My Daddy Raised Me Better Than That || Dr Robby x paramedic!reader
Part One of Holy Light
Tags: mention of suicide, cut similar to suicide (workplace accident), canon typical situations, questionable age gap, cursing, daddy kink (not in this chapter though), sugar daddy esque relationship, daddy issues, Robby feels like a creepy old man, y/n wants that cookie so bad, medical innacuracies
An: let me know if there are any errors, I wrote this over 2 days and barely slept. Might be shit, hope I do the next chapter better
Word Count: a little under 4.5k
~~~~~~
Being called the princess of the ER was not something usually associated with the paramedic with a foul mouth and cheery demeanor. One would assume it would be the nurse actually named Princess. Of course though, it was you.
You with your pink trauma shears and your pink capped sharpies and your pink everything. Nothing special about you, really. At least from looking at you. Usually clad in a fleece with “paramedic” written on the back in reflective silver and the logo of the company on the front, but you were different. Smiled more. Didn't get hit as hard when something bad went down, just jumped and got shit done. Today was one such example.
You entered the Pitt with a smile usually reserved for male hookers and roller coasters, arms soaked in blood.
“Alright party people, I have a 26 year old male involved in electric scooter versus car hit and run, patient is not responsive and has not been for two minutes, need a chest tube due to tension pneumo from penetrating chest wound. BP 60/40, heart rate of 189, and tachypnea.” You called out, the team meeting you at the door. Doctor Robby was the first to meet you, calling out orders in the same stressed voice he always carried. Trauma 1, chest tube, a bunch of other shit you didn’t catch and didn’t care to. He wasn’t your boss, and you definitely didn’t need to be paying that much attention to him.
—
You dropped out of the transport once the patient was safely in the trauma bay went to go wash your hands off with your partner, Ethan. He snorted at the idea of you in a long sleeve uniform for anymore than two seconds, because you couldn’t go one shift without something getting on your sleeves. That's why your sleeves were always rolled up, you supposed. As you washed up, he continued to give you unparalleled levels of shit.
“I’m just saying, maybe you should move somewhere with good weather. I hear Los Angeles doesn’t need long sleeves this time of year.” He said, snorting.
You just rolled your eyes and moved on, “thank you for that information, Sanchez.” You muttered, drying your hands. “Can we get back to work now?”
--
The whole day went by like that, in varying degrees of covered in bodily fluids, different victims, yelled at thrice, and two pediatric patients who barely made it. You didn’t have it in you to check on your patients. Schrödinger’s patient was neither dead or alive, and it was easier that way. Easier to go home to your empty apartment with the walls covered in cheap posters you’d salvaged from your mother’s garage, the soft pink sheets you had bought as a gift when you moved out, and as many paper stars as you could make. You mostly made them to fill the void your lack of a social life was slowly eroding into your psyche, but they were also pretty.
The end of shift came down the way you imagined Prometheus did, promising a future of damnation and warmth. It was freezing outside, you popped on your coat and walked home. Your kit was haphazardly thrown in your beat up backpack, which wasn’t surprising. You wanted a shower. And tea. And maybe a really bad romcom on some definitely illegal website. Who knew anymore.
--
The nicknames came easy. Sunshine, Princess, Smiles. They came and went, but Sunshine seemed to stick more than the others. That's when you really begun to notice Dr. Robby.
You had a sort of playful relationship with him, you sort of did with everyone. You were funny and witty and cheerful in a way the emergency department lacked greatly. Hell, you might even have it worse than them sometimes.
It was when you noticed Robby's motorcycle that you knew he was losing it. You were in the parking lot, hiding from your responsibilities with a bento box packed from home in one of your rare "I'm gonna get my shit together" episodes. His donor-cycle, as you called it, was parked next to the rig.
"Nice ride" you called out as he walked towards you. He snorted "you don't think that."
