Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: βI love you.β
Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.
He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesnβt want to run. He wants one thingβ¦ one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if youβve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, tooβterribly. For longer than he understood.
Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies himβthe trip did not save him.
You did, and now you are gone.
DANAβS HOUSE β DAY
November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.
After four months awayβafter sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from useβRobby comes home.
He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.
The first thing he doesβbefore going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Danaβs. Because if anyone knows where you are, itβs her.
Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.
Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. βIβll get it,β she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the doorβand just stares.
Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, βWhereβd she transfer to?β
Zero preamble, just straight to the point.Β
Dana blinks, then folds her arms. βWell, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.β A beat passed before she added, βWelcome back. How was your sabbatical?β
His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. βWonderful.β He thrusts a paper bag at her. βHere. Souvenirs. For your family.β
She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benjiβs niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.
And before she can thank himβ
βWhereβs Ducky?β
The words come out rough, as though heβs been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldnβt bear one more minute not knowing.
Because sheβs Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm firstβshe steps aside and says, βCome in before the neighbors call the cops.β
He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.
Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, βYou check her apartment?β
He laughs once, humorless. βLocked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.β He scrubs a hand over his mouth. βI called every day.β His voice cracks around every.
Danaβs expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. βWell, Iβll be damned.β He grins. βThe ER cowboy returns.β
Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. βDana.β That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. Itβs yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. βI found this.β
Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. βYou read it.β
His laugh this time is broken. βI read all of it.β A pause, quieter, βShe wrote about me on every damn page.β
Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. βWell. About time you caught up.β He ignores that, or canβt process it, while his voice drops, raw. βDid she transfer?β
Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because sheβs enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.
He steps closer. βDana.β For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. βWhere is she?β
The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.
She says carefully, βWhat exactly are you planning to do when you find her?β
Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. βI donβt know. I justβ¦β He stops, and swallows, then starts over. βI need to see her.β
Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. βWhy?β And thisβthis is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.
βBecause I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.β
Silence. Thenβso quietly it nearly disappears, βI think Iβm in love with her.β
Danaβs mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.
Fuckinβ finally.
She mutters toward the ceiling, βJesus, Mary, and Joseph.β Then points a finger at him. βYou listen to meβ¦ You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.β
He almost looks offended. βIβm trying not to.β
She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. βWho are youββ
Without looking up, βShut up, Robinavitch.β And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Thenβpickup.
Dana lifts it to her ear, βHey.β A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isnβt detonating his entire nervous system, βRobbyβs here at my place.β His head snaps toward her. βWhatββ
She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, thereβs a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Danaβs grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.
βSpit it out, Robinavitch.β
Robby freezes. βOh shit.β
Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like heβs been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.
He clears his throat. βHi.β Dead silenceβ¦ before your sister exclaims, βThatβs what you got?βΒ
Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. βIβm trying to find her.β
βYeah, no shit.β
He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; itβs sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. βYou disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly youβre here asking about my sister?β
Robby blinks. ββ¦That sounds worse when you say it.β
βIt is worse.β
Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, thereβs no dignity left to preserve. βI love her.β
Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, ββ¦You better.β Then she pivots. βSheβs at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.β
His whole body stills. βShe is?β
βDonβt sound so shocked.β She continues. βMy boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. Sheβs dog sitting.β
You were dog sittingβ¦ didnβt transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. βIβll text you the address.β Then her voice drops. βAnd Robby?β
He goes still. βYes?β
βIf you fly your ass to New York and hurt her againβ¦β Dana mouths oh boy. ββI will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.β
Silence. He answers, dead serious, βThatβsβ¦ fair.β
Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isnβt finished. βIβm serious.β
βI know.β
βShe cries over you, I bury you.β
He nods before realizing she canβt see. βUnderstood.β
βAnd donβt make me regret giving you my sister.β
His voice roughens. βI wonβt.β A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, βShe loves you, you know.β His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. βI know.β
Maybe he didnβt, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But nowβhe knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. βWell?β
Heβs already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like heβs sixteen, or heading into battle. βDonβt say anything stupid.β
He looks wounded, βThat narrows my options considerably.β She smacks his arm. Then softer, βGo get my girl.β
A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, andβ¦ in love. He turns for the doorβ¦ but stops, looks back at Dana. βThank you.β
She waves it off before she gets emotional. βGo.β
Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. βRobinavitch?β
He pauses. βYeah?β
βIf you make me come home early to kill youββ
He laughs, pure actual laughter. βI wonβt.βΒ
He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, whoβs in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.
YOUR SISTERβS APARTMENT, NEW YORK β NIGHT
It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November coldβtaxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.
Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sisterβs apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.
Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, itβs low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dogβBowie, spoiled rotten and aware of itβwas sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed.Β
Thenβa knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. βWhat the hell?β
You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.
Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.
For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sisterβs door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.
His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.
Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.
Itβs not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasnβt here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.
That undoes you more than if heβd touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, βAre you insane?β
It comes out half laugh, half gasp.Β
He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehowβhopeful. βHow did you even get in here? Thereβs a doorman.β
His mouth twitches. βYour sister called ahead.β
Of course she did. Traitor.
His voice goes rough. βPlease come back.β
The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. βCan you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.β
The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.
Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. βWell, hello.β
The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. βUnbelievable.β Robby glances up. βWhat?β
βEven the dog likes you.β
He rises slowly. And for one suspended momentβyouβre just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. βYouβre freezing.β
You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. βTake a warm shower.β
You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. βMy sisterβs boyfriend isβ¦ a bit shorter than you.β Your eyes do an up and down. βA lot shorter.β
His smile deepens. βIβll make it work.β
You gesture toward the bathroom. βThere are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.β You add, softer, βIgnore the mess in the room. Iβve been sleeping in there.β
You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.
Robby lingers a second.
Watching.
You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.
He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.
He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.
When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too smallβyou nearly short-circuit. He looksβ¦ dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.
You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. βYour mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.β
Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.
You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. βI bet youβre hungry.β You nod toward the food. βTheyβre leftovers but theyβre good.β A pause. βDo you eat rice?β
He almost laughs, βIβll eat whatever youβll give me. Your cookingβs the best.β You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. βEh. Itβs okay.β
He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasnβt in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.
Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, βHow did you find me?β
He wipes his mouth. βI went to Danaβs.β A beat. βShe called your sister.β
You shut your eyes. Of course.
βThat bitch.β Thereβs no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating.Β
You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, βNo, Iβll wash.β But you shake your head, replying, βNot a chance.β
βIβll wash, you dry?β
You arch a brow. βAre you even in a position to negotiate?β He looks up at youβthose impossible brown eyes gone soft. βPlease.β
And damn him, you melt.
βOkay.β
So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.
Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hushβwith dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towelβit feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.
Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. βI read the letterβ¦ and your journal.β
Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.
The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.
You donβt turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesnβt make being seen any less terrifying.
βI know,β you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. βWellβ¦ I figured.β
His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. βIββ
You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. βHow do you feel about hot chocolate?β
It startles him enough that he blinks. As if youβve changed the subject so violently he canβt find the road back. ββ¦Iβd like that.β
You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. βGo wait for me in the living room.β You force a small smile. βIβll make us some.β
He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses youβre buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.
Eventually, youβre both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.
It feels almost too intimate.
Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, βI didnβt transfer.βΒ
The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. βWhat?β He turns fully toward you. βBut I thoughtββ
βNo.β You shake your head. βI got offersβ¦ and I came closeβ¦ really close.β Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. βEspecially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.β
You give a crooked little laugh. βGo to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.β Then softer,Β βBut I couldnβt.β
He watches you like moving would break the moment.
βI liked the Pitt too much.β A sad smile. βAs fucked up as that is.β
You huff out, βThere is definitely something wrong with me.β
That finally pulls a smile from him.
You continue. βI like the people there.β A beat. βIβ¦β Your throat tightens. βI liked having somewhere I belonged.β His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean.Β
You take another sip. βI just took leave. Needed it anyway.β You look toward the rain-smeared windows. βItβs nice coming back here. During November, the Fallβ¦ Yβknow, with everything changing. Itβs nice.β
Robby opens his mouth. βI just thought Iββ
You shake your head gently. Donβt let him say whatever apology heβs building. Not tonight. βI donβt think we should be having this conversation right now.β
He looks almost startled.
You stand, mug in hand. βYouβre exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.β A small attempt at humor.
You fail to hide concern. βWe can talk about the letter. And the journal. Andβ¦ everything else. Tomorrow.β Your words feels kind, merciful.
He studies you, as if trying to decide whether youβre sparing himβor yourself. You clear your throat. βI can change the sheets in the guest room.β
βYou donβt have to,β he says quickly. βI can tell youβre exhausted.β
βAre you sure?β
He nods, because heβs very sure. What he doesnβt say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You donβt know that, or maybe some part of you does. βOkayβ¦β
You glance around, βI need to find another pillow for you. One sec.β And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.
He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.
Somehowβeven in your sisterβs apartmentβhe can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. Thereβs a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.
He stares too long, and thereβs anotherβyou grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.
He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.
He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.
There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of itβyou.
Loved and included, completely held.
He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.
God.
He wants to.
You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. βThat was Cape May.β
He looks up, saying, βYou look happy.β
You pause, then smile, βI was.β
The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if heβs trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.
You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.
You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you havenβt been around him in years. βUmβ¦β You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. βIβm gonna sleep in my sisterβs room, soββ
You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. Itβs tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way youβve never heard from him.
βCan Iβ¦β He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. βCan weβ¦ hug?β
The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But⦠Can we.
As if it belongs to both of you and heβs asking permission to need comfort.
Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, βIβd like that.β
For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.
Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when theyβve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.
His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if heβs afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly youβll disappear again.
You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And Godβhe smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.
Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in itβyou realize neither of you is comforting the other. Itβs that youβre both being saved a little.
His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.
You donβt know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.
When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.
You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, βGoodnight, Robby.β
His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep wonβt touch him for hours. βGoodnight, Ducky.β
You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and donβt look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.
The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.
Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.
He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesnβt lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.
He finally lies back. And the pillowβfuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, itβs allβ¦ you.
It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. Heβd be embarrassed if anyone saw.
Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe yearsβhe doesnβt feel like running.
Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.
Hope.
He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility.Β
YOUR SISTERβS APARTMENT, NEW YORK β DAY
Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.
You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bedβthen remember.
Robby.
Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.
The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.
You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.
Your brows knit.
Whatβ
You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally youβre already cataloguing the morning.
Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.
Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sisterβs roof. You round the kitchen cornerβand stop.
Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and thereβs coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.
Howβ
He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, βMorning.β You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. ββ¦You can cook?β
He gives you a look, deadpan. βI live alone.β A short pause. βOf course I can cook.β
You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?
βYouβre messing with me.β
He snorts. βNope.β
There is something so unfamiliar about this version of himβgentle. Rested, almost playfulβthat it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.
You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.
While youβre pouring food, you ask a little too casually, βDo you have a flight back orβ¦β
Robby flips something in the pan. βItβs next week.β You pause and turn. βWhat? You just got back. Howβd you get time off so soon?β
He shrugs like itβs obvious, βChief emergency physician attending perks.β Then, with a crooked smile, βBesides, Jack said heβd cover for a little bit.β
You stare, βHe knows youβre here?β
Robby grins. βYep.β A beat. βPretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.β
You close your eyes, βJesus.β
Of course they fucking do.
You move instinctively toward the stove, βI can helpββ He points with the spatula. βGo sit.β
You laugh. βAre you sure?β
βI canββ
He cuts you off. βGo sit thereβ¦β His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. ββ¦and look pretty.β
Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that.Β
He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And youβwho have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holdsβcannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.
So yes, you obey.
Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.
You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.
You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, βI have a question.β
You look up. βMm?β
He hesitates before asking,Β βWhy werenβt you answering your phone?β A pause. βI tried calling butβ¦β
Your stomach drops. βOh.β And you look down, embarrassed. βMy phone got stolen a few weeks ago.β
His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. βWhat?β
You nod. βYeah. All my stuff wasnβt backed up.β You grimace before your voice softens. βAnd Iβ¦ Iβm sorry. I didnβt mean to make you worry.β
That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew heβd worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, βI did.β
Two small words, but theyβre huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.
You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. βThis is suspiciously decent.β
He looks offended. βSuspiciously?β
βVery.β
He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight.Β
Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. βWell.β You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. βWanna go for a walk with me?β
He doesnβt even pretend to consider. βYes.β
You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.
