Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
*Robby cutting Jack's shirt open you know he's not going to let anyone get to Jack before him
ROBBY IS PUTTING HIS YEARS OF YOUTH BASKETBALL (headcannon) TO USE AND BOXING EVERYONE OUT
like I know they probably got a heads up before the ambulance pulls up (perks of being an attending attending his own ED) so Robby's already pacing like a german shepherd in the ambo bay.
But when they wheel him into the trauma room and they need to cut his shirt off... God save Robby's last shred of sanity. He's grabbing the scissors before anyone else can assess the damage. With every inch of skin revealed, Robby's medical brain and his human brain start fighting for dominance.
Until all he's thinking is, This is not how i imagined I'd get to see Jack's naked chest.
He's diligent and quick, making sure all life/sanity saving efforts are happening to make Jack comfortable. He doesn't allow himself the chance to savor Jack in all his toned glory.
In the end, the last thing Jack needed to calm down was Robby's hands running through his curls and his voice reassuring him he'd be ok before the sedation kicks in and bring him peace.
When he wakes up, neither one of them can deny the feelings they have are way past friends. Robby definitely sees his chest again soon, and in much better circumstances.
Sort of tipsy from my night out-- this is what i think coming home to robby after a night out would be like.
Can be read as Undone! Robbyx Reader Blurb!!
The porch light is left on so you can see everything safely, of course he leaves it on for you!! Honestly, he doesn't even need to bother, because your 50 texts on the ride home have him awake and opening the door for you. He waves to whichever friend is dropping you off- sending a quiet "thank you" into the night while you bury your head into his chest and breathe him in.
He's sleepy, in those sweats you love, and his glasses are secure on the bridge of his nose as he peers down at you. You might try your luck at having him, but he's only teasing you and pulling you into the bathroom to wash off the bar smell.
He lets you babble and recount every joke from the evening and swears a million times over that he gets it even when he really has no idea what you're referring to. He doesn't follow you in the shower right away but when you pout up at him in the steamy spray of the shower he's joining without protest.
He washes your hair for you, complimenting how pretty it looked, and how he knew so many guys at the bar are jealous of him because you're his. He's the one that gets to savor you in the afterglow of your shenanigans. He's making sure every bit of you is cleaned, moisturized, massaged (if it aches), and comfy before bringing you back to your shared bed.
You hardly notice him handing you some pain meds and a large glass of water. You're used to this routine now. He knows he can't brute force you out of the inevitable hangover, but he sure can ease your pain. So hydrated & relaxed he eases you into your large bed where he manuvers you to lay on his chest. Sleep comes blissfully.
And in the morning, when you wake up, head throbbing and throat dry, he's up next to you handing you a larger glass of water (maybe even one with an electrolyte packet in it) and more meds. He's already cooked some breakfast to soak up the churn in your stomach.
He's settling into a lazy morning of quiet cuddling and naps under his black out curtains. The benefits of being an ER attending for him, is the shared naps you take on days off. (lord knows he could fall asleep wherever he laid his head). He's just enjoying the peace of being wrapped around each other for.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
A/N: Just a little drabble for Jack! deeply unedited for you as always
You’d never really considered yourself a night owl. There weren't any patterns of insomnia or battling the necessary seven hours every night. There wasn’t a strictness to that aspect of your life, you’d considered yourself lucky. You lay your head to rest and with little disturbance you drift away.
Meeting Jack, marrying Jack, your natural internal clock shifted. His provocation for the night, both in work and life, was naturally eventually going to affect yours. So you really weren’t a night owl, but it made life a hell of a lot easier being on Jack’s timetable.
So it wasn’t entirely odd for Jack to receive tender and kind receptions, where you’re both half asleep and ready to collapse into bed. This morning, however, it feels less like he’s stepped into a twilight faded sleep routine and more like he’s stepped into a conspiracy den.
You’re in bed, laptop huddled onto your lap, while the TV displayed a video about some true crime case. The usually relaxed, or even sleepy, morning routine is replaced with desperation. You don’t even realize your husband’s made his way home until he’s in your doorway.
“Honey?” His bewilderment was clear, “What’s goin’ on?”
“Jaaack” your whines are petulant and desperate. “I fell down such a weird rabbit hole last night.” He laughs at you while walking over to the shared bed.
He reaches to pause the TV before climbing in the bed, careful to keep his feet off. “What kind?” He starts slipping his shoes and prosthetic sleeve off.
“Some random lady-” You hear him grunt in amusement before you go on about the video you’d seen on your friend from college’s instagram story. Which, then you looked up online and found articles, tweets, documentaries, commentaries, and forums about every minute detail. You recap the major events, adding your own opinions on top for dramatic effect.
“Whaaat?” He played along, enraptured by the performance recap of your hyperfixation. “What’d they do to her?”
He listened attentively, sprinkling in questions and adding his own colorfully tired interjections, while doing his nighttime routine. Laughs come from the bathroom while the buzz of his electric toothbrush shuts off, circling back to watch you between each step.
“Can you believe that?” You exclaim.
“That’s like last month,” he pulled his scrubs off, “When the lady came in with the-”
“Dog squeaker stuck in her throat! That’s exactly what I was thinking too!” He pulled the curtains closed to block the incoming sunlight before coming to bed.
“You got all that from a tiktok?” He laughed, peeling back the covers and dropping his cane at the nightstand.
“Kind of,” you shuck your laptop away and cuddle up to him. “It was on someone’s instagram.” He swings his arm behind your head, settling you against him for the night.