You grinned. "Nice donorcycle. Ride safe" you knew he knew the risks. You transported them, he treated them. Two sides of one bloodstained coin. You got a polite nod. "No, I'm serious." You said, the smirk on your face not reading serious. "Ride safe or I get to see what you look like naked" you grinned, making a vague gesture to the blush pink trauma shears you were known for.
He made a snarky comment you didn't quite hear and got on his bike.
--
Unfortunately, the bit about one of you being shirtless wasn't too far off. The scene wasn't secure (last time you trust the fucking cops to secure it for you) and you had ended up with a sliced open arm. God fucking damnit that hurt. You were rushed to the hospital, probably because it was a suicide style cut, vertical and deep. Gnarly shit. At 2pm on a fucking Thursday, it was the PTMC you were delivered to. That meant that you were utterly screwed in the nonchalance department. Hopefully it wouldn't be too busy, but who knew anymore. You were bleeding pretty bad, your bone was visible. Dr. Robby was the one to meet you, working his too normal day shift.
For once, you weren't in control. Your voice rang out in the ER, not with statistics or snarky remarks about patient care, but about being scared. About how much it hurt. And boy did it hurt. A murmured prayer to whatever you believed in, because all you knew was there was way too much blood and not enough awareness to be okay.
--
Robby cut off your sleeve, revealing both the wound and the rest of your arm. In your attempt at a joke, you spoke up. "Thought I was gonna be the one to cut your shirt off, Robby." You said, trying to keep calm. Joking was your coping mechanism. It always was. He raised a brow "I guess not. Come on sunshine, you'll be okay." He looked up to another doctor "push the morphine."
Everything got hazy after that. You remembered Robby coming to check on you every two seconds, usually bringing you another warm blanket and some company. You remembered him coming in with discharge paperwork and asking him where the nearest bus stop was. You didn't expect him to offer to drive you home. But he did. Because he was Robby and everyone relied on him and he was trustworthy.
You walked with him to his car. It couldn't actually be his car, because he drove a motorcycle. It was a nice car though, sensible. Clean, too.
You got in the passenger seat, waited to give him your address. He just started driving, all the way to an apartment complex way nicer than yours.
"Do you want to go home?"
You thought about the apartment you would be going home to. The broken window barely held together with duct tape, the cracks in your pretty pink walls, your two blankets, and your "technically not broken" heater.
You bit your lip, thinking about it. "Not really. But I don't have anywhere else to go."
"Come on then"
He took you into the building, the heated building.
His apartment was nice. The walls were covered in photos of him at work parties and with a boy young enough to be his son. One featured him and a golden retriever puppy, a grin on his face. He had furniture too, real stuff. A kitchen table that wasn't found on the side of the road, for example. He led you to his couch, you didn't bother to speak. Tired and more intent on sleeping off the medication than worrying over why you trusted the man enough to sleep around him.
"You can sleep in my bed. I'll be out here" he said quietly, a rough edge to his voice. You were grateful, so you did as he said. Lacking clothes that weren't both uncomfortable and destroyed, he offered up a hoodie and sweatpants he said he kept from freshman year of high school and hadn't fit in since.
--
When you woke the next morning, you hurt. Stitches did that, you supposed. But still, you checked you weren't bleeding and made his bed. He came in with water, asked if you needed anything. You were too shy to admit it, but you were hungry.
He smiled a little, "you sure? Not even hungry a little bit?"
You shrugged, sheepish. "Maybe a little hungry."
He seemed to understand, pulled out his phone, and rattled off options. You picked whatever was cheapest and easiest (soup) and offered to pay. He didn't bother entertaining that offer however.
You sat on his couch together, watching whatever he put on. You hoped you weren't too close to him, because that would surely be embarrassing. He sat back, taking up the appropriate amount of space for his own home. You weren't sure why that was the way you were thinking.
—
You were pressed into the couch as if you were afraid to move. Polite and gentle and skittish, a stark contrast to the way you were in the ER. Robby wasn't sure if he liked this or not. He was close to you finally, but at what cost? He had ordered food, offered you pain medication, even helped you get to the couch -not that you needed it- no luck. You spoke as if you were waiting for him to kick you out.