You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.
You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.
Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, βYou ready?β
You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feelsβ¦ movable, and you answer softly, βYeah.β
For the walkβ¦ and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long timeβneither of you is running.
PETER DETMOLD PARK β MORNING
The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.
Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.
You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because thereβs nothing to say, but because thereβs too much. The kind of silence that breathes.
Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadnβt earned.
You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because heβs trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.
At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. βAbsolutely not,β you scold.
Robby laughs. βHe has criminal impulses.β
βHe gets that from me.β
He looks at you sideways, βThat worries me.β You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe youβd once imagined this and forgot.
Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. Itβs complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.
You unclasp Bowieβs leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.
You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.
You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evieβs eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.
βWell,β she says. βThis is interesting.β
You mutter, βDonβt start.β
Too late.
Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.
Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. βThere she is.β
Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. βThought you abandoned us.β
You laugh. βTemporary exile.β
He leans casually near you. βSoβ¦ you owe me coffee for disappearing.β
Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. βI was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.β
And Robbyβwho has clearly reached some invisible thresholdβthinks: absolutely the fuck not.
One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. Itβs every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.
You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. βOh.β
Robby nods politely, βWeβre catching up.β
We.
Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. βWell. Good for you.β Then to you, with a small smile, βCoffee offer stands.β
Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, βSheβs pretty booked.β
Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.
Alex grins, message received. βGot it.β He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second heβs gone, you hiss, βWhat was that?β
Robby blinks. βWhat?β
βYou just claimed me like a Victorian duke.β
He looks almost offended. βHe was flirting.β
βYes.β A second ticked by. βAnd?β
He looks down at you, very serious. βI didnβt care for it.β
God help youβyou laugh, canβt help it. And because you lean into him laughingβhis arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.
Connor calls across the run, βDoc got jealous!β
Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat,Β βYep.β
Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.
You murmur, almost teasing, βYou jealous?β He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. βYes.β
You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended secondβeverything pauses.
Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking itβ¦ well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you thinkβyou could get addicted to making him sound like that.
Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morningβhis arm still around your waistβit feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.
EAST RIVER ESPLANADE β DAY
Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.
Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.
So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last nightβs rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.
Aheadβa bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.
For a whileβnothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.
Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, βIβm sorry.β
It isnβt rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. βI know.β
His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, βHow was your sabbatical?β
He leans back, looks out at the water. βGood.β A breath. βSaw a lot of places. Took a cruise.β
You grin, βAs Jack suggested.βΒ
He huffs as he clarifies your statement, βAs Jack aggressively insisted.β You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. βGood. Iβm glad.β And you add quietly, βNice tan, by the way.β
That gets a laugh.
βYou seem like you got some rest.β
He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, βDid you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?β
A jealous question wearing a jokeβs coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. βNo.β
Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, βI met a couple of Filipino families.β
You blink. βWhat?β
He smiles, βOn the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.β
You laugh, βOh no.β He nods solemnly. βThey basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.β
You laugh harder, βSounds right.β
βThey fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.β
Your hand flies to your mouth. βNo.β
βYes.β He looks down, almost embarrassed. βI kept talking to strangers about you.β The wind seems to pause, as he says, βAnd then I read your letter.β
Your throat tightens. βYou donβt have toββ
βAnd then I read the journal.β
His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eyeβand realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.
You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. βI was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.β He swallows, as he admits, βBecause you deserve so much better than me.β
You shake your head already, but he keeps going. βSomeone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.β His mouth twists. βYou deserve more than some worn-out old man.β
Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks.Β Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now theyβre here.
Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. βIβ¦β Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. βI kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.β
A pause. βButβ¦β You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. βI always wanted you.β
You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.
A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And thenβGodβhis eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he canβt believe what he just heard. βYouβ¦β He shakes his head. βYou have no idea what you do to me.β
Youβre trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.
βThereβsβ¦ something I need to show you.β His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. βIn the apartment. I brought something for you.β A crooked little smile, self-conscious. βBefore you decide Iβm too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.β
You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, βBefore you decide what to do with meβ¦β His voice nearly breaks there. ββ¦I want you to read what I wrote.β
He looks down for a second, then back up. βI need you to know who I became when I was away from you.β
His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, βI came all this way to ask if thereβs still a place for me with you.β Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, βShow me.β
And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.
YOUR SISTERβS APARTMENT β DAY
The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries onβhorns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.
Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.
He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.
Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.
But that isnβt all.
In his other hand is a small wooden chestβweathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a shipβs cabin.
He sets that down first, almost shy. βI, uhβ¦ this too.β
You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnetsβa goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.
A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, youβd cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.
A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.
All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.
Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. βOh my God,β you whisper. His mouth twitches. βI might have overdid it.β
You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. βYou think?β
But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if itβs something alive and afraid to hand over. βIβ¦ wrote in it.β His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.
He offers it to you. βYou donβt have to read it now.β A beat. βOr at all, really.β His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesnβt say it outright, but it lingers there.
He forces himself through it anyway. βI justβ¦β An exhale. βI hope you do.β
You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because thereβwritten across the topβis your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.
Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.
And every pageβyou. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memoriesβ¦ and confessions.
There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.
Other pages lighterβ¦ looser and healing. And through all of itβyou. Intertwined through everything.
You, a compass point. His north star.
Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.
One page reads:
βToday I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.β
Another:
βBought a postcard she wouldβve liked. Kept it because I didnβt know if Iβd be brave enough to give it to her.β
Another:
I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.
Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.
Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.
There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.
This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form.Β
You turn another page.
One entry is after therapy. βToday I admitted I love her.β
Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, βI thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.β
Another says, βBought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.β
A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, βThere are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.β
You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you canβt stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.
Then itβs you againβ¦ everywhere.Β
βShe makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.β
βShe scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.β
βI think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.β
Your tears fall onto the paper, and you donβt wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.
βI thought if I wrote it downβ¦β He stops, swallows. ββ¦I might finally deserve to say it out loud.β
In every page that fate has ever penned, it's youβit's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.
You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understandβhe didnβt bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.
How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like heβs waiting to be sentenced?
You canβt.
Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of itβyouβre moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.
Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.
You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isnβt a sound at allβsomething punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if heβs afraid that if he loosens his hold, youβll disappear again.
And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.
You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way heβs trying and failing not to cry. And then you realizeβyou are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.
His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.
Because this manβthis stubborn, impossible, guarded manβis letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.
His voice comes rough against your shoulder. βI thought I lost you.β The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.
You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.
You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. βYou found me.β
That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a whileβthatβs all there is.
Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.
His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof youβre real.
He whispers, voice cracking, βI wrote all that because I didnβt know how else to tell you.β
You shake your head, crying again. βYou told me.β
A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, βI felt every page.β
His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.
This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.
You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.
Once it is spokenβor maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowedβeverything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. Itβs two people setting down heavy things at the same time.
After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipsesβglances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nursesβ station, almosts stacked atop almostsβthere is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.
No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.
YOUR SISTERβS APARTMENT β DAY
By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.
Robby is standing in your sisterβs kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.
A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. βOkay. Rule number one.β He glances up. βThere are rules?β
βThere are many rules.β
He braces himself.
You narrow your eyes.
βDonβt disrespect the garlic.β
He stares.
Then deadpanβ
βI didnβt know garlic had civil rights.β
You choke out a laugh. βIt does in Filipino households.β
βNoted.β
βIt can tell when youβre lazy.β
βThat sounds made up.β
βIt absolutely isnβt.β You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. βWe excommunicate people over bad adobo.β He lifts a brow. βThat feels extreme.β
βThatβs because youβre white.β
That gets an honest laugh out of himβwarm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. Itβs not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.
Youβre making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalizedβpersonally offended, evenβwhen he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.
As if this were some ethical failure on his part.
βI canβt believe,β he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, βIβve gone this many years without adobo.β
Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.
Itβs savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebodyβs grandmother should be hereβ¦ and maybe thatβs what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.
You may not always come from the same language. But warmthβsweetnessβthe instinct to feed someone you loveβthat has always been universal.
You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. βTaste.β
He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. βYou feeding me?β
βDonβt make it weird.β
βIβm definitely making it weird.β
βRobby.β
But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, βOh.β
You blink. βWhat?β
He points at the pot. βThat.β A brief pause. βThat is outrageous.β
You roll your eyes. βItβs adobo.β
βNo,β he says, shaking his head like youβre underselling a miracle. βThat is a religious experience.βΒ
You laugh. βThere he goes.β He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, βPatience.βΒ
He looks wounded. βIβm in love.β
βWith the food.β You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. βDidnβt specify.β
Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. βOh, Iβm ruined.β
βYouβre dramatic.β
βThis is what people write poetry over.β
You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.
And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.
A stupidly tender little kiss.
You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he getsβGod. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. βWhat was that for?β
He shrugs. βChefβs kiss.β
You cover your face. βOh, my fucking God.β
He laughs.
Youβre completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetnessβthis is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.
BATHROOM β NIGHT
By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or ratherβyou decide Bowie needs a bath.
Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.
Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. βI just want the record to show,β he says gravely, βI opposed this operation from the start.β
You point at him. βYou literally offered to help.β
βI was misled.β
βYou volunteered.β
βI was coerced.β
Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him.Β Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. βOh my God,β he grunts. βWhy is he so strong?β
βBecause he senses fear.β
βI sense fear.β
You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.
Thereβs soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though heβs being waterboarded.
βThis was your idea,β Robby mutters.
βIt was our idea.β
βNo.β He points. βThis was all on you.β
You snort, and he looks at Bowie. βI trusted you.β
Bowie shakes violently, and itβs a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. βYou are enjoying this way too much.β
βYou look like you lost a fight with a car wash.β
He narrows his eyes. βThis is how you treat a man trying to win you back?β
βOh, you have so much more groveling to do.β
He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, βOkay.β
And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowieβs wet forehead. βIβm sorry they did this to you.β
You wheeze laughing. βThey?β
He nods solemnly. βYouβre management.β
Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.
βNo no noββ
βOh my God, grab him!β
Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.
Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while youβre bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, βIβve had easier trauma codes.β
Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.
Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. βYou okay?β
Your voice comes out smaller than intended. βYeah.β
Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, βIβm really sorry.β
It takes a second to realize he doesnβt mean the dog.
You turn slightly. βWhat?β
His arms donβt leave your waist. βFor hurting you.β
The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.
βI know Iβm joking around and trying to be charming andββ He exhales. βBut I am sorry. Every hour.β
Your chest tightens, but before you can answerβBowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.
Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. βYouβre fluffing him wrong.β
βThereβs a wrong way to fluff a dog?β
βThere absolutely is.β
βYou are ruthless.β
βYouβre welcome.β
And he just looks at you, so openly adoringβyou have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.
LIVING ROOM β NIGHT
Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.
A movie plays that neither of you is watching. Youβve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.
He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.
Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.
Robby doesnβt move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isnβt used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where youβve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. Itβs not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesnβt yet ask.
Something in him stings because he canβt stand imagining you hurting where he wasnβt there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, βWhat happened to you, sweetheart?β
You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.
You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.
For one blissful second, you donβt move, because neither does he. βIβm awake,β he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.Β
You smile against his shirt. βSo am I.β
βIβm sorry.β
You lift your head, snorting, βJesus.β He looks sheepish. βWhat?β
βYou apologize in your sleep, too?β
He laughs, but is serious again, βI mean it.β His hand moves to your hair as he says. βIβm gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.β
You squint. βThat a threat?β
βPromise.β He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.
So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if heβs sixteen. βThese are for you.β
You stare. βYou bought me flowers?β
He clears his throat, nervous. βYeah.β Then, almost formal, βWould you let me take you on a date?β
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, βA real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.β
You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. βDuckyβ¦β He steps closer, with flowers between you. βLet me do this right.β
Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, βYes.β
He blinks. βYeah?β
βYes.β
He exhales like heβd been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, βTomorrow?β
You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. βTomorrow.β
End Notes:
Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?
Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)
Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.
We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.
Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl⦠well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol
We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.
Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)
Lowkeyβ¦ this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didnβt want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.