“Any good reels?” He murmurs quietly. You chuckle at his quiet question while you show anything interesting you’d found while he was away.
In just the same way your habits had grown around him, he’d done the same. He’d never admit it, but he enjoyed watching the silly videos you’d saved to show him. He’d even set up a private account so he could send a few back and forth when he was on a rare break.
So in the morning, you both laid down to go to bed, and he listened to you laugh at all the jokes. He might not understand all the references, but he picks up the language and mannerisms quickly enough to make fun of them. Secretly, after a long shift like last night, all he wants is to hold you close and make you laugh.
Catch up on what you missed here: Part 1 // Part 2
Summary: Finding your way back to each other is a choice. Do you trust Michael to make that choice with you?
Warnings: Angst, but significantly less, Brief smut! Fighting, making up, and difficult conversations. Medical inaccuracies & mentions of Death (Not reader or Robby). Happy ending!!
No beta, just me rereading it a bunch and spell check! A/N at the end!
8k words!
The thing about getting divorced is that it takes a long time.
The thing about being in the process of divorcing Michael is that neither one of you is keen to keep the process moving, so getting divorced takes a really really long time. You can just imagine some divorce lawyer laughing at the two of you from his office, billing extra hours just for you both to chase your own tails about things.
It’s not that you wanted to stay married to him. He had shown you just how fast he’d like you removed from his life, and you were not going to subject yourself to the further humiliation of grovelling for his respect. He’s been selfish and totally unfocused as a partner. He’s a billion things you never saw for yourself wrapped up in an entirely over-protective shell.
He’s also the person you look for in every room. You come home from work and he’s still the only person you want to talk to. The misty fumblings of showing yourself again, of telling your secrets to someone new. The solace of quiet evenings alone whisked away like a dream and replaced the reality of starting over.
You still wished to come home and smell his signature chili he made for game days or hear the quiet bickering of him and his own brain circling an idea in another room. His idiosyncratic comforts that made these walls full of life and light were gone. And despite your resolution to move forward without it, the shadows crept tall here.
He’s refracted himself over every part of you, the imprint soul deep in your chest.
It’s not that you ever wanted to be divorced from him either.
The first six months of life without him was entirely spent in a haze. Seeing him, talking to him again, was a cold hard reality check.
You’d managed to scrape by– shoving him out of your mind. Somehow praying that when you checked back in on the body in your closet it would’ve decomposed.
Now you’re well aware of the rot that’s taken place in the home you built. That now you’d spoken to him there was a nagging feeling that crept up your throat and made its home. Now that you’d made contact there were floodgates burst with longing.
The fracture inside was healing but without the sharp focus of betrayal your mind was restless with want. Memories of nights spent in soft sighs and clarifying exploration, or tired moments shared in pure comfort alone with one another.
All the build up and trust was for nothing in the end, because you were still left behind in some knotted confusion. Really the whole level of angst can be boiled down into one little sentence. One promise that your brain runs with like a frantic hamster trapped in some dinky cage.
I’m done running. If you ever want me again.
Spoken like a precious jewel presented to you, like it didn’t serve to drop your stomach from its cavity every time you recalled the interaction. Like it didn’t undo months of hard won life you’d clawed from his hands. Like it didn’t- wouldn’t- affect you.
Truth be told, you were ready to be rid of him and the veil he’s thrown over your life like a thin settling of soot in an abandoned building. You were ready to be done, and then he said the one thing you were waiting to hear.
Now, you weren’t so sure what you wanted.
The Emergency Department was a gamble on a good day. Robby knew that, but the gamble seemed to be riskier every day he stepped through the heavy doors. He wasn’t the first doctor who felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, hell he wasn’t even the first doctor today. He’d spent more mornings up on the roof with Jack to recognize that in himself.
He knew incoming traumas meant a new gamble, he knew what he was here for and usually it came as a comfort.
It hadn’t felt like a comfort recently. Time had plucked his skin raw, the minutes spent down here were moments lost from him. He felt the weight of the time wasted on his bones, when his back ached after a long shift. When he can’t quite turn his neck the full rotation. When he endures the pops, strains, crackles, of his age.
He was carrying the weight of the department on his shoulders, and he could feel the deterioration of his body– his soul. God knows it’s only a matter of time before he loses the traction from under his feet and the monumental task squash him like a bug.
Or that’s what it had started feeling like.
Days spent with back breaking work, saving some, losing others, always fighting an uphill battle. Then soft nights shared with his wife, nights he prayed would never end in favor of laying with their love cocooned. When dawn breaks he feels the impending doom settle down on him, it was only a matter of time before the cycle reset itself and stole him away from you.
Days were hell, nights were heaven, but everything was a purgatorial wash in the end. It left Robby restless and choking on his own unspoken wants.
He considered retiring more than once, but he hardly knew how to enjoy a day off, let alone the rest of his lifetime. He was built for this adrenaline nightmare of a job, it’s what he knew, so despite his own building resentment he took the gamble every morning.
Just one more shift, then maybe it’ll all feel better again, one more day spent here and it’ll all go back to how it was before.
Before Adamson.
Before you.
Before he realized he was running from something deep inside him, something that seemed to catch him around corners of his life. Something that scared him.
Today was no different. Traumas come, people go, it was the natural way of things here. The chaos was no more chaotic than it was before.