"Do you want to watch anything?" He asked, waiting for you to say something, anything.
As he waited, he tried to stay focused. You couldn't be older than thirty, young as a resident. Off limits. Besides that, you were also paler than usual, breathing shallowly. Scared. He wasn't sure how he could help without making you uncomfortable.
He texted Abbot as they sat there, asking him what to do. He was incredibly unhelpful, so Robby just asked if you were cold. The shrug he earned made him think it wouldn't be awful if you were warmer, so he got up to grab you one, trying to think of a way to show you it was okay.
It was somewhere along that line he realized he was a little bit more than intrigued by you.
--
You were now covered in a blanket, a fuzzy crocheted blanket you figured he'd had as long as you had been alive. Maybe a little less time, but damn it was worn out.
Your wrist hurt, making you worry about how you were going to eat your soup when he put it in front of you.
"I.. I'm not sure-" you cut yourself off.
"You're not sure of what?" He asked, looking attentive but calm.
"How to eat this. My uhm.. my wrist really hurts to flex and I know the other hand is fine but I'm just- what if I spill on your clothes or your stuff and I just don't want to put you out like that-" he interrupted you with a hand up near your shoulder. "If you need help, tell me. I'm not worried about you making a mess. I would have dropped you off at your house to fend for yourself if I was going to be mad at a mess."
--
It got easier after that. He took you home, wrapping you in blankets like you somehow needed it to protect you from the cold. Like you had an awful flu instead of a sliced forearm. Your nose was pink in the freezing apartment building, and he turned the key for you. The shitty building itself already made him sad, nevermind how bad your house itself had to be.
The state of your apartment shocked him. The walls were pink, for one. Light pink. Not all of them, but some. The furniture was white, and your couch was definitely old. Real leather, but old as hell. That just wouldn't do. How were you supposed to get better in this house? The window was duct taped together, the curtains were very clearly made by you, and not incredibly well. You needed more blankets, not these thin things you probably acquired in the dollar section of Target he saw strewn haphazardly over the couch. You went to the kitchen to find your snacks, forgetting that the pantry was empty.
"Thank you. For the food and letting me stay and everything else. Really, I appreciate it."
"I'm sorry." He said, standing next to you. "Should have taken you home. Was just worried about you popping a stitch or something."
He looked in your fridge, probably trying to feed you again.
"Ain't nothin in there." You murmured "need to go shopping, but paycheck is next week."
What did you mean your paycheck was next week? Were you not going to eat until you got paid?
Instead of losing it, he simply slid a 50 across the counter. "We can go now." He offered, looking a little too earnest.
No. No this could not be happening. You had no way to ever pay him back and fucking hell there was no way that was going to happen. You couldn't be in debt to him, you had to work with him daily.
He didn't wait for you to respond, taking the look of panic as well enough. "I'll drop something off later."
Phew. At least that didn’t involve you playing with his checkbook.
That's when he changed the subject. "You can keep the clothes" he said with a shrug. "I had to pull them out of the garage last week, they were going to go to the homeless shelter. This feels more dignified anyways."
You silently thanked him, doe eyed shock present on your face. He pretended he didn't see it, and that it didn't make him want to pull you close. You seemed like you needed a hug, the cheerfulness gone from your face, replaced with a guilt he had only seen in Catholics and drunk drivers.
You seemed ready to burst into tears, but he didn't dare move. Nor did he look around. Just looked at the couple of dishes in your sink and asked if he could help you with them.
You nodded, biting into your cheek to stop the tears from rolling. You were so tired and so not sure how you were going to make it through the bills and then he was here helping you but god fucking damnit he wouldn't be here forever.
--
Robby looked at you, watching and waiting for you to crack. He saw the look in your eyes, the way you bit your lip and rocked on your feet and played with your cuticles. The way you looked at him, like he was some sort of angel, some helpful bad omen that meant worse was coming. He was doing too much, he knew that. But he needed to tread carefully if he wanted to do any more than that.