But for those who want more groveling etcβ¦ donβt worry, we still have HR to deal with lol
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summary: robby reads your suicide note and makes it his personal mission to give you the will to live again. little does he know, that by just being there is enough for you. you think your dad still sucks.
wc: 3.0k
warnings: loss of a patient
a/n: man, reader will not shut up abt being mad at her dad. (says the bitch that's writing it over and over again.) guys i promise there is a purpose to it! it will be worth it. enjoy!
masterlist | previous | next
ΛβΰΏΰ»β β
Robby reads the letter over and over. Waves of heat wash over him as he takes in every word. You sounded exhausted. Defeated in every line. A resignation from life. He blinks back his tears not to get any on the paper. Toward the bottom of the page was his name but he couldn't bring himself to read the paragraph again, not after the first time. He thinks about what he should do. You were in a much more fragile state than he thought.
He hears the shower water cut off and quickly folds up the letter putting it back in your suitcase along with your father's urn. He sets your dirty clothes on top to make it look undisturbed once again. He sits on the bed as you come out of the bathroom, water droplets still on your skin, and a towel wrapped around your body.
"I was thinking we leave the hotel for dinner. Maybe go into town or down by the beach for something." You walk over to your suitcase to look for something to wear.
"Um, sure. Whatever you want to do." He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
"Everything okay?" You cock an eyebrow. Robby doesn't look at you. He can't bring himself to. Not after reading the letter. He's afraid his poker face will break. You put on your underwear and sit beside him, "Hey, what's the matter?" You place your hand on his face to make him face you.
He shakes his head, "It's nothing." He turns to face you and gives you a ginger peck on the lips, his hand covers yours. You scan his face to read it. It is quiet for moment. The sound of the ceiling fan spinning fills the awkwardness. "So dinner?"
"Yes, whenever you're ready." He kisses your forehead and leaves the room for you to continue to get dressed. He was being more intimate with you. As you get dressed you scrub through the day in your mind thinking what could have caused this. It was all playful until you left the shower; the sex, the touching, the flirting, it was all in good fun. After you finish, you come out of the bedroom and the two of you leave the hotel grounds for some dinner.
Robby's grip on your hand is harder than before. His hand encases yours in an iron like hold as if you would slip through his fingers like water. You don't bother with it too much as you get on the shuttle into town. You walk around until you find a beach front restaurant and enter. His hold on you is still strong.
At the restaurant, you order your food with your drinks and wait. The restaurant was beach front with a beautiful view of the water from the patio. You loved looking out to the water and smelling the ocean breeze. Robby admires you in the moonlight with a solemn look. Were you really only going to give him these two weeks to be with you?
You feel his gaze and laugh, "You're going to have to work on the staring when we get back. People will start to talk."
"When we get back? What are you suggesting Dr. Adamson?" He leans his elbows on the table.
"We'll have to find that out together but let's consider this a first date of sorts." You smirk.
"I'd like that." A small smile creeps on his face. He thinks back to the letter for a moment but under your gaze his worry melts away again. You seemed at peace, unlike what the letter had in its contents. Maybe the internal battle in your mind had settled. He takes a deep breath in hopes to push the thought of the letter away.
Your drinks arrive and the waiter informs you the food will be out shortly after. When he walks away you can't help but giggle. "What is it?" Robby asks after taking a sip of his drink.
"I was just thinking about if we had dated when we were younger. What that would have looked like." You take a sip of your drink.
"Your dad would kill me." Robby clears his throat.
"That didn't stop you from liking me."
"Having a crush and dating are two different things. Your dad would have blown his top if he found out about us." He sits back, "But your mom on the other hand. She would have supported it."
"You think so?" You think for a moment. Your mom was a kind soul that gave you the attention that you so desired from your dad. You would vent to her all the time about school and work and your dad and Robby. She just listen and give little tidbits of advise. But you felt she was a hypocrite when it came to Robby. She would agree with you one second then he would show up and be very doting to him. Maybe she saw him in a way you didn't.
"She would ask me about my girlfriends all the time. And when I would say things were going great, she always looked a little disappointed. Like she was hoping I would say the opposite and take you out."
"Yeah right. I would have turned you down. Probably would have thought it was some kind of sick joke or something."
"I would never."
"You were a playboy, Robby. You practically dated every girl in Pitt."
"But you have to know that I would never do that to you." He says in a stern tone. "I cared about you. I still do."
Your cheeks begin to burn as you fight back a grin. "I'm happy to know that now. You made it really hard to hate you."
"You never hated me."
"I wanted to." You laugh, "But even when you were spending time with my dad, I wished to be beside you with him like it was in med school when dad had the patience, and we were allowed to make mistakes." Your smile fades as you reminisce on that time in your past. "Remember when I lost my first patient in my fourth year?" Robby remembers it vividly.
The patient was in kidney failure after neglecting his insulin prescription. He was an older man.that lived alone and was waiting in the waiting room for a few hours. He was not honest with his medical history and so you didn't have a grasp on the severity of his condition until it was too late. You were devastated. It was so simple that you could have helped him.
Tears stream down your face as you look at him on the bed. The nurses work around you cleaning up the space and leaving you alone. Robby comes to check on you noticing you standing stagnant from the window of the door. "Have you notified the family?"
You shake your head, "He has no one." Your voice cracks and you cover your mouth to prevent a sob from following. Tears flow from your eyes down your cheek.
"Hey, take a breath, it's okay. Breathe." Robby pulls you into a hug, "You have to breathe." He feels your hot tears through his scrubs and hears the gasps of air you try to take. After a minute he pulls you off, "This happens. You have to be prepared for it."
"I don't know if I'm cut out for this."
"Of course you are. You wouldn't be here if that were true." He wipes your eyes. His thumb rubs gently along the under side of your eye. "If you don't belong than neither do I. Your dad says so."
"No he doesn't." You scoff.
"Of course he does. He is so proud that are interested in Emergency Medicine."
"Now I know you are lying to make me feel better." You shake your head.
"Okay, I was, I'm sorry." He smiles, "But you did stop crying."
You take a deep breath and look over at the man. "What happens now?"
"Coroner will need to be called and they'll take it from there. No need to worry." He escorts you out of the room.
"I know this will happen often."
"You'll be ready." He nudges you, "It's not a bad thing to get emotional. Just make sure you wipe the tear streaks before seeing another patient."
"You were hopeless the rest of the day." He sighs, "I basically had to babysit you the rest of the day."
You roll your eyes, "You also needed babysitting because you were an intern." You take a big swig of your drink.
"Your dad always said you were the better intern." He chuckles.
"No he didn't." You scoff.
"He did! He told me throughout your intern year."
"I don't believe you." You fold your arms over your chest as you sit back in your chair.
"Listen, we'd go get coffee before work and he would talk about you, earnestly." He says, "He thought you were full of so much potential. He wanted you to explore past the ED. He thought you were better than it."
"You expect me to believe that he thought that highly of me? He didn't want me to be a doctor." You chuckle.
"He didn't want you to be in Emergency Medicine." He defends, "He's seen what it has done to people and he didn't want it to happen to you."
"And let me guess, he told this to you too," You can't help but laugh, "Typical."
Robby just nods throwing his hands up in defense. You felt like you were going insane. Your eye starts to twitch. The image of your father's disappointed face in your mind when you said you chose EM. His furrowed brows when you would present a case. The shame on his face when you'd make a mistake. A slip of emotion from you and he acted like he was not your father.
You finish the rest of your drink in one go as the waiter brings the food to the table. Robby notices the tears in your eyes as you proceed to eat. He sighs sorrowfully, "I didn't mean to make you sad"
"Let's just eat." You clear your throat scooping another fork full of food. Robby nods and picks away at his plate.
After dinner, the two of you walk back to the shuttle. On the bus, you rest your head on Robby's shoulder. You trace the lines in the palm of Robby's hand. He looks at you on his shoulder and sees your lashes are damp. He kisses the top of your head and rests his head on top of yours.
As you walk back to the bungalow you look out to the illuminated water under the moonlight. You then turn to Robby to see he's already looking at you. He gives you a small smile. You don't react instead you grab his arm and hold with both yours.
When you are inside the house you head to backyard to sit outside and look at the ocean. Robby follows after you and stands in the doorway. "How are you feeling?" He whispers.
You take a deep breath before you speak, "I try not to resent my dad but when I hear you talk all I hear is what I should have been hearing a long time ago. I know you were trying to reassure me and I appreciate it. As soon as I rotated into The Pitt he acted like that. And all it did was send me down this path. This path to⦠fuck all." His heart sinks at your last sentence. He chews his bottom listen as he listens, "I go home to a lonely ass apartment. No family. No friends. What did I do to myself? Why did I do this to myself?"
"You wanted to be a good doctorβ"
"I wanted to be a fucking great doctor! I wanted him to tell me he was proud of me! I wanted him to look me in my eyes and tell me what I was doing was right! Was it right?! That I didn't waste 30 years of my life to please my fucking dad!" You stand up from the chair. Tears stream down your face burning hot. You stop for a moment to slow your breathing, "I guess it doesn't matter now; he's dead."
"It does matter because you are alive." He grabs your hand and pulls you into a hug, "I'm sorry he never told you all the things you needed to hear. I'm sorry that he told me instead. I'm so sorry that I never told you what you mean to me. God, you mean everything to me." He feels your tears wet his shoulder as you hold him. He rubs your back gently, "I am so sorry."
You feel hot tears on your skin as the two of you hold each other. Robby pulls away first and wipes your tears off your cheeks. "I forgive you." You wipe his tears away. You kiss him gingerly. "I forgive you for being the son my dad always wanted. I forgive you for all the stupid remarks and the fighting."
"Oh I don't apologize for that." He spins you around and walks you into the house.
"Typical." You sneer. "I'm not sorry either."
"I don't expect you to be. You made my medical journey a thrill ride I didn't want to get off."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. Especially now." He kisses you, hungrily. You moan into the kiss as the two of you stumble through the living room and into your bedroom. Robby blocks your head from hitting the door and ushers you to the bed. You crawl on the duvet and lay your head among the pillows, "I don't really want to do anything tonight, if that's okay."
"That's more than okay." He walks to the opposite side of the bed.
"But I still want to be naked." You turn over to face him, biting your lip.
"That is definitely okay." He begins to undress. You do the same then slide under the duvet. Robby sidles up behind you spooning you. You hold his hands over your chest and lul yourself to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up beside Robby still exhausted from the sadness. You trace over his face with ghost like touches. He twitches at the sensations and opens his eyes with a smile, "Good morning." He mutters.
"Hi." You whisper, "I don't think I want to leave the house today. Or the bed."
Robby nods, "Okay. I can order room service for breakfast." He kisses your forehead. "You deserve a day off from vacation."
"Don't piss me off." You roll back over. Robby sees over your shoulder you're hiding a smile.
"French toast, breakfast sausage, and a coffee." He lists off your order.
"And a parfait. I want something sweet too."
"Whatever you want." He gets up from the bed and puts his underwear back on before going to the living room to call for room service. When he comes back, he leans in to kiss you. You make no effort to meet his lips causing him to lean further over top of you. You hum against his lips and hold his face. You pull away and caress his face gently. A small smile creeps on his face. "What is it?"
"Just enjoying my view. Go ahead." You pat his face and turn over as he heads to the bathroom. Your body relaxes as you hear the sound of the shower turn on. You look at the state of the bed after he left it. The way his body had left an impression in the bed. An outline of wrinkles of where he laid. You smile as you imagine what it would be like in your own bed. You then look at your suitcase and your heart sinks. You weren't planning on going home.
At least in the beginning of this trip you weren't. You felt as though there was no life to continue living. Now, with Robby there was a chance for something to change. Something for you to look forward to at night and in the morning. You lay flat on your back and watch the ceiling fan spin. You sit up and look at your suitcase. Buried underneath your items was a letter. A letter you weren't sure you'd be leaving here in Hawaii or taking back home to Pittsburgh. Your heart sinks as you think of the words on the page.
You get up from the bed and walk over to the suitcase. You move the clothes and the urn then take out the letter. You hadn't read it since you wrote it in the first place. 2 years after your father past away. You had kept it in under your pillow for months. Then you hid it in your desk drawer, then your dresser. You forgot it was there until you started to pack. You tucked it under your father's urn knowing this was the ultimate test. Would letting him go finally set you free?
You rub over the indents in the page. You were holding the pen so hard the words left impressions on the back of the page. The ink even bled through on some words. You take a few deep breaths as you hold the page. You lip quivers as you think about the words. You were so miserable. Nobody could pull you from this hole. Your breath is labored, your grip on the page is tight. You can't bring yourself to look at the ink on the page. You throw it back into your suitcase and put things back the way they once were.