The sound of wailing from these rooms was not uncommon, not in the slightest. He’d watched Mothers lose sons, Wife's their husbands, Father’s their daughter more than he’d care to.
Pulling back the door in the private family room, he knew he’d be delivering the worst news. He knew there would be a memory etched into this woman forever, one where he’d dismantle her. He lived with the weight calmly, but it shook him deeply every time.
“I don’t understand,” She wrapped her arms around herself, “He was fine this morning, we had breakfast this morning.”
“Cardiac events like this can happen very quickly,” He explained, taking a seat next to her. “We’ve done everything we possibly can. I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
Her eyes shoot up to meet him, tears bubbling over her waterline. “I don’t-” She takes a breath, “I can’t-”
He reaches to give her a tissue, she bats his hand away softly.
“Who’s going to pick Conner up from school?” Her hands shook. “God, I have to call my sister.” she began rattling off a million different things.
“I’m going to get you in touch with our social worker,” He began explaining, “She’ll help you with the transition.”
“God, he was supposed to take him to get his permit next week.” She started digging in her purse. “I need to call his school.”
As he left the room he made a round to the hub to check the chart, a standard practice, but the seeping feeling of dread slipped through him while he did so.
Richard Fredricks, 66, presented with pain in the left side.
He skimmed past the medical jargon to patient history. Had a heart attack last spring at his son’s football game. His son. His son without a father, a son who would be getting the news any minute. A wife who had just lost her husband. He couldn’t help but click through deeper. His wife, only 44. His son, barely 15.
He pushed his hand down his face and fought to keep his mind from running to a darker place. Only a few years older than you would be –
The sound of another incoming trauma pulls him from the computer, but his eyes linger when he catches sight of the same woman with her head tucked into her hands. He watches for a minute, while Kirara walks her through the process.
For a second she transforms, no longer is it a stranger in the family room, it’s you. He stutters in step, but when he collides with Mckay he pulls his eyes away.
A few hours later, when the chaos seemed to hold its breath, for just a moment, his eyes trailed back to the small private room. A young boy, who couldn’t be more than 16 was sitting stoically, holding his mother’s hand while she cried.
“This has to be some sort of a record Hon,” Dana reminded him, trailing a few steps behind, “I thought you were going home.”
Robby could feel the tension in his neck and shoulders had advanced to a burning ache, his eyes were foggy and unfocused, and his ankles were starting to swell from the pressure of his own frame on them. He could hardly smell anything over the stale antiseptic that coated his hands. His senses are on hyperdrive, looking in every corner for a ghost to come out and put him out of his own misery.
He settled for a fleeting twist of his neck to relieve the muscles, and a sarcastic smile.
“Shen’s running late, car trouble.” He murmured as she looked at him over the rim of her glasses, “And you’re supposed to be home too.”
“Alright boss,” She follows him to the ambulance bay outside. She lets several moments roll by them both. “Jack told me.”
Robby laughed humorlessly, his whole body screaming for relief. His whole body urges him in one particular direction, so he can throw himself at your feet and beg for a moment of peace before he gives out for good. He settles for a cigarette.
“Oh yeah, Jack’s a vault right?” He murmurs around the cig.
“Robby, are you okay?” She’s looking so intensely at him.
“M’fine.” Robby doesn’t elaborate. His lungs sigh at the acrid intrusion, but he can feel the euphoria claw up the back of his neck and wrap around the base of his skull. His shoulders sag for a moment, the noise quiets.
“The Ms4 last week’d beg to differ.”
Robby takes a long drag before rubbing over his eyes to quell the ache.
“I apologized.” He knew he was being petty.
“You should get out of here, before the next batch comes in.” She urges. He nods, but neither one of them moves to leave.
“I know Jack thinks I’m wrong.” The words feel foreign on his tongue.
“Sweetie, Jack’s worried about you,” She pats him on the arm, “We’re all worried about you.”
The cigarette burns away in his hands, and he watches mesmerized. The peel away of embers to reveal the ash piling up at his feet.
“I don’t..” He trailed off, snubbing it out against the brick facade. “She made it clear she didn’t want to hear from me.”
“Can you blame her?” She asked sincerely. When he didn’t move, he felt her arm wrap around his soldiers until she could wrap around him tightly. “Gotta give her some time.”
Robby nodded against her arm.
He didn’t really believe it, he knew he’d be an idiot to think it was that simple. It was nice to pretend for a minute that he wasn’t completely falling apart under the weight of himself.
When he laid in bed that night, always thinking of you, he wondered selfishly if you still thought of him. If somehow, you’d both transcend his own stupidity and find each other in dreams, so that your longing will ebb and his might flow through you.
Your body writhes under him. The sweat pools in the crevices he hasn’t licked away from. His touch is so delicate, exacting, like he’d been waiting for the chance to ruin you.
“So pretty for me, baby.” The base of his pelvis smears touch across your clit, making each movement addictive. “Love to have you like this.”
You moan out his name, letting your praise pour from your mouth indiscriminately. Your hands wander from his hair, down his spine, around his arms, his face, everywhere. They trace pathways and forge new tracks at every sensation. It burns a fire deep inside of him.
His hips stutter forward, pull back rapidly, then forwards again like a man starved, breaking open freshly ripened fruit. His kisses are hot on your neck, searing a trail of possessive marks. He should be ashamed, an old man claiming you like this, but the twist of your legs around his hips keeping him corralled silences him.
When he fills you, it feels a lot like coming home again.