His next step was important. Crucial, if he wanted his plan to work.
"Anything else i can do to help?" He asked softly, not wanting to scare you off. He knew you wouldn't say yes, but he wanted you to. His salary had gone up this year, and he never did anything, so he had a shit ton of money saved up to do some magical thing he would never decide on. All he did was camp a couple times a year with Jack, occasionally buy a nice Christmas present for someone, and put his money away for further disuse.
Maybe this was a good use of all that money.
You looked at him in shock as he cleaned the dishes "I.. what? No you've done more than enough i mean we work together we've never even met socially and i know im a paramedic but im not an ER Paramedic so we don't have that whole bond in shared trauma of being pissed on by a psych patient thing going-" you continued to ramble for as long as he let you "plus like I clearly live fine, look at my house! I promise its nicer than it seems and i really really don't need any more help because that's the like definition of the greed they talked about in the Bible-" you paused "I'm talking myself into a hole. Sorry."
He just let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head a little. "Come on princess, you obviously aren't fine."
Those words were all it took. Suddenly you were silently crying, a couple of tears dripping down your face. You were a sweet kid, Robby knew that. He cleared his throat. "I know we all call you sunshine or princess, but what's your real name?"
You laughed "you know my name."
"I know your last name. What's your first?"
You paused.
"Y/n"
He smiled at that.
"Fits you."
You raised a brow, but refused to elaborate. He dried off his hands and looked at you again.
"Come here sweetheart" he said, waving two fingers. It didn't feel like a request, but for some reason you still didn't hesitate. You couldn't remember the last time you blindly followed orders. Nevertheless, you took the couple of steps until you were within hr-approved distance of him.
"A little closer, come on. Only if you want to. I promise I don't bite" he soothed, looking at you fondly. So you took the extra two steps into his now outstretched arms.
His jacket was soft, you noted. He smelled like aftershave and laundry. Not scented soap kind, but vinegar and washing powder kind. Soothing and inviting and just so him.
"Shhh, I've got you. I got you sunshine. You're safe with me." He spoke softly, hugged softly, as if letting you know that he meant no threat, that you could leave whenever you wanted.
You didn't leave though. You stayed in his arms, bundled into his chest, silent tears streaming down your face. He didn't try to move you, just held on and squeezed a little when you needed it. You pulled away after a long moment, now embarrassed.
"Hey" he said, waiting for you to look up at him. "Let's go sit down, yeah?"
You nodded and let him lead you to the couch, where you sat with him, leaning into him tentatively. He wrapped a shoulder around you.
"You can just call me Robby" he murmured into your hair. "And if you let me, I'll take good care of you. Nothing in return except for friendship. Sound fair?"
You thought about it for a second. "What do you mean take care of me?"
This was going to be his next obstacle. Convince the hyper independent late twenties paramedic to agree to being his.. cub..? What the hell, cub worked fine. Better than sugar baby, which made him feel like a creepy old guy. And a pervert.
He sucked in a breath, trying to find the words. "Buying you food, maybe I could get you real curtains. Or real blankets" you were about to protest, but were shot down with a look of don't even.
You knew the blankets weren't very thick, but you didn't know they were that bad.
Instead, you chewed your cheek. "Like a.. sugar baby..?" Your words came out awkward and clunky, embarrassed.
He almost choked on his spit. "What? No. Don't-" he cleared his throat "please don't call it that. It's not like that.. I have so much money saved up. you're clearly struggling, I think that if you would just let me help you, we'd all be happier. No strings, no mentions at work. Just your apartment not being in the worst building I've ever seen, and my well padded savings finally losing some of its weight. That's all it is."
You stared blankly. "So a sugar daddy who hates the term sugar daddy."
He nodded, a little flushed. "Yeah. Sure."
You chewed your lip, thinking about it.