You inhale through your nose and out through your mouth then look out the blue sky and the bluer ocean. Then there's a knock on the door snapping you out of your daze. You get changed in clothes, put a smile on your face and go to open the door for the room service.
ΛβΰΏΰ»β β
thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome!
taglist: @ivy-stuffs @borbalalikesdocs @sarahhxx03 @cosmicneptune (ya'll are in it for the long haul thank you!)
Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will
Summary: Itβs Dr. Michael βRobbyβ Robinavitchβs last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, youβve finally started choosing yourself β therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.
What happens when the person who always stayed⦠stops staying?
Pairing: Dr. Michael βRobbyβ Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader
Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,
Word Count:Β 14.3k
A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. Iβm not a doctor or a nurse. Iβm dyslexic, and English isnβt my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams
Previous Chapter β Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
9:00 P.M.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT β NIGHT
Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.
Thereβs something different in his posture hereβless sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.
βBaranβ¦ is this you?β he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Al-Hashimi doesnβt look away.
βIt began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,β she says evenly. βThey tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.β A small pause. βNo oneβs ever noticed before. They just think Iβm thoughtful.β
Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. βAre you driving?β
βI couldnβt,β she answers. βNot until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.β Her voice stays clinical and practiced. βBetween that and the Keppra, Iβve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicingβeverything.β
He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. βHow long between the seizure you had today and the last one?β
βItβs been well over a year.β She hesitates slightly. βBut I had two today.β Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.
βI donβt know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.β A breath. βI havenβt had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.β
Robbyβs jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.
βWhat are your options now?β he asks.
Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. βUp my Keppra,β she says. βOr try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.β
βAnd if that doesnβt workβ¦β She swallows. βTemporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.β
Robby nods slowly, βYou need to disclose this.β Thereβs no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.
βI know,β she replies. βI have a plan.β
The door cracks open behind them.
βHey, Robby.β Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. βDucky and Dana are looking for you. Theyβre in Peds.β
Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. βYeah. Okay,β he says. βIβll be right there.β
Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. βSounds like youβre needed in Peds,β she says. βAnd I have patients to see.β
There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.
For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heardβ and everything still waiting for him.
Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. βRobbyββ Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. βPregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.β
He doesnβt miss a beat, βFind Abbot or one of the night shift residents.β
By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things heβs carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Pedsβ¦ toward you.
PEDES β NIGHT
Pediatrics feels like a different world. Quieter. Softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.
The lights are still luminousβbut warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.
Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.
Youβre standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small soundβsomething between a sigh and a protestβand you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.
Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous facesβcrossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.
βLook at you,β she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. βCutest patient weβve had all day.β
You donβt notice him at first, but he notices you. Thereβs something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. Itβs not polished or composed. Your hairβs coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tiredβreally tiredβbut still soft in a way that feelsβ¦ lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. Not logically. Not something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.
A future that doesnβt look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything thatβs breaking. A life where your hands still move like thatβgentle, certainβbut not because somethingβs wrong. Because somethingβs yours.
Itβs gone as quickly as it comes.
βWhatβs going on?β he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.
You glance up, but Dana answers first. βOhβfalse alarm,β she says, waving a hand lightly. βWe thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.β
She huffs a laugh. βYou know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.β
Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. βDonβt look at me.β Then, more seriously, he asks,Β βHey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?β
βUh,β Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesnβt want to explain, βbecause I think sheβs tired.β A small shrug. βAnd I donβt want her to make any mistakes.β
Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. βOh, great advice,β she mutters. βMaybe you should take it.β
You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure sheβs settled before stepping back.
βYeah,β Robby says, already moving again. βIβm gonna go get some fresh air.β
Dana snorts. βGrab some for me while youβre out there.β
He doesnβt miss a second. βYour lungs wouldnβt know what to do with it.β
βScrew you!β
Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, βIn front of the baby? Nice.β
Dana scoffs, waving him off. βYeah, yeah.β He turns and leaves. Back toward Centralβ into everything.Β
You watch him go before deciding. βIβll go try and check in with him,β you say, quieter now. βHe also looks tired.β
Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, βGive him a kiss for me while youβre at it.β
You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, βShut up.β But youβre already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.
CENTRAL WORK AREA β NIGHT
You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means heβs pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.
You stop when you realize whatβs happening, and immediately snort. Becauseβoh no. Not this.
Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jackβof course, Jackβtaking it as if you had handed him doctrine.
At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And thenβsomewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.
Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, βWe are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest becauseββ
In unison, βWe are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.β
Jack grins. βThat is right. And tonightβ¦β He gestures around the ED. βThey are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.β
βHooah!β
The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.
Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.
Abbot winces. βSorry to wake you.β
βIβI was thinking,β Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. βDoubt PTX.β
Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, βYouβre supposed to be leaving.β
Robby doesnβt turn, βI am.β
Jack folds his arms. βYou know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.β Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, βEveryoneβs gonna be fine without me. And itβs hardly a spirit quest.β
Jack follows. βWhatever it is, youβve given people the impression you might not be coming back.β
Dana appears beside you, silent. You donβt have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.
Robby says, too casuallyβ βWellβ¦ who knows what the future has in store for any of us?β
Jack exhales sharply, βYeah, saying shit like that isnβt helping.β His voice lowers. βPeople are worried about you.β
Sophie appears from South. βDr. Abbot? The patient in South 21βDigbyβheβs missing again.β
Jack barely looks over, βSounds like a day shift problem.β
Robby deadpans, βNot if he was handed off already.β And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.
You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.
You follow, again.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE β NIGHT
You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. βBest I can do under the circumstances.β
Robby shakes Dukeβs hand,Β βThank you.β Then quieter, βHey. Donβt leave before I get back, yeah?β
Duke smirks, βHell, I feel like I live here now.β He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why youβre lurking here, and protects it.
Jack nods toward the bike, βYour friend fixing it?β
βAmbulance clipped it while it was parked here today.β
Jack stares. βJesus Christ. Thatβs a sign if Iβve ever seen one.β
Robbyβs face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. βHereβs the thing.β He steps closer. βWhen people worry about youβ¦β His voice softens. ββ¦it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I donβt like worrying about things.β
Robby scoffs, βOoh. Now youβre a shrink?β
Jack doesnβt bite, βNo. Iβm trying to be your friend.β A pause. βYou gotβ you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.β
His eyes sharpen. βAnd Duckyββ he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you standβ ββthinks youβre withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.β
Robbyβs jaw tightens. βDanaβs got her own issues. So does Ducky.β
Jack lifts a brow, βThat sounds like projection.β
And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. βAre you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?β He gestures at him. βIβm not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.β
Then, mockinglyβ βHooah.β
Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it werenβt so bad.
Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. βHey, Dr. Robby!β Medic Nguyen is already unloading. βThis is Judith Lastradeβthirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.β
Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. βJudith, Iβm Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?β
Robbyβs fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. βPitting edema with severe preeclampsia.β He looks up sharply. βWhere are you doing prenatal care?β
The woman grimaces, βNowhere.β A breath. βItβs a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.β
Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.
Oh no.
You choose that exact moment to step through the doorsβ making a show of only just arriving. βOhβwhatβve we got?β As if you werenβt just listening to them tear at each other outside.
As if your heart isnβt still pounding, like you didnβt hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.
TRAUMA ONE β NIGHT
Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always areβtoo white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.
Youβre helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know youβre pushing too hard. βYou sure you wanna get in on this?β he asks. βYouβre going on hour fifteen.β
Thereβs concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like itβs nothing. βBridget texted me. Sheβll be here soon.β You secure the belts over Judithβs abdomen, hands steady. βIβll help with this and then go home.β
You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, βCTG is on.β
Judith turns her head weakly toward you. βCTG?β
At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, βCardiotocography.β His hand gestures toward the machine. βMeasures the babyβs heart rate and checks for contractions.β
Jack glances at the screen, βFetal heart rate 128.β He looks toward Nazely. βNormal range?β
Nazely answers immediately, β110 to 160.β
Judithβs eyes dart, βSo the babyβs okay?β
Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, βRight now, yes.β He nods toward the tracing. βOne twenty-eight is reassuring.β
Mateo calls out from the pump. βBP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.β Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.
Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.
It catches in your chest. But thenβ Jackβs voice pulls him back. βYour next move, Crus?β
βTwenty of labetalol,β Crus says. βIV push over two minutes.β
Judith looks panicked now. βWhatβs happening?β Nazely steps closer. βYou have a condition called preeclampsia.β
Judith blinks rapidly. βAnd how did it happen?β
Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. βUhβ¦β A breath. βNobody really knows, actually.β He gestures gently. βIt affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.β
Judith looks stricken. βOkay, wellβ¦ itβs a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.βΒ
Robbyβs head tilts, something almost incredulous. βThen why are you here?β
Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, βI just need to get rid of this headache.β
Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.
You take this.Β
I know.
Jack steps in, gentler. βWellβ¦ if we donβt lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesiumβ¦β He chooses his words carefully. βThere can be problems.β
Judith whispers, βLike what?β
Crus doesnβt sugarcoat, βSeizures, bleeding, even death.β He glances at her belly. βFor you and the baby.β
Her face crumples, βOh my God.β
The door swings open, and Dana is there, βRobbyβyour VIPβs ready to go.β
Robby nods, βOk, I'll be right there.β Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. βYou good?β
Jack nods, βYeah, Iβm good.β A crooked grin. βI got it. With my eyes closed. But I wonβt.β He shrugs. βMaybe one eye.β He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but thereβs warmth in it.
Then Jack turns. βHeyββ To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robbyβs already gone, out the door as if he couldnβt stand still another second.
And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you canβt quite name, only recognize.
TRAUMA ONE β NIGHT
Youβre adjusting Judithβs tubing, checking the IV line hasnβt infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. βHowβs the headache?β
Judithβs face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. βStill a ten.β Crus looks up from the medication tray. βMore fentanyl?β
Jack is near the glass doors, though heβs only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didnβt just disappear into the night, again.
βYep,β Jack says absently.
Crus nods, βBPβs good. Another fifty.β He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesnβt relax.
βHey, Abbot.β
Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. βAttending and resident are stuck in the OR.β
Jack gives a crooked grin. βOh, youβre the next best thing.β Sam arches a brow. βBetter, some would say.β
Jack hums. βMm.β Thereβs affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. βWhat do you got?β
Nazely answers quickly. βThis is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.β
Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. βSome jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.β
She immediately panics, βNo, no, no.β Judith recoils. βUltrasound can harm the baby.β
Jack answers before anyone else can. βNot true.β Crus, already uncapping gel, βNot doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.β Judithβs breath catches. Then, smaller, βOkay. Just do it as fast as you can.β
Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.
Sam watches the image. βWhy no prenatal care, Judith?β
Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.βI wanted a free birth.β She says it like a creed. βNo doctors. No hospital. No medicine.β
Jack lifts a brow. βYou have a midwife? A birth doula?β
βNo. I donβt need one.β She says it almost stubbornly. βWomen have been having children on their own for thousands of years.β
Jackβs mouth tilts, dry as ever. βYeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.β
The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. βFemur length seven centimeters.βΒ
Sam watches the image. βThirty-seven weeks.β She glances at Jack. βTheyβll probably induce.β
Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. βWhat?β Her fear sharpens. βNo. No, no, no, no.β Head shaking. βAbsolutely not.β
Jack steps closer, at eye level now. βAt thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.β His voice lowers. βWe need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.β
Judith looks horrified. βNo. No, no.β Her hands clutch the sheet. βMm-mm.β
Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe youβll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when heβs thinking three things at once.Β
Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your motherβs hand around yours. Or maybe a memory youβve spent years trying not to touch.
TRAUMA ONE β NIGHT
Youβre at Judithβs side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. βBPβs 164 over 114.β
Jack doesnβt hesitate. βAnother forty of labetalol.β And Crus is already moving. βMag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.β
Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. βLabs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.β
Jack looks over, and thereβs instant recognition. βHELLP syndrome.β
Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,βHemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.β
Sam is already on the phone with OB. βTheyβre cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.β
Jack leans toward Judith, βHow you doing, Judith?β
Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. βIβIββ
Nazely sees it first, βOhβsheβs seizing.β Judithβs body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.
βShit.β Jack moves instantly. βTen of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.β
Youβre already protecting Judithβs head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.