You wake with an ache between your thighs and memory heavy. Your hands shake with unleashed tension, you pray someday this feeling will fade.
When Michael wakes up, somewhere on the other side of the city, he reaches for your warmth in the sheets. The cold greeting is grief living between the spaces of his own longing.
It was definitely ill-advised to be here. It was not your finest moment, for sure. You know that much. You’ve gotten maybe a combined seven hours of sleep the past few nights, plagued by the most explicit dreams. Dreams centering your ex-husband, your sexually fulfilling marriage, and the now painful lack of both of those things.
So, it was definitely ill-advised for you to be sitting in the park just across the street from the hospital. Seriously, the new fresh-faced therapist strictly advised against it. It was even worse that you knew he’d be off shift any minute, and if he was still staying with Jack he’d come this direction.
It was all a terrible idea.
You just couldn’t take it anymore. Your days at work seemed to drag impossibly long, and your nights were neverending. Now with your family all somewhat healthy, there was no distraction keeping you from confronting the need that had been bubbling over.
So now you’re waiting. It’s not like you have a plan, you just wanted to see him. You just wanted to put eyes on him, see if he’s taking care of himself. See if he’s still working. See if he’s ok.
You wanted to snap out of it. To ride a wave of your own prolonged anger into scaring away the weird new phase of longing.
It didn’t take long for him to show. His lumbering frame skirted along the horizon in a daze, and even from your bench you could see his shoulders slumped over in exhaustion. He didn’t have his tell-tale headphones in, nor did he seem to be aware of anything around him. For a moment you think he’ll walk right by. That he might be so internally occupied that he’d walk right by.
You wonder what that would give you. If that might be the kindest thing to do. To allow you to feel your righteous pain and let you forget him in return. That maybe if he did that he’d be closing this chapter for you, for good, and now you can walk into the next part of your life unattached.
You feel the sudden urge to turn around and walk, to resolutely choose to walk away from him forever. To leave and to choose yourself.
If it were some movie you’d do it, you’d have the strength to see him there in front of you and walk away to some cool crescendo of music. It would feel good, and in most cases it would be right.
But from the moment you feel Michael’s eyes on you, it feels less like a choice and more like fate. And the way his shoulders drop, his steps slow, and your eyes meet under the light of the street lamp, it feels right.
You sit and wait quietly, picking away at your jeans before you feel him sit next to you.
“Hi.” You surprise yourself when you hear yourself speak first. In the low light of the dusk you see his surprise too. His eyes melt and it makes your stomach twist.
“Hi.” He returns with a whisper. It’s a delicate offering, and he looks gently at you like some fine rare artifact before him.
“Hi.” You say again. He smiles quietly at you, and a zip of heat strikes through you. It’s only half embarrassing.
“Hi.” He says again, leaning back onto the bench, and angling himself to watch you. The same hoodie he was wearing the last time you saw him, a reminder of the last conversation you had. You take a deep breath and remember.
Remember how tired he looked that morning in the hospital corridor. How bloodshot his eyes were. How tired he looks now, like he’d been running on empty, passed empty, and ready to blow. It’s much harder to look at now. You have to stop yourself from reaching out and smoothing the worry that sits deep in his face.
“I’m sorry I’m lurking outside your work.”
“No, um,” He offers, pushing his mouth together to keep his emotions at bay, “I’m really fucking glad you’re lurking out here. I-” His voice betrays him, with a gentle wobble. “I’m really happy to see you.”
His eyes are rounded with tears as he looks at you, and when he realizes, he moves quickly to try and shove them away. The warm lamplight disguises the blush in the setting sun.
“I just,” You fiddle with the cuff of your jacket, trying to hide the weight behind the contemplation you’ve been carrying. “I don’t like the last time we talked.” You manage out. “I’ve been thinking about- I’ve been thinking a lot and I feel like I need answers from you.” You speak in broken fragments, dancing around your thoughts like it was a landmine.
“Ok.” He waits. He waits, but you’re not sure what else there is to say.
“Okay…” You trail.
“I can’t answer those questions here.” He admits, scanning the surroundings. You notice now, littered amongst the few people milling through the park, a larger majority were uniformed for the hospital. Pockets of scrub-clad groups, a few admin staff, some patients, meandered around you.
“No one’s listening, Michael.” Your jaw clenched watching the swirl of strangers around you.
“I think this is a conversation best had in private.” He admits, with little room for discussion. It makes you feel small, a tiny twinge wiggles itself deep in your chest. A truth you know is true, but to give him the power of location seems like a loss, one you weren’t prepared for.
You hesitate, consider just cutting your losses and walking away again. But the weight of his eyes keep you pinned and primed for him. His own leaky desperation drips, floods, seeps into the air until you’re flooded with memories.
Michael holding your hand across the table on your first date. Michael taking care of you when you caught the flu from some coworker with a toddler. Michael soothing your insecurities away. Michael holding you. Michael touching you. Michael loving you completely.
“Fine.” when you stand you don’t offer him direction, so he follows blindly a step behind. “Did you drive?”
He shakes his head, “Nope. Bikes in the shop.” You narrow your eyes at him.
“Add the bike to my list of questions.” You mutter humorlessly. He scratches the back of his neck like he’s a kid in trouble.
Neither one of you says anything the rest of the walk home.
The scratch of his coarse beard against your neck tickled perfectly, paired with his long luxurious kisses pressed deliciously. The draped white fabric washing over your skin, doing nothing to dull the feeling of his hands roaming your frame. The linen from his shirt pressing against your exposed skin kept you hypnotised.
“I have to unlock the door!” You cried out, reaching again to twist the key. His chuckles press air against the new marks, and his hand trails up your side and over your hands.
“Let me.” He offers, turning the key over and swinging the door open. You turn to look up at him dreamily.
“First time crossing the threshold Mrs. Robinavitch.” He whispers, bending down to kiss you passionately. His hands come under your hips to support you as he lifts you up. Your arms scramble around his neck, as he lifts he’s smiling against your lips.
“Welcome home, Baby.” He puts you down just in the foyer.
“Welcome me then.” you demand, hands already reaching behind you to unzip the dress to let it fall away from you.
He leans against the, now closed, door. Watching you slip out of your heels, hair half shaken out, make-up sufficiently smeared from his many kisses throughout the night. And your dress, only held up by a single hand, pressed delicately to your sternum.
He tucks his lip under his teeth and drops to his knees softly in front of you. “Welcome home, My wife.” He murmurs before lightly tugging on the bodice of the dress.
You relent with a soft hum, letting the material slip over your bare breasts, exposing the soft skin and pert nipples. Your hand sliding through his hair, enjoying the way his sweet moans feel vibrating against your torso where he worships.
“I can’t believe I’m this lucky.” He says, looking up at the woman before him.
“I love you Michael.” You cradle his face softly, before he hooks your leg over his shoulder and begins kissing from your knee downwards.
Michael lingered in the door, before he stepped over it. His body stopped like it had no access granted, like a thin shield kept him from coming in. He stands just looking at everything, tracing his finger against the wood grain door.
“Do I need to invite you in?”
“Maybe.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, but steps over anyways, shutting the door behind him.
“You didn’t need an invite last time.” You meant to say it under your breath but the flush in his cheeks couldn’t hide the shame.
“Touche.” He offered. “It does look nicer now. I was serious about that tour one day.”
He followed you into the living room before sitting as far away from you as he could on the couch. His shoulders hunched over his knees, like he was trying to contort his body into as small a space as possible.
“I’m not going to bite your head off for relaxing.” You sit with your knees tucked up protectively. He shoots you a pathetic look and you try your best to look less like a kicked dog.
“Ok.” Your eyes ache as you rub over them, “I need to ask this, not because I even really believe it-” You let out a sardonic laugh, “But because I don’t know what else to really think about-” You break off and take deep breathes.
“Was there-” You break off your train of thought. “Did I?” You try but it sounds stilted and broken apart. “Was there something I did? Or something I didn’t say?”
He let out a long breath, his head shaking. He looks down with shocking sincerity.
“No, God you-” He cleared his throat. “You’re perfect. It’s me.”
You don’t know what the right way to respond to that is. You don’t even know what the right ballpark of emotions would be. Because, you had kind of assumed, after a while you let the dust settle and it’s clear it’s not you. You’re not a coward who walked out of this marriage without a word.
You feel a hard dose of everything you’ve been feeling. The hurt, the anger, the loneliness, the insecurity, the sadness all muddle together. You can’t offer him any sort of explanation, you can hardly keep your head up from the cloud of emotions building behind your eyes.
“It’s not you,” He starts. “I just can’t see you waste the best parts of your life with me when mine are so far gone.” He moves closer to you and it feels less like a lover and more like a teacher guiding you through a complex topic. The patronization, suddenly too much, shot you to your feet with no real direction. So, indignant and angry you stepped away without so much as a word.
“That’s bullshit.” You move to sit in the small side chair, anxious to be a distance away from him. “And hurtful.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It might be your truth that you tell yourself but it’s not the truth.” You cross your arms and look at him. “Tell me the truth. Don’t tell me the best parts of you are gone, because I fell in love with you here and now.”
He sighed and leaned back, his head tipping over the side of the couch before refocusing on you. He looked desperate, broken down, and tired. His eyes never wavering, even when he did. “I had this patient come in, a major cardiac event. It was a freak thing, but lifestyle made it worse and worse. He was 66.” He ran a hand down his face, “And I had to tell his wife, his 40 year old wife her husband wasn’t coming home. And she was still so young, she was barely holding it together. And I just saw the future playing out again and again.” His body couldn’t seem to comfort itself so he tugs at his golden star of David for clarity.
“They had a son that was barely 15, and he was practically propping his mother up, she kept saying she thought they’d have more time, he’d have more time. It would play on a loop in my head every time I saw you. You’re so young and you have so much ahead and eventually it’s going to be you. One day that widower at my bedside is you.” He buries his head in his hands.
“If I could make you hate me, if I could give you the life you deserved with someone you could fully enjoy it with…” Tears don’t quite slip from his eyes but he rubs his eyes regardless. “I could live with you hating me, as long as you got to live.” He shook his head, the anxiety bottled up in him finally fizzing to the surface.
“I just couldn’t stand myself knowing that’s where this is headed.” He admitted.
“Did you think I didn’t know that was the reality when I married you?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. The weight of a simple rebuttal seemed to fester in his chest, rotting his cynicism away.
“I don’t doubt that,” He says slowly, “I just sit in a reality where no matter what– I have to leave you behind.” He pieces it together like he’s still holding onto the truth, that it’ll protect him, save him. “And then you started talking about kids and God I just-”
“Jesus, Robby, you could’ve just told me you didn’t want kids!” You snap back.
“I didn’t want to take anything else from you!” Both your voices were ramping up. “I didn’t want to be the dirty old man who saddles you with three under three then fucking dies.”