Sam stares at the tracing, βWith all the movement, we canβt get a fetal heartbeat.β
Crus reaches for oxygen. βPutting on fifteen liters by mask.β
The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. βShould we intubate?β
Jack shakes his head, βHold intubation. Letβs try to break this. We donβt want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.β His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. βCrus, CTG isnβt reading. Check with ultrasound.β
βOn it.β
Jack doesnβt miss a beat. βNazelyβwhatβs the diagnosis?β Heβs still teaching even now.Β
Nazely swallows, βWith the seizureβ¦ Now itβs eclampsia.β
Jack gives one hard nod.
Crus studies the ultrasound, βFetal heart rate about ninety.β Samβs face drops at that, βWay too low.β Another layer of emergency.
Mateo checks pulse ox, βMomβs sats are going down.β
The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. βTime to tube her?β
Jackβs jaw tightens, βSet up for itβbut wait.β
Heβs still trying to buy her one more chance, βOne more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.β
Judithβs breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.
You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. βPulse ox is eighty-eight.β
Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. βDr. Abbot? Intubate?β
Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then heβs reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. βLetβs do it.β
He turns to Nazely, βNazelyβwhat do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?β
She answers quickly, nerves showing, βEtomidate and roc.β
Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. βMm. Not quite.β He reaches for the airway tray. βOne-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.β
He looks toward Crus, βWhy is that?β
Crus doesnβt miss it, βPropofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.β
Jack agrees. βExactly.β
Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.
Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isnβt. You announce, βPushing the propofol.β
White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.
Sam is already repositioning, βOnce sheβs flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.β
Jack gestures to Nazely, βThatβs you.β He motions with both arms. βBig hug. Both arms.β
Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judithβs gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.
Jack nods. βGet the baby off the vena cava.β
Mateo glances at the meds, βSux is on board.β Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.
Nazely, still thinking aloud, βBut after sheβs paralyzed, the seizing stopsβ¦ right?β
Jack is checking laryngoscope light, βIt might look like that.β He looks at her. βBut an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.β
Nazely blinks, βIs there time for that?β Jackβs mouth pulls to one side. βWait and see.β
Judithβs jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, βParalytics kicked in.β
Crus steps in, βLetβs go.β
The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. βIntubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.β Then his voice lowers. βI need first-pass success.β
Crus replies aptly, βYou and me both.β
The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judithβs chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.Β
Crus studies the screen. βGood lung sliding bilaterally.β
Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, βFetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.β
Jack doesnβt even look up. βRoll her to the left again. That can help.β
Mateoβs already at the rail. βOne, two, three.β On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.
Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. βOkay.β A glance to the monitor. βAll set here.β
Mateo checks the hookup. βEEG monitorβs good to go.β
Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. βThat was fast.β
Jack doesnβt answer; heβs already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. βStill seizing while paralyzed. Itβs nonconvulsive status.β
The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether theyβre needed.
Shen comes straight in. βWhatβs she had so far?β
Jack rattles it off from memory. βThirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.β
Ellis exhales. βDamn.β She looks at him. βWhatβs your next step?β
Jack turns. βAny ideas? Hmm? Nazely?β He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. βDilantin? Valproate?β
Jack tilts his head. βMm.β Not dismissive, but thinking. βInfusionβs too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. Thatβs had results with refractory status.β
Crus adds, still watching labs.βShe also has HELLP syndromeβhemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.β
Shen already pivoting. βTwo units whole blood?β
Jack doesnβt falter, βO-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.β You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.
Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, βUh, put the AP pads on, just in case.β
Jack nods. βAnd ten of Decadron IV push.β His eyes never leave Judith. βFor the inflammatory storm.β
You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.
Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. βFetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.β
A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, βLittle better.β
Shen mutters, βYeah. She should be upstairs with OB.β
Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. βShe will be.β A beat. βAfter we break this seizure.β
The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. βThereβs been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.β
Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. βOB says send her up. They have an OR ready.β
Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, βAbout time.β But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.
He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.
Samβs voice cuts through. βBabyβs been bradying down a bit more.β
Robby takes in the room in one sweep, βThis one looks like it took a turn for the worse.β
Jack doesnβt look away from the monitors. βEclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.β
Shen mutters darkly, βAbout as bad as it gets.β And thenβan alarm screams. Samβs head snaps up. βV-fib.β
Jackβs voice cracks through it, βChest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.β Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robbyβs already moving, βPrep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.β Commands flying like sparks.
Mateo at the defib. βCharged. Clear.β
Shock, and Judithβs body jolts. Shen says, βContinue compressions. Weβll check rhythm in a minute.β
Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. βGown up.β Then he turns to his best friend, βRobby, itβs you and me.β
Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.
Another nurse masks Jack.
The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.
Mother.
Baby.
Both slipping.
Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. βWhatβs the four-minute rule?β
Nazely, breathlessββUhβ¦ not sure.β
Crus answers over the chaos. βPregnant patient with a viable fetusβfour minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.β
Jack corrects gently but firmly, βAnd the mom. We donβt call it a postmortem C-section anymore. Itβs a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.β
Nazely, horrified, βBut she doesnβt want medical interventionββ
Robby cuts in. βThat doesnβt matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.β He looks to the monitor. βCharge to two hundred.β
βOne more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.β He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.
Come now.
Now.
βEllis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.β
Crus checks. And sheβs still V-fib. Mateo announces, βClear.β Shock.
Ellis scans Judith and sighs, βNo change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.β
Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. βOkay, showtime.β And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.
You secure Robbyβs mask from behind. Another nurse does Jackβs.
Jackβs voice low, urgent. βWe need to get this baby out right now.β
Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her,Β βTake a break.β
Robby holds out his hand. βTen blade.β You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.
And as he cutsβhe teaches. βFirst incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysisβ¦β Steel through skin. ββ¦through skin to linea alba.β
Thereβs blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. βUnits three and four running.β
Robby deeper now, βSecond incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.β
McKay rushes in. βWhere do you need me?β Shen replies, βYouβre with the baby. Nazely bags. Youβre on suction. Stand by for intubation.β
Sam begins, βBladder retractors.β
Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, βNeonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.β
Jack leans in, βEllis, gentle traction.β Small vertical uterine incision. βOkay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.
Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.
Jack looks to Robby.
βGot it?β
Robby doesnβt look up.
βYep. I got it.β
βOkay.β
His gloved hands are steady despite everything.
βUsing scissors to extend superiorly.β
Metal slides.
Tissue parts.
Blood glistens under the trauma lights.
Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.
βEllis, hand retract the uterus with me.β
Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, βAmniotic fluid looks good.β
Robby shifts, βGive me some fundal pressure.β Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, βBreech position.β
A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robbyβs voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. βBabyβs out.β Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. βItβs a girl.β
And suddenly there she isβ wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robbyβs hands. Fragile as a held breath.
Jack works fast, βMilking the cord.β
SamββClamping.β
Jack nods, βCutting.β And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. βOkay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.β A quick glance. βYou ready?β
And thenββYeah. You got her.β
At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. βI got it, yep.β His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. βPoor tone. No movement.β
McKay steps closer, βKeep the blow-by closer.β Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. βSheβs really blue.β
McKay doesnβt sugarcoat it. βSome blue is normal. But not this much.β Nazelyβs fear slips out, βDo we need to intubate?β
Shen shakes his head. βNot yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.β
At Judithβs bedsideβRobby keeps moving, no room to stop. βOkay, removing the placenta.β
Jackβs hand sweeps. βSweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.β
Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, βLooks intact.β
You nod. βIt does.β
Robby, breath tightββYeah.β
Sam murmurs, βNicely done.β
As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, βTen IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.β Ellis already massaging the fundus. βAnd lots of massage.β Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.
At the warmer, Sophie calls out, βHeart rate seventy-six.β Shen moves, βLess than a hundred means we bag.β
βSuction first.β
McKay, βOkay.β
Back at the bed, Robby doesnβt even turn. βHey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.β Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.
McKay, breathless, says, βShe grimaced.β Her voice lifts. βGood sign.β While Shen starts ventilation. βBagging.β
Sophie communicates to the other doctors, βPulse ox forty-five.β Nazely nearly chokes. βIβve never seen it that low.β
Shen doesnβt panic. βItβs not as bad as it sounds. Iβm more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.β
βOkay.β
Crus remarks, βRhythm check.β
βHold compressions.β
Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, βStill V-fib.β Jaw tight. βOkay. Shock it.β
Jack asserts procedure,Β βClear.β The shock lands. βResume compressions.β Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, βShen, howβs she doing over there?β And Shen answers, βHeart rateβs up to one-oh-four.β
McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. βUh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.β She looks up. βAPGAR of five.β
Jack doesnβt waver, still working on the mom. βFive out of ten. Not great.β
Sophie reads off the device, βPulse ox fifty-eight.β
Nazely asks, βIntubation?β But Shen shakes his head. βUh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.β McKay watches the monitor, βHer heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.β
And ShenβGod bless himβactually smiles. βLetβs keep doing what weβre doing. A little tincture of time.β
Back on JudithβRobby commands, βHold compressions.β Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, βLooks like sinus.β
You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. βCanβt feel a carotid.β
Jack shakes his head, βNo.β
Crus reads what everyone fears. βHeartβs barely pumping. Itβs PEA.β
Jack gives directions, βBack on compressions.β And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, βTwo more units. She needs red cells and platelets.β
Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. βOngoing blood loss from uterus.β Then to youβ βGive me all the lap pads weβve got.β
You hand over two thick batches. And watchβalmost disbelievingβas Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.
Tryingβagainβto keep death from taking what it came for.
Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.
Crus glances at the rapid infuser. βUnits five and six are in.β Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.
Ellis has both hands still working at Judithβs abdomen, pressure steady. βDown to a slow ooze here.β
Jack watches the monitor. βHold compressions.β
Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.
βLooks like sinusβ¦β You press harder. βAnd I got a weak carotid.β
Robby turns so fast itβs almost a snap. βOkay.β His voice rough, βCycle the BP.β Crus watches the echo. βBetter filling. Better squeeze.β
Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. βNo seizure activity.β
Robby nods, as if heβs afraid to trust it, βThatβs progress.β A breath, then again, softer. βThatβs progress.β As if saying it twice might make it true.
At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, βWeβre at five minutes.β
McKay reading monitors. βHeart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.β She glances at Nazely. βThe APGAR?β
Nazely, breathless and trying to think, βOne off for colorβ¦ One off for toneβ¦ One off respiration with hypoxiaβ¦β She looks up. βTotal of seven.β
McKay corrects automatically. βRespiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.βΒ Shen nods, βSat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no cryingβ¦β He glances at the baby. βShe still gets one off.β
Nazely, absorbing it, βYeah.βΒ
And thenβit happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Thenβa cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadnβt realized how tightly youβd been holding your breath until it came out shaking.
Because of all the sounds this hospital makesβalarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.
McKay laughs, actually laughs. βAh!β She grins. βShe just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.β
Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasnβt sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.
Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurtsβ βHoly shit. What did I miss?β
Jack, deadpan even now, βEclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.β
Pettyfer blinks. βI was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.β
Jack shrugs, βShit happens fast down here.β Crus, almost proud despite himself, βResuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.β Pettyfer stares. βImpressive.β
Understatement of the century.
You check the pressure, βBP one-oh-two over sixty-four.β A pause. βHemoglobin up to nine.β
Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.
He steps aside, removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent. He moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of hisββThatβll do.β
Heβs a man pretending this didnβt just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.
βNICUβs sending a team down,β Mateo says.
Pettyfer nods.βWe can take Mom.β
Then, looking around the roomβblood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, βYou guys are rock stars.β
Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. βWe like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.β
A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, thereβs room for stupid jokes. Maybe thatβs survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.
CENTRAL WORK AREA β NIGHT
Life in motion as if a woman hadnβt nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadnβt been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.
Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.
He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasnβt realized the crisis is over.
βIf youβre not careful,β he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, βyouβre gonna get stuck here all night.β
Dana is sorting forms, βNah. Henny said sheβd be here in thirty minutes.β Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, βHowβs Mom and baby?β
For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. βWhew.β A breath of relief dressed up as a word. βTheyβre both gonna go upstairs.β
Danaβs shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. βGood.β And quieterβgenuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. βYou leaving now?β
Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesnβt really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. βYeah. Pretty soon.β The list starts, βI gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.β He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. βI gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in thereβ¦ And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.β
All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.
Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That heβll keep finding reasons not to walk out. βYou missed Langdon. He just checked out.β
Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. βShit.β
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE β NIGHT
The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.
Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitakerβs hand. βMy cell phone,β he says, tapping the paper. βAnd the building managerβs. He can help if thereβs any emergencies.β
Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. βYeahβ¦β he says, squinting. βWhat kind of emergencies?β
Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. βWhatever.β Then, almost as an afterthoughtβ βAnd follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?β
Whitaker nods quickly. βYeah.β Itβs quiet for a moment.Β Then more carefullyββYou, umβ¦β He hesitates. βYou sure about this?β
Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, heβs spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. βI trust you, Whitaker.β
Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. βGreat,β he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.
Robby half-smiles. βAny questions?β
Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, βUhβ¦ when are you back, exactly?β
Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. βYou knowβ¦ Iβll text you. Iβm trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.β
Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. βI think this is your ride.β
Whitaker turns. βYeahβuh, yes.β Then, earnestly all over again,Β βI promise Iβll check in on your house tomorrow.β
βSounds good.β
A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesnβt quite know how to say goodbye. ThenββHey.β The driverβs door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.
βHey.β Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. βOkayβ¦β He sets down his backpack. βHey, Theo. Youβre up late, huh? What you got there?β
Amy buckles in. βHeβs been fussy all day. I think heβs got another tooth coming in.β
Whitaker lights up, βAww.β He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. βRight on, big guy. Ready to get funky?β He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.
Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone elseβs windshield, then itβs gone.
Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.
Robby glances over. βHey.β
She looks up. βHey.β
He nods toward the phone. βAny luck picking an elective?β
She exhales, βDonβt know. Maybe Iβll go into geriatrics.β
He gives a small approving hum, βItβs a smart choice.β Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, βI know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesnβt work out the way you expected.β
Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasnβt said it aloud before. βI thought Iβd be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.β A ghost of a smile. βWeβd play hockey on it in the winter.β
He laughs once through his nose. βAnd yetβ¦β He gestures to himself. βLook at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.β
Samira says softlyββItβs never too late.β And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.
Robby looks at her. βDo you really believe that?β
βYeah.β She means it. He studies her. ThenββOnly for meβ¦ or for you too?β
Samira huffs a little, caught. βOkay.β A tiny smile. βI see what you did there. Was that trueβ¦ Or something you just said to make a point?β
Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.
The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. βHave you worked things out with your mom?β
Samiraβs face closes some. βWeβre not talking.β Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. βI am sorryβ¦ that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.β She swallows, and then, with more feeling, βHave a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.β
A tiny beat, before she adds, βEven if you can be a dick sometimes.β It startles a small laugh out of him.
βGood luck.β
Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, βYou too.β
He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when theyβre watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.
CENTRAL WORK AREA β NIGHT
Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.
Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, βCome on,β when the system lags.
Thereβs something oddly soothing about it.
You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. βHey, I didnβt think you were still here.β Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, heβs stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tiredβ more than tired. Frayed. βI was just talking to the neurologist on call.β
Robby studies her, βAnd?β
βWe had a nice chat,β she says. βShe agrees I can work with double coverage.β Something in Robbyβs face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robbyβs voice lowers, too controlled. βThatβs not her call to make. You canβt do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.β
Al-Hashimiβs jaw sets. βI agree.β But already theyβre moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.
βBut ninety percent of our patients donβt require critical procedures,β Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. βAnd the ones that do?β
She folds her arms, βTheyβll be handled by whoeverβs working with me.β
βUnless theyβre tied up with a critical patient.β He steps closer, βWhat if it's a double or triple trauma?β
βRobby,β she says through her teeth, βI can handle it.β
βNo.β Sharp, and immediate. βYou canβt. And I canβt let you.β
Her voice rises. βI am fully capable of handlingββ
βNo, you are not fully capable, and you know it.β
Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.
While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. βYouβre okay.β
You blink hard, then swallow. βWhatβs going on?β Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. βWhoβs shouting?β
Jack glances past his monitor. βRobby and Al are going at it in Central Six.β You both look. Through the glassβthey are inches from a screaming match.
βWhat do you want from me?β Al-Hashimi demands.
Robby doesnβt soften. βI want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.β
Her anger flashes, βI am cleared for my driverβs license.β
βYou shouldnβt be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, weβd have to report you.β
She explodes, βI am not your fucking patient.β
The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. βNoβbut I cannot let you work in my emergency department until youβre fully capable.β
βThat is not your fucking call!β
Then he shoutsβvoice echoing off glassββYouβre fucking-A right itβs my call!β Robby points toward the floor. βI'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.β
Al-Hashimiβs face scrunches up in anger. βOh, βmy department,β βmy patients.ββ A bitter laugh. βAll you fucking think about is yourself. You didnβt rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.β
Robby doesnβt flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. βNo. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.β His voice is sure now. βAnd the same goes for you.β
He points toward her, βYouβve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.β
The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.Β
Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. βReady to watch the fireworks?β
The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasnβt already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. βCan you make sure Robbyβ¦β You donβt finish, because donβt have to.
Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. βI got him.β Then softerβ βYou go enjoy the fireworks, okay?β He tilts his head toward you. βAnd let me know if you getβ¦β
He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.
You nod, βI will.β
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; itβs warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, βTry to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.β
You huff a laugh despite yourself. βImpossible.β
A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.
CENTRAL WORK AREA β NIGHT
Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. βWhereβs Dana?β A pause. βAnd Ducky?β
Vivi looks up from a chart sheβs flagging. βNot sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.β She tips her head. βYou want me to call her?β
Robby hesitates; thereβs a flicker there. βNo,β he says quietly. βThatβs okay.β He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.
Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.
Jack breaks the silence first. βYo.β
Robby glances over.
βThanks for your help in there.β A moment passes.Β βAlmost out?β
βYep,β Robby says, and without looking at him, βIs this where you try to talk me out of going?β
Jack scoffs. βMe?β He shakes his head. βNo, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?β
Robby pretends not to falter, βNope.β
Jack lifts a brow, βNo?β
βNope.β
Jack hums. βDonβt have to convince me.β But then, deadpan, he adds, βI meanβ¦ it is a little strange the only place youβve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.β
Robby exhales through his nose, βHere it comes.β
Jack looks at him pointedly, βI looked it up.Β As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.β He gestures. βWhatβs in the fucking gift shop, man?β
That gets the ghost of a smile, βItβs just one place Iβm going.β
Jack shrugs, βAs long as itβs not the last. Donβt be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.β
Robby shakes his head, βI am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.β He glances over. βWhenβs the last time you took any time off, Jack?β
Jack huffs. βYeah, but Iβve dealt with my demons.β A pause ensued. βItβs a process.β
They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.
Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, βYou want to know why I never killed myself?β That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.
Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. βAfter what I sawβ¦β He swallows. βWhat I lived throughβ¦β His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. βLosing my leg.β His voice nearly falters. βLosing my wife.β
He clears his throat, starts again. βBecause it comes for all of us, man.β His eyes lock onto Robbyβs. βYou and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we canβt let ourselves succumb to it.β His voice roughens. βYes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.β Softer, he adds,Β βBut itβs also beautiful. And hilarious.β
A breath. βThat woman today? Her baby? Theyβd both be in the morgue if you hadnβt been here.β He points between them. βThatβs us. Thatβs you and me. Thatβs what weβre here for.β
Robby nods once, but heβs already breaking. His throat works before words come. βThe most important things Iβve ever done in my lifeβ¦β He struggles. ββ¦have been in this hospital.β
His voice cracks. βNothing will ever matter more.β A long breath. βBut it is killing me.β
Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because thatβs what this is, a confession. Robbyβs eyes shine. βYou know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?β He laughs bitterly. βIβm not convinced a part of you doesnβt die every time you watch another human being pass.β
His face pinches. βAnd Iβve seen so many people dieβ¦β He shakes his head. ββ¦I feel like itβs leaching something out of my soul.β
His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward,Β βGo on a cruise, man.β The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. βKnock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. Thatβs death-wish behavior.β
And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. βIβm tired.β He wipes at his face and it does nothing. βIβm tired of being a role model. Iβm tired of feeling like you canβt get ahead. Iβm tired of feeling like Iβm drowning every day.β His voice breaks entirely. βIβm tired of all of it.β
Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. βYou need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.β He points to the floor.Β
Robbyβs tears donβt stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, βAm I fucked up?β
Jack nods once, immediately. βHundred percent.β And then gentler, βBut nobody works here as long as you and me and doesnβt get screwed up.β The moment stretched. βYou gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.β
Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. βDid you just make that up?β
Jack squints, βMaybe itβs a song lyric β¦Maybe my therapist said it.β He shrugs. βI donβt know.β Then he truly studies him. βAndβ¦β He tips his head. βYou already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.β
Robby knows immediately who he means.
You.
His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.
Jack snorts. βOr as she would say itβ Waddle through the darkness.β That almost gets a real laugh.
Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. βSome dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.β And sheβs gone.
Jack spreads his arms. βHow can you not love this place?β
Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robbyβs shoulderβ βDonβt make me look stupid.β A squeeze. βYou come back to us in one piece.β
He pulls back, points. βIβm still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.β
Robby laughs through tears.
Jack backs toward the door. βAll right, night crawlers,β he calls as he exits into the noiseβ βWhat the hellβs going on out here?β Voices answer, and Medics shout report. βTwenty-five-year-old maleβno meds, no allergiesββ
Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff roomβ looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.
PTMC, ROOFTOP β NIGHT
The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.
Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumpsβnurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like itβs a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.
For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.
Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.
The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. Thereβs music drifting from somewhere belowβfaint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebodyβs rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.
You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overheadβ and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.
Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.
Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.
Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.
Because Robby said what if I donβt come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.
Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And becauseβ God. You donβt know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize theyβre there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.
You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these peopleβthis impossible, messy, beautiful crewβthis would be how youβd remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.
Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. Sheβs tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.Β
Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overheadβwhite sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlahβs hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.
You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. Theyβve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.
And hereβfor this impossible little pauseβyou are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.
HALLWAY β NIGHT
Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though heβs tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.
For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, βHey.β
Langdon lifts his chin. βHey.β
Robby then stops, βI thought youβd left already.β
βOn my way out.β His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.
Robby shifts his weight. βHeyβ¦β He exhales. βIβm sorry I didnβt find the time today to have that conversation.β
Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. βYeah. Thatβs all right.β Seems like you didnβt really want to.β
Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. βUhβ¦ yeah.β He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. βLook, Iβm doing the work.β His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. βIβve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. Iβm going to meetings. Iβm taking the drug tests.β
Robby nods once, βThatβs good.β
βAnd youβre still riding me.β Thereβs hurt in it now, old hurt. βWhat would have happened if Iβd paralyzed that guy?β
Robbyβs jaw works; he doesnβt dodge. βI donβt know. What wouldβve happened if I hadnβt been here today?β He presses on. βYouβd still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.β Dry as acid, he tacks on,Β βYouβre welcome.β
Langdon stares at him. βOh. So thatβs how you teach now?β
Robby shrugs. βSometimes.β There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyoneβs been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. βYou know who I saw in rehab?β
Robby doesnβt answer.
βA bunch of guys just like you. The only differenceβ¦ Theyβve accepted they need help.β
Robbyβs expression tightens, but Langdon doesnβt stop. βI think youβre afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isnβt perfect.β
Robby almost scoffs. βOh, I never claimed to be perfect.β
βNo,β Langdon says. βBut you expect it of yourself. Itβs not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standardsβ¦ if you canβt even do it?β Then, softerβalmost pleading, βYou need help, Robby. You need help.β
And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when youβre exhausted enough.
From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. βFinished?β
Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. βYou donβt gotta be honest with me, man.β A pause. βAt least be honest with yourself.β
Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesnβt look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights. Still. Holding too much.
For a second, he doesnβt move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edgesβhurt. Because some truths only sting when theyβre true.
The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of courseβ thatβs what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and thereβs something almost unbearably tender in itβ that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma baysβhe still goes when someone cries.
As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdonβs words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.
PEDES β NIGHT
Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.
And Tim smiles back.
βSheβs due for a new bottle,β Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. βI was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.β
Robby nods. βIβll stay with her.β
Tim looks relieved. βThanks.β He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, βWhy are youββ then corrects himself. βWill you hit those lights on your way out?β
βYep.β Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.
The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, βWhy are you crying?β His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. βWhy are you crying, little one?β
He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck. Let it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.
He leans in. βYouβre okay.β A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. βYouβre safe.β He gathers the blanket. βYeahβ¦ Youβre not alone.β His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. βDo you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?β
A crooked little smile, βI can do that.β He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. βAww.β He exhales softly. βI wish somebody would swaddle me.β
A broken joke, half true. βYes, I do.β He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. βYou got off to kind of a rough start, didnβt you, little one?β
You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.
Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. βYeah, you did.β A breath catches. βWellβ¦ That makes two of us.β
Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. βI got abandoned too.β His eyes close. βWhen I was eight. But I got through all that.β A tear slips down his face. βAnd so will you.β
His thumb strokes the babyβs back. βI got a good feelingβ¦ youβre gonna be just fine.β His voice trembles. βEverythingβs gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.β
He repeats it like heβs trying to convince himself too. βSo many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. Itβs okay. Itβs gonna be okay.β
And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.
When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.
He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, itβs you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.
Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softlyβalmost without thinkingβyou sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.
You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you thinkβthis might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.
After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.
The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe.Β Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.
Home.
He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and canβt unsee it. He clears his throat, βSoβ¦βΒ
You look at him.
βYou want to have that talk?β
You whisper. βIn front of the baby?β
His mouth lifts. βWellβ¦β He nods toward her sleeping. βShe seems pretty content.β Then lightlyββYou could foster her for a bit. Take her home.β
You smile sadly.
βI donβt think Iβm ready to be a mom yet.β A pause. Then truerββMaybe one dayβ¦ If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partnerβ¦β Your thumb strokes the babyβs hand. βIβd want that. But I wouldnβt want to do it alone.β
Something catches in his face. βYeah,β he says, quietly. βMe too.β
Thereβs a full silence. Then, you ask, βStill going on that road trip?β He exhales. βNot sure.β A little shrug. βMight take Abbotβs advice. Go on a cruise instead.β
βThat sounds nice,β you say. βIβve always loved the ocean.β
He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, βWanna come with me?β It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. βYou donβt mean that.β
βI do.β
You shake your head, βI donβt get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.β
He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. βI heard what you told Duke.β His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. βEveryone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.β
You swallow. βSometimes people say they donβt want to be here anymoreβ¦when what they really mean isβ¦ I donβt know how to stop hurting like this.β
His eyes gloss, and yours do too.Β
You lean closer. βDepressionβ¦β You search. ββ¦itβs weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.β A brief pause ensued before you continued, βI donβt want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.β
You shake your head. βI want to stand in the rain with you. If it poursβ¦ Then we get drenched together.β
His breath catches while you touch his face. βThere are times you need somebody elseβs help. That isnβt failure. Thatβs being alive. And timeβ¦β You smile sadly. βTime matters. But how you use it matters more.β He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.
βIβm far from healing,β he admits, almost ashamed. βI know.β You answer immediately. βAnd Iβm not asking you to be finished. Justβ¦ come back.β
His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, βIβm scared.β
It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.
You kiss his temple, βI know. Iβm scared too.β A beat. βBut isnβt that the point? It means youβre alive.β
The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward lifeβyou realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.
AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE β NIGHT
Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distanceβfaint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.
Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.Β
You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. βWhatβre you doing?β he asks.
You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. βI know you didnβt want a cake, or a party, or whateverβ¦β You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. βSo I got you this instead.β
He blinks, actually surprised. βFor me?β
You nod.
His mouth twitches as he asks, βCan I?β
A soft laugh escapes you, βYeah. Open it.β
He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, itβs the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.
βIt helps,β you say quietly. βWithβ¦ everything.β You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. βI donβt care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you donβt know how to say.β
His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.
You swallow and add, softer, βIf you finish all the pagesβ¦ Thereβs something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.β
He studies you, βAt the end?β
You nod, βOne last page.β
A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. βPromise me you wonβt read it until you fill the whole thing.β
His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. βOkay. I promise.β His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.Β
βOne more thing.βΒ
He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, βKeep it with you.β
He looks confused, βThe box?β
βThe journal. All of it. Donβt leave it behind.β
His brow furrows; thereβs concern there now. βWhy?β
You shake your head. βI canβt explain right now. Just promise.β
He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. βI promise.β He adds, gentler, βNot gonna tell me?β
You almost smile, βGotta write in that thing to find out.βΒ
That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. βYouβre unbelievable.β
βIβve been told.β
Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasnβt even started yet and already your chest aches.
βIβll call,β he says.
You are trying so hard not to cry, βOkay.β
His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. βIβll see you soon, Ducky.β
Your throat tightens. βOkay.β You nod once. Thenβ βMichael, Iββ
He pauses, helmet visor still up. βYeah?βΒ
And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.
You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back. That you are terrified if you tell him now, heβll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.
The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. βIβll be here when you get back.β
Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.
You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then⦠eventually, gone.
You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesnβt, thereβs only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.
A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. βGoodbye, Michael Robinavitch.β
The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.
Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking handsβto let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.
You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.
Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of thatβyou have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.
Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.
βHi?β Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.
Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. βHi, Ate.β A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. βIβll be there in November.β
Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, βReally?β Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesnβt quite believe you.
You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.
And answer almost to yourself, softly. βYeah.β A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one seesβ βSee you soon.β
Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.
Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlightsβtoward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.
End Notes:
ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.
This ainβt the end of these two just yetβ¦ we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then itβs all good vibes from here.
βWait, he doesnβt know about New York? D:β
Yes, he doesnβtβ¦ yet :P HEHEHEHΒ
Now⦠DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE
And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)
summary: you and robby take your relationship to the next level. whatever level that is about having sex often, reminiscing, and unearthing a few of your skeletons in the closet.
wc: 3.8k
warnings: smut! (finally) p in v, no condom use, blowjob, cunnilingus,
masterlist | previous | next
ΛβΰΏΰ»β β
The night ends and the two of you bid farewell to Crystal and Hank at the table before leaving the restaurant hand and hand. The tension is building between the two of you. His grip on your hand is strong, he doesn't want to let go. You were avoiding his intense gaze leading him away from the restaurant. As you walk down the path towards the bungalows, Robby pulls you back and kisses you with fervor. You moan against his lips as you feel his hands move down your back. You grab his arms and pulls away biting your lip, "You are insatiable." You whisper, "We're not even half way there."
"You're finally giving me the time of day." He licks his lips, "Is it so bad to indulge in it?"
You roll your eyes, "Keep walking Robinavitch."
You slip out of his grasp and continue down the road. He follows after you quickly. When he catches up, he hooks his arm around your waist to be on pace with you. You shoot him a warning glare. "I'll be patient."
You arrive at the bungalow and go to dig the key out of your handbag. You feel Robby's presence behind you. You internally panic as you feel his hands on your arms. "Robby." You hiss.
"I'm helping." He hushes you before grabbing the card out of your bag. You feel his breath on your neck. His other hand is around your lower abdomen as he ushers you to the door. "Go ahead, put the key in the door."
You take the key from his hand and go to put it in the lock. His lips are once again on the back of your neck. You clench your teeth as you put the key in the lock. Once it is in, you feel Robby grind into you. You gasp in surprise and look over your shoulder. He smiles, "Go ahead. Open the door."
He continues to move against you. Your hand shakes as you turn the lock. You push the door open and turn around grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. You walk into the house, Robby closes the door behind him. He presses you against the counter in the small kitchen as you deepen the kiss. His hands move down you waist then over your bum. You grip the counter and he lifts you onto it.
The moment that you are separate, you move your hands to his face. You hold his face in your hands and he smiles up at you. You give him a chaste kiss. His eyes leave yours and trail down to your dress, "Did you pick this out?"
"Mm-mm." You shake your head, "Crystal picked it for me."
"She picked for you." He repeats. He kisses your skin just above the neckline, "It's perfect for you. It makes you glow." Your breath hitches as you feel his hand on your bare leg. His fingers trail up from your shin to the side of your thigh then under the dress, hiking the fabric high on your legs, "I want to take it off of you."
"That almost sounds like you're asking for my permission." You rake your hands through his hair and smile. He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter.
"May I take your dress off?" He asks softly.
You grin before sliding off the counter, "Not out here." You whisper then push past Robby and walk to your bedroom. You stop in the doorway, "C'mon." Robby follows after you and grabs your waist. You turn in his arms and begin to kiss him again. His fingers loop under your straps slipping them off your shoulders. The straps fall into your elbows lowering your neckline revealing your breasts.
"You're so beautiful," Robby speaks against your lips. He then moves down to your neck slipping the dress off your arms and onto the floor. He ushers you onto the bed and you start to undo the buttons on his shirt.
Once the buttons are undone, he throws the shirt to the side. His hands roam over your breasts, caressing them then rubbing his fingers over your nipples. His lips move from your neck down to your chest. He kisses each breast before taking your left nipple in his mouth sucking on it. You bite back a moan and caress the side of his face as he continues.
He then moves down towards your navel then skips past your underwear to your legs. You close your eyes as you feel his lips on you thighs. He slowly pulls down your underwear. Your breath hitches as you feel his breath on your skin. He slides his arms under your legs and grabs both of your hands. He kisses the lips of your pussy and slides his tongue only your hole up to your clit. He catches your clit in his lips and continues to tease it with his tongue.
"Oh god~" You sigh, "Michael~"
He stops and retreats from your body. You frown in confusion before opening your eyes and seeing him tower over you. He undoes his belt and discards it off to the side. "I like the way my name sounds coming from you." He stands up from the bed and drops his pants. He climbs back into the bed, "Keep saying my name~"
"Michael," You smile before he captures your lips in a kiss, "Michael."
He moans into your mouth, "It sounds so sexy coming from you." He rolls his hips against you. You feel it against your lower stomach in his pants. You bite your lip at the thought of it. You spread your legs wider putting him in position between them. Your thighs squeeze his hips and your hands roam his back. "I need you so bad." He mutters.
"I can imagine." You tease. You suck your teeth as he grinds down your pussy, "I do too."
He slips off your underwear, then his own. You lick your lips as you feel the head of his cock against your upper thigh. You hold his face with one hand and grab his cock with your other. He looks into your eyes as if asking for permission. You give a slow nod before pushing the head of his cock against your hole.
Slowly, he thrusts into you. He groans with every inch that sinks into you. You throw your head back into the pillows . You raise your hips to meet with his. You hand reaches to the back of his head bringing his forehead against yours. Your lips ghost over one another and you exchange breath.
His hand moves to under your thigh lifting it higher as he thrusts deeper. You moan louder as you feel him graze your g-spot. "Michael~ shit! Ah god. I'm close!"
"Me too, baby, me too." He grunts. You tangle your hands in his hair, mussing it with your fingers.
As Robby picks up his pace, he moans your name over and over like a mantra. Like if he stopped he would forget it. You moan with him and claw your nails down his back. You arch your back off the bed and wrap your legs around his waist as he slams into you one final time. You both orgasm at the same time.
Robby ruts into a few more times before pulling out. You look at each other panting as you catch your breath. He leans down and kisses you. You make a happy noise in the kiss and whimper as his cock pulls out of you. He kisses down to your neck and smiles.
You don't say a word as you slip out from under him and stand up. He watches your figure in the dimly lit room as you pick a towel to clean yourself up and head to the bathroom. Inside, you clean yourself up a little better and use the toilet. You take a few deep breaths and wash your face with some cold water.
When you return, you slide back into bed under the covers. Robby gently pulls you closer and kisses your head. You rest your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat in your ear. This was real life. You had slept with your father's protege. You had confessed your presumed unrequited childish love and now he was laying beside you. You bite back a smile as for the first time in a long time you indulged without the the haunting thoughts of your father scolding you. Something you wish you had done when you were younger. You look up at Robby and smile. You caress his face before relaxing and resting on his chest, falling asleep.
The next morning, you wake up to the sound of the shower. You sit up and wipe the sleep out of your eyes. The evidence of the night before is present as clothes are scattered around the room. You can't help but smile at the memory of the night. You get out of bed and head to the bathroom as you hear the shower stop.
Robby comes out in a towel and smiles when he sees you, "Good morning."
"Good morning." You try to walk past him but he grabs your waist stopping you. You cock an eyebrow. "What?"
"You know what." He leans down and captures your lips in a kiss. You sigh happily and pull away.
"Happy now?"
"Very." He gives your waist a playful squeeze.
You wipe the droplets off his chin and kiss him again, "Me too."
You slip out of his grasp and head to the shower and start to undress, "Let's go get breakfast at the buffet after I shower."
His eyes trail down your body, "Do you need any help?"
"In the shower? I think I'm fine."
"I don't know. The faucet was acting funny."
"Oh really? I think I can handle the funny acting faucet."