“I never said I needed kids! I just wanted to know where you were at!”
“And what?” He rubbed down his face. “If I said I wanted kids you’d just say yes and we’d never talk about what happens when-”
“You make it sound like I’m the one avoiding this conversation!” Your voice is thick with unshed tears and bottled anger. “You left without saying a goddamn word to anyone!”
“I couldn’t do it anymore,” He collapsed back against the cushions, “I never wanted to be like this. I never wanted us to become this.”
“Then let me understand.” You stand, not sure what else to do, not sure where else to go. “You don’t want kids, fine, let’s have that conversation.”
“It’s not that I-” He grunts in frustration. “I’ve been the kid in this scenario and it’s not fair.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been the kid in the front row at the funeral begging for more time, and I never wanted that for-” he stops abruptly. “I never wanted that.” The whole explanation boring holes into your chest where he’d been a soothing balm. It’s a firm press to a bruise on a bruise on a bruise.
“I didn’t want you to have to start your life over in the middle of it,” He snapped. “I’m just terrified that one day I’ll be gone and you’ll regret choosing me.” His emotions bubbling over and spilling everywhere. He may not be crying now but he feels the self-loathing, the anger, the want creeping like ivy up his sides and wrapping around his throat.
“You deserve so much more than me.” He chokes out, his body collapsing inwards, finally the release of emotions breaks free. His tears free flowing and thick on the contours of his cheeks.
You don’t move to sit with him for a moment, you don’t run your hand over his back and bring him to you for peace. You let him escape in his own release. Only moving to sit close by when he puts his head in his hands. It’s heavy and thick in the room, but you know this conversation’s only going around in circles. Both of you exhausted, both righteous in your own reasoning, both needing the other and not reaching out.
You would’ve expected more from yourself, if you had anything else to give. You didn’t have anything else to give. Now, finally seeing the full puzzle your brain hurts, it aches at the prospect of putting everything together again. Because at the end of the day you just don’t trust that he’s going to stick around long enough to see the end result.
And it should be a relief, it should bring you an ease. Now you have the picture you can walk away knowing what would’ve been. The acrid feeling of bile that creeps up your throat at the unspoken hurt reminds you what is lost here. The jagged cuts can’t hide the beauty beneath the carnage. A life shared with Michael would be beautiful, if he’d just let you have him.
It should be an easy choice to stay or go, and maybe it is. Sitting here with him, listening to him, fighting with him, aching with him, letting him in for now just to give him back to the world could be easy. Walking away could be right for both of you, to ease the cavern that’s been ripped between you.
But your hands find him somehow, in the tangle of his own grief. A measured pain lances through you with the tight squeeze he gives you, not physical but just as powerful. He was bracing himself for your final parting words, for you to do the real work and finish this once and for all.
And then you’re crying, slowly at first, but ramping more and more and more. Then you feel him, he guides you into him so slowly, ready for you to push him away, ready for you to bite.
Just as simply as he walked away he brings the two of you back together, and for the first time in months your body melts away. He holds you firmly, both your breaths labored and shaky, and there’s a bitter taste of something lost that is spit between the two bodies. It’s awash with salted sadness cleansing both cheeks of the one person you’ve been waiting for. It feels like home again.
“I’m not ready to be done with you.” You admit, voice raw and shaky. His hands brushing under your eyes to swipe the evidence of his own guilt. “I still want you.” It’s a difficult thing to say. It’s choppy and shameful, and most of your body rebels when you say it but you know it’s the truth. There wasn’t a universe where Michael is holding you in your living room and you wouldn’t want him.
“I don’t know how to live with myself after this.” he admits back, his own whispered vulnerability makes your hands shake with emotion.
“I want to see a councillor together.” You sit away from him, trying to look him in the eye. His brows furrow and set low on his face.
“And if it doesn’t work?” He says slowly, like he knows this song and dance. Like he’d been there before. Because he had.
“Then at least we know we tried.” And it’s far more pointed than you mean for it to be, but the adrenaline is starting to wear off and your body sags for comfort again.
When Michael murmurs a soft okay it feels a lot like a second chance.
The dive was sticky, air thick with people too close and too far all at once. You sort of hated coming but you came back anyway to watch your best friend flirt shamelessly with the bartender. The music was always a little too old for you to really enjoy it and the billiard tables took up a little too much room in the space.
So you settled for sitting at the bar top every Friday, in an outfit that sat uncomfortably against your skin. Despite how much your friends insisted you ‘looked amazing’ you felt less like a desire and more like a last resort. You’d spent more than a few weeks as the last girl standing, but you tried not to let it bother you.
The whole Friday night tradition was to sit, look cute, sip on drinks, and wait for the two older men to saunter in through the side door and sit with a perfect view of the TV that sat just above you playing some mundane sports programming.
The first time you caught sight of them it was thrilling, like there was suddenly no air left in the room. Both handsome in their own right, but there was something undeniably sexy about the shy brunette with a beard. He always looked a little too tied up in something going on in his head to notice the multiple women making eyes at him.
That first night you had no shame, letting your gaze linger as you scanned the crowd. It was nice to sit and imagine what it might be like, to imagine the dozens of ways he might be able to break you apart with just his overly long fingers. You’d never really think anything of the fantasies that swirled because they were just fantasies.
Your lingered daydreams earned you gentle teasing and less gentle urges from your friends to make a first move. “Go get yourself a Daddy, girl!” Your friends had giggled at you, while pushing you out of your bar stool to say something. But you only shook your head and gave them a coy smile, enjoying their lighthearted affection.
It was just a crush. And they had no reason to approach you really, so it was just supposed to be harmless fun.
Despite the obvious pining from several patrons, you’d never seen either one of them approach anyone. So you settle for watching, waiting for perhaps another patron to catch your eye. Or for your friend to blow up her relationship with her bartender situation and declare the lowkey dive ‘off-limits’.
There was nothing particularly different about this Friday. Maybe there was, it seemed like your friends were picked off swiftly tonight, Each scattered throughout the bar or in some vague undress in some stranger’s apartment. You’d figure this was your last drink before you make the trek home. Which was actually unfortunate because your favorite view had only just arrived, later than usual, and you were sad to miss the chance to make unreciprocated eyes at him.
Downing the last watery sip of your cocktail you start gathering your things to leave when you feel someone lingering behind you.
“Leaving so soon?” Their voice was dulcet and deep. It sends butterflies down your torso. You had a fleeting hope you let wash over you for a moment before tamping it down and turning to face the tall stranger.
“Yeah my friends-” You stopped talking when you saw him. The guy, your guy. Your tall shy brunette that sits just perfectly every Friday, drinks two beers, then leaves. The object of all your fantasy and desire wrapped in one strikingly handsome case.
“Would it be stupid if I asked to buy you a drink?” You could see the red flush creeping up his cheeks even in the bar lighting. “If that’s not creepy.”
“Not creepy at all.” You return with a small smile.
When he slips down on the barstool next to you, you have to stop yourself from imagining what the rest of your life would look like if he stayed by your side.
“My name’s Michael, by the way.” You give him a small smile, and tuck your lips under your teeth. Michael lets his eyes wander down your frame shamelessly before flagging down a bartender and ordering you a drink.
It wasn’t until the next morning you managed to ask him how he knew your order.
“You weren’t the only one watching, sweetheart.”
Pittsburgh winter was brutal, but you liked the snow. You liked that you could bundle and burrow into soft fabrics and thick wool and still feel comfortable. You liked the chill that sat like a sting on the end of your nose, and even though it was inconvenient to deal with, you loved the ethereal blanket of snow that fell.
It was long, the night settled over the city like a medieval curse. Everyone was a little grumpy or sick, but it was comforting to know there weren't a million things going on that you had to choose from. You enjoyed the simple routine of waking up, going to work, coming home, cooking something warm, and spending a night by the fire.
This winter was slightly more eventful though. With the inclusion of weekly counseling for your now on the mend marriage, there was encouragement to break out of that cozy routine you’d adapted to every February.
Your therapist was understanding, but firm, about your hesitations and was keen on building a pathway to walk them together. So that was how you ended up at a nice restaurant on a Thursday with Michael. Bundled but cute, that’s what he said anyways. The harsh wind that stripped back the layers of your protection seemed to seep into every conversation until you felt flayed out at the dinner table.
So the walk home was just as brutal as the weather had felt, holding the chance for ethereal magic but feeling more like brown sludge stuck to the crevice of your snow boots. Conversation had dwindled after dessert, and you could tell Michael was treading lightly on the sore feelings he’d accidentally stuck into over shared pasta.
Crossing the threshold of your home you stripped down your layers both physically and emotionally until you were left in some slip dress that felt both too thin and too thick to be wearing. Michael followed suit, still finding the places he fits back into your life, still adapting to the spaces you grew to fill in his absence.
The past three months have been hard won for the both of you. They’ve been twisted and clarifying all at once. A never ending code decoding itself in front of you both. It’s been hard to come back together, it’s been a challenge.
It’s also been so incredibly refreshing. Michael has been so patient and vulnerable in a way you never thought was possible for you both. He’s been taking the assignments very seriously, and doing the work above and beyond what your expectations were. It sometimes strikes you as very silly that he was worried this would fail, because he’d taken to it so naturally.
For all it’s worth, you feel like you’re the one dragging their feet now. Struggling to reconcile the intense hurt and betrayal from the past with the open vulnerable man in front of you as one and the same. But your husband is patient, and your husband is no stranger to complex emotions, plus the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you any more than he already had.
Many nights spent with him holding your hand and begging for your forgiveness, only for you to smooth out his hair and soothe him. You had forgiven him a long time ago, maybe somewhere between the impromptu meeting in the hospital and his long overdue confession. You’d chosen to forgive him.
It was just that it was a lot easier to forgive him than it was to forget it all.
You were slightly ashamed at the insecurity that bubbled up more and more these days. You were off put by the reassurance you needed at every step, that you had to check in multiple times just to get through the most basic romance. It was exhausting on top of exhausting, putting yourself back up on two feet. Michael never wavered though, he never blamed or bit out insults, or fought back really. He would sit with listening ears as you spill secret shames to him, until you were practically a puddle in his arms.
Then he’d wrap you up, lay you down, and stay with you until you felt like you could hear him. Because he knew what it was like to be in that headspace, where you believe that no one is listening, that they couldn’t possibly be hearing you. It’s pure irrationality, but he bore it like no other.
“I didn’t want dinner to end like that, I’m sorry.” He hangs his scarf over yours as he offers the apology.
“No, I’m sorry,” You sigh, breath shallow and body buzzing to keep moving. “I don’t know why I’m even upset.”