"I don't think so. Let me just come in there with you to make sure." He follows you back into the shower.
After your joint shower, you head to the buffet at the hotel for breakfast. You find a little table outside to sit. You have a cup of coffee as you enjoy the sounds of the waves crashing and the brisk wind. Robby returns to the table with two plates of food.
"Thank you." You reach out to grab one.
"Neither of these are for you." He furrows his brows. "Get your own food."
"How kind for a morning after." You roll your eyes and take a sip of your coffee.
The two of you continue to sit in silence and enjoy the morning. You stare out to the ocean as you drink your coffee. It was such a peaceful morning. For the first time you didn't feel like you were living for someone else. You felt in control of yourself. You grab a fork and stab into some fruit that were sitting on Robby's plate.
"Hey!" He whines.
"You're not going to eat all of this anyways." You stick out your tongue. You continue to pick from his plates.
After breakfast, the two of you walk through the hotel lobby you stop and see the promotion for fishing. You go up to the desk and grab a concierge's attention, "Hi, can I schedule a boat for fishing?"
"You want to go fishing?" Robby cocks an eyebrow.
"I don't see why not. I haven't been since I was a child." You shrug, "I'm trying to be more adventerous on this trip."
"We have a boat scheduled for noon if you would like?"
"Sign me up."
"Me too." Robby chimes in. "Always wanted to try ocean fishing."
You hide a small smile on your face before listening to the concierge on where to be for the boat. You head back to the house to change into something more appropriate for fishing. You and Robby wait at the dock down by the water. "You're dad took me fishing a few times." Robby says.
"I know, like I said, you were the son he always wanted." You sigh, "He used to take me when I was little. Then I became a teenage girl and a young woman. He thought I wasn't interested in those things anymore. I mean, he was right but he refused to talk to me about it. Then you came along and mended the old man's heart."
He nods as he listens, "I never meant to take your place."
"You didn't take my place. You justβ You gave him something I couldn't. I don't know what that was but I let the mystery dictate my life for too long."
The boat soon arrives and the crew help you and Robby on board. You smell the sea breeze stir into the air as the boat motors away from the island. The one of crew members explain what fishing is like and what to expect.
When you are out far enough the skipper cuts the boat off and keeps it from moving. One of the other crew members teaches the two of you how to fish emphasizing the patient as you both were novices. You set down the rod and sit on the side of the boat as you wait.
"Have you thought about where you want to spread his ashes?" Robby ask.
You shrug, "I haven't thought about it since being here, actually."
"Really? I thought you'd have it all planned out."
"Nope, not this timeβ¦" You sigh. "I've just been kind of going with the flow, playing it by ear."
"That's not like you at all." Robby looks at you surprised. "I thought you'd have this whole trip planned out."
"I thought so too but then again, what for? We're here for two weeks," You lean back against the seat, "I had my whole life planned out. To make my dad proud of me. It's all I ever wanted. And I got in my own way."
"I don't think it helped that he didn't say anything either." He rests his arm behind you head and traces his fingers over your shoulder, "I like this side of you. You look full of life again."
You stand up and walk over to your rod. You pick it up and take a big inhale, "I feel alive."
Just then, the fishing line gives. Something has taken your bait. You grab the reel as the fishing instructor says and slowly begin to reel in the fish. Robby is beside you as you pull and reel in the smallest fish you've ever seen. "Huh." You press your lips into a flat smile. "I was expecting to feel more excited."
"Fishing is not for everybody. I didn't even cast my line." Robby mutters.
"But you've gone fishing with my dad all the time." You say quizzically.
"I didn't say I was good at it. Your dad did the fishing. I just drank the beer." He chuckles.
"But you wanted to come with me and fish."
"I just wanted to come with you."
The attendant throws back the fish for you and you sit to enjoy the next hour on the boat before you return.
When you come back to your bungalow after the hot day on the water, you let out an exasperated sigh. Robby sits on the couch and lays his head on the back cushion. You sit beside him and rest your legs on the coffee table. You chuckle, "Remember that heat wave when we were residents? It was August and it was so muggy and hot that you sweated through two shirts at work."
"Not the fondest memory." He sighs.
"I remember a group of us going to Ricardo's Ice Shop after work. I had never been so grateful in my entire life." You smirk, "Do you remember what flavor you got?"
"I got key lime with vanilla custard." He reminisced. Ricardo's Ice Shop was a local delicacy in the neighborhood near the hospital during the summertime. The nurses had introduced the young med students to the treats bringing small cups earlier in the summer. Robby remembers how obsessed you were afterwards. You were basically going every day after work, trying every flavor of sugary slush. You'd come home late after dinner and you'd have a different colored tongue.
"I got a mix of cherry and cola." You hold your stomach, "That was my favorite."
"I thought blue raspberry was your favorite." He turns to you. "Or wasn't it pina colada with custard?"
"Now that I think about it I don't think I actually had a favorite." You giggle, "It brought me so much joy, that week, as long as I had that cold treat in my hand it didn't matter."
"The only thing that could make you smile harder was a baby being born in the ED." He chuckles.
"Not true, there was that one time everyone sang me happy birthday at work and my mom brought cake." You reminisce.
"You did smile pretty hard." He looks at you, "I missed your smile."
You roll your eyes, "It didn't go away."
"No but you'd hardly let me see it." He looks at you with sincerity in his eyes. "The one you give me is polite like one you give to a patient. I miss the one when you'd get the better of me." He pulls you into his lap, "The one when you'd tell funny stories and get the italian ice. When you looked forward to going home at the end of the day." He sits up and kisses you on the lips. You follow his motions, parting your lips and nibble on his bottom lip.
"God, I hate how much you pay attention to me." You mumble against his lips. He chuckles and trails his kisses down your jaw to your collarbone. You slide your hips back and forth in his lap, grinding against his crotch. His hands grip your rear and massage it gently as you move on top of him. He groans as he feels his cock press into you as you grind down into his lap.
You unbutton his shirt and kiss down his chest. Slowly, you crawl out of his lap and undo his pants. Robby's breath hitches as you pull down his underwear with his pants. His cock springs up and lays against his thigh, leaking precum. You pool spit in your mouth and tongue-funnel it into your hand before spreading it over Robby's cock. Robby throws his head back against the couch and lets out a moan as he feels you put a little pressure on the head of his cock.
You gather more saliva in your mouth and let it dribble out over his cock as you continue to stroke him. When you are out, you press the fat of your tongue against the head of his cock. You drag it along his slit. "Oh shit," He groans. You put the head of his cock into your mouth and inch by inch push it further until it hits the back of your throat. Robby's hips stutter at the sensations and groans again. He puts his hands behind his head as he slowly lifts his hips up.
You push his hips back down and begin to move on his cock. You suck on the head then move back down. You moan as it reaches the back of your throat. Robby moans out unable to contain himself any longer, "Fuck~ I'm not going to last." He thrusts into your mouth. You pull his cock out of your mouth and lick your lips.
"You always want to come first." You mumble as you stand up and remove your shirt and shorts. He grabs your thighs and kisses your stomach. As you undo your bra as he hooks his fingers into your underwear sliding them to the floor. You crawl into his lap and kiss him again. Your tongues slip and slide against one another as you grind into his lap. He shudders and breaks the kiss.
"You're going to be the death of me." He bites his bottom lip.
You grab his cock and press it against your entrance. You sink down on his cock and moan as your rear lays flush on his thighs. His hands pull your waist making your grind into his lap. He moans at the sensation and start to pick up speed, moving you up and down on his cock. You moan with him as you move one of your hands over your clit.
Robby moves his hand up your spine and over the front of your breasts. He takes one in his hand and kneads it. He rolls your nipple between his fingers then pulls you close to suck on it. You moan out and hold the back of Robby's head as you continue to bounce on his cock. "Michael." You whimper.
He pulls away and looks up at you, longingly. His brows knit together as he picks up his pace, bouncing you harder. He was getting close to his orgasm. He continues to give your nipples attention until your moaning reverberates off the walls of the living room. Soon, with one final thrust, Robby cums inside you. You continue to move until you reach your own high. You get off his lap, "I'm going to go shower."
He watches you walk to the bathroom and gets up to put his own clothes on. He picks up your discarded clothes and goes to put them in the designated bag in your luggage. The room was fairly clean, the housekeepers must have come and made the bed. He grabs the bag out of your suitcase and shoves the clothes into the bag. He notices under the bag was your father's wooden urn. He picks it up and admires the carvings. He smiles, "She's going to be okay." He rubs over the top of it and goes to put it back.
Just as he's about to set the box back into the suitcase, he notices a thin envelope at the bottom of the suitcase with the words: 'To Whom This May Concern.' His heart plummets into his stomach as he reads the words. He picks up the letter out of the suitcase and sets the urn in its place.
He sits on the bed and examines the envelope. He flips it over to see that it was unsealed and tucked in it was a letter. His lip quivers and he squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the letter out of the envelope and glance over the words on the page. Tears prick his cheeks but he doesn't dare let them hit the page. It was what he thought it was.
It was a suicide note.
ΛβΰΏΰ»β β
tags: @cosmicneptune @ivy-stuffs @borbalalikesdocs @sarahhxx03 (comment/askbox to join taglist)
reblogs, likes and comments are always welcome
a/n: thank you so much for your patience. i have been super duper busy, i just moved cross country and am trying to settle. fics should now be coming steady again.
I was listening to a podcast where they talk about blind items, and one of them was supposedly about Noah Wyle. It said that heβs βnot likedβ and thatβs why none of the main Pitt cast was at his star ceremony thing.
I know that blind items are bogus more often than not, and I donβt even know why I care, I donβt know him, for all I know he could be an asshole, the cast could feel some type of way. Idk, I just had to get this out. Sorry for bothering you.
This feels like bait and I wasn't going to answer, but I haven't done one of my long posts in a while, and I want to spread some positivity, so here we go!
I don't know the guy personally, but here's what I have actual sources for or saw firsthand. Lots of screencaps and links below the cut:
The Pitt writers & producers--the people Noah sits in a room with every day--were at the ceremony.
A group of Pitt background actors and crew came to cheer him on in the fan section. They were yelling "best boss ever" and he came over and gave them hugs and took photos.
He had lots of friends and family there. There were 90 guests, size of a small wedding, not a single empty seat.
I don't know if he invited anyone from the Pitt cast, but most of the main cast is working out of town, since the Pitt is on hiatus. Katherine and Taylor went to PaleyFest and they certainly acted like they liked him. I don't think he's BFFs with the younger cast members. He's their boss. He's 54 with 3 kids. Most of them are at least twenty years younger. He's juggling being a lead actor, writer, director, EP, and HBO's current mascot.
By all accounts, Noah is respected and well-liked on set. I have a long-time friend on the crew and another friend who guest starred in three episodes in s2 (including the ep Noah directed). I've heard nothing but great things from them in real life.
Here's an Instagram post of Noah photos on set from season 2. He certainly looks well liked and it seems like a very happy set. When the number one on the call sheet is an asshole, everyone on the crew and cast feels it. How guest stars get treated also says a lot.
Here are some things people who worked with him this season wrote/said that I remember off the top of my head. I'm sure there are a lot more but I'm so bored by Pitt press, I don't want to go through them all. I don't think these people are all lying with such enthusiasm.
VIDEOS:
"At the core of all of this, he's so human and so present. That sort of energy trickles down. He sets such a great example of respect and camaraderie, that it was just really palpable and super tangible. It was really special." - Irene Choi
Shabana talks about about how open Noah is to her ideas
Sepideh talking about how much she enjoyed working with Noah (and hugging after a scene)
Irene Choi talking about Noah giving more than he needs to and setting a good example on set (another hug mention)
Patrick and Taylor talking about learning from Noah
Fiona Dourif talking about how they love to embarrass Noah
Gerran and Isa talking about Noah directing
Patrick talks about working with Noah (another hug mention)
PRINT:
Shabana Azeeze in Town & Country:
βWhatβs it like working with Noah Wyle?β
Luke Tennie in GQ:
Shabana Azeez in Daily Beast:
Supriya Ganesh in Vulture: (another hug mention)
Shawn Hatosy in Deadline:
(and they were just at a Lakers game together)
INSTAGRAM:
Simran Baidwan, writer and EP:
You can choose to believe a "blind item" or the words of people who work with the guy every day. He's certainly not perfect. But he is generally well-liked by his colleagues.
I hope you enjoyed this long ass answer to your ask!
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