“I shouldn’t joke about things before you’re ready to talk about them.” He moved to stand in front you, hands in his pockets, shoulders raised. He looked so defensive, and it’s not the first time you’d seen him like that.
It seems like more often than not lately, he’d be on the defensive. You’d developed a bad habit of snapping instead of changing the subject. It was something you’re working on both on your own and as a couple. It stung tears behind your eyes at the posture, you hadn’t wanted tonight to end like this at all.
Tonight was supposed to be the first night you and your husband shared each other again. Your councilor had suggested reintroducing some intimacy, and you’d been looking forward to seeing him again, to having him again. And from the racy innuendos he’d been hinting with all week, he was also looking forward to it. Now, you feel like you’d dashed both of your hopes by snapping your walls back up without warning.
Your head was swimming as Michael danced around your emotions, settling in front of you, waiting for your cue. Your head burrowed into his chest as tears leaked out from your eyes.
“It’s not your fault.” You murmur, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Michael wrapped himself around you, ushering both your bodies over to the bedroom so you could lay down and relax.
Once he had you on the bed and comfortable he slid in beside you.
“Was it something I did?” His voice was small and frightened, it made you want to cry all over again.
“No.” You brush your hand against his, keeping it tightly wound together. “You were perfect, I’m just a mess.”
His frown deepened, and his eyes rounded out like small marbles. “Not a mess,” he brushes one of your tear stained cheeks with your conjoined hands. “Very pretty.” His head ducks down to press a kiss to the top of your head.
“I want to sleep with you.” you pout.
“We don’t have to baby, if you’re not ready then-”
“I am ready!” He gives you a discerning look. “I really do. I want to sleep with you tonight I’m just…”
He unravels your hands, giving you the space to process without having to soothe him in return.
“I’m not going to be upset if you’re not ready, baby.” His voice is like a secret between you.
“It’s not you, I’m just having a hard time with myself right now.” You admit.
“What’s going on? Hmm?” He moves until you’re sitting across from each other, so he can see you. “You can tell me anything.”
You nod and sit for a moment, trying to find the right way to say this.
“I just feel like, by sleeping with you, I’m betraying the part of me that had to step up and pick all the pieces up when you left.” You don’t have to look up to see the weight of the sentence hit him in the chest.
He brushes his palms down on his pants, trying to soothe his own anxiety, and just nods. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, lost in his own thoughts.
“Thats…” He trails off, “understandble.”
“I just think that’s why sometimes I flip a switch, like part of me is so scared that it just snaps because it’s waiting for you to leave,” Your voice shakes. “And maybe if I can just push you away then you’ll go.”
His hands cover yours in a reassuring squeeze, and you hold on tight for his forgiveness.
“And that’s not fair to you,” You try to catch his eyes, “I’m really sorry, I’m trying to figure out what I need to get that part of me to calm down.”
He shakes his head, it sends shockwaves of fear through you.
“You don’t need to apologize about that,” He brings the joined hands to his lips and drops a sweet kiss. “About how you coped with something I did, how you still have to. You don’t need to apologize, but I’m really glad you told me.”
“I don’t think I knew how to articulate it before today.” He hummed a response. “I’m still sorry, because I love you and want to be with you. I want to trust you. I do trust you.” Your explanation is slow and choppy and difficult to articulate. Pride shoved aside for the naive hope of loving Michael.
“It’s good to know, because now when you feel like that I know I’m proving to you what’s true.” He lays back by your side, bringing you into him. “That I’m here, and I’m staying, and I love you too.”
He says it so simply, so resolute. A small fracture in your armor deepens but doesn’t ache. Your mind is running a million miles a minute, but Michael is still here. You can try to scare him away, but he’ll still come back. That he’s a man who won’t make the same mistakes twice because this is the type of love people write movies for. All he wants is to make it the type of trust that you can hold onto like a liferaft instead of an anchor.
“And that version of you that bites me back, the one who comes out sometimes, I love her too.” He adds, and it might just be the last straw before you’re climbing up to press your lips to his. You kiss him passionately, recklessly, and he meets you with stoic gentle precision. “We don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel completely right.”
You shake your head, snaking your legs until they’re bracketing his hips, you press yourself against him. “As long as you’re here, it’s right.”
He smiles up at you, enjoying the view from above. You lean over ghosting your lips just above his before smiling.
Your hair drops over the two of you, veil-like in the lowlight of the bedroom, something mystical shared. “Feels like forever, baby.”
A/N: PART 3 IS HERE! This was kinda a crazy one for me to write, and I think I have like 3 very different versions that I had to scrap because they just weren't working. THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR BEING SO PAITENT! I really wanted this to be good, and I hope you guys enjoy!!! Rip to the Google Doc I wrote in those 42 pages are for the history books.
Still really love these guys, so if there's any other aspect of this relationship you want more of or want to expand on, send me an ask! I'd love to do some blurbs!!
I'm having to take a few days before I start seriously working on the last part of Undone. Updates & thank you's under the cut!
I've finally accepted the "allergies" I've been having are a cold. So in order to avoid cold-induced mania in this ending, I'm gonna take a couple days off writing!
I have so many genuinly amazing responses from so many awesome people and I want to reply to all of you!!! If i don't have a chance to reply just know I'm so SO SO!!! Grateful for everyone who is reading, liking, reblogging, & leaving comments!
You guys have no idea how much that all means to me, I've been writing fic on and off for like ten years and I've never had this sort of reception so thank you isn't strong enough!!!!