It wasn't appropriate, he was almost twenty years older than you. It was legal, but was it ethical? Then of course there were the facts. It sounded nice. He was caring, and so so sweet. You on the other hand, were broke. Flat broke. 40 dollar budget for the week broke. Food bank broke. That was rough. So you did something stupid.
"Okay. How does this.. how does it work?"
He seemed surprised.
"Well for one, you let me buy you food." He said, now turned toward you a little. "And I'd like to watch movies with you, or take you to them if they're new. I know you like movies a lot. I think it might get us both away from work.” He sighed, running a hand over his face "you let me in. You talk to me and ask for things you need. If it's 4am and you say you need NyQuil I'll be over in 15 minutes with something better because I know NyQuil is awful for you." He smiled a little at that last part, and it made you let out a little snort. "NyQuil is so shit" you muttered, agreeing.
The next thing was more important than anything else, in his opinion.
"And if you are scared or alone or stuck in fucking China, you call me. If you're drunk at a bar thirty minutes from home and your card was snapped in half, you call me. I don't charge 50 bucks either, so that's nice. You need to trust me when I say that if you are reaching a limit, I'd tell you. Fortunately, I know you won't get anywhere near it."
His words made you feel less anxious, and you leaned into him. "And I don't have to.."
he looked a little shocked "no, no. Just friendship."
You nodded, looked up at him through your lashes. "I have to go back to work on Monday. I got the whole weekend off." You said, a little prideful of the fact. It was rare to get that shift.
"I have the same time off this week, sweetheart" he said, a small smile on his face.
--
He dropped off groceries at your place on Saturday, and blankets on Sunday. 6 of them. Plus a new jacket (yours was properly destroyed by the decade of wearing it), and a wrapped gift. The latter he handed to you when he got to your house at 7pm. The arm was healing nicely, but you were not looking forward to the months of desk work until you were medically cleared.
The box was a little heavy, yet well balanced. It was wrapped in pink paper with a white bow tied nicely on top. The paper was heavy, and a little hard to rip through. When you opened it though, you were shocked. A silver iPad mini. The next box he gave you was a light pink case with a keyboard attatched,
You put it down and practically launched your arms around his neck, the height difference not seeming to bother you in your excitement. You thanked him over and over, even though all he could do was hug you back and say you're welcome. He had no clue you would be so excited, and he kind of liked it. You were so pretty when you got that spark in your eyes.
You sat at your kitchen table like a kid in the soft glow of solstice candles, opening the box with giddy excitement. It was fucking adorable.
That night was the night he finally saw your bedroom. You led him into the room, cluttered as it was. A tapestry hung on the wall, pink flowers sat in the window, and your double bed was low to the ground. Pink sheets were covered in the white blanket he had bought you, and a fluffy pink pillow sat over your other pillows. The walls had posters of random animals, as well as photos stuck on your bulletin board. A full length mirror was on one wall, and your closet was a rack and a 1x5 shelf put down on its side to make a mudroom type design. It was so.. you.
He almost laughed when he saw the puppy posters with the inspiring quotes that made him cringe. You shot him a look that shut him up quick though.
"The walls were empty, okay?"
He laughed "i didn't say anything"
"You looked." You grumbled
He didn't bother to correct you.
Instead, he focused on the other thing on your wall. A map.
"What is this?" He asked, gesturing to the map.
"Southern California airspace. LA mostly." You said, looking up at it. "My dad was a pilot, hobbyist. Nothing crazy. But he had it left over, so I took it. Put it on my wall."
The way you mentioned your dad made him uneasy. He wasn't sure if it was the change in your eyes or the way you seemed to shrink into yourself. Either way, he wasn't sure about his decision suddenly. He was old enough to be your dad, sure. A young dad, but a dad. It made him feel like a creep. And if you already had a dad, what was he supposed to be? A dad? A friend? A lover? What the fuck was he doing?
Your words snapped him out of it. "One of these days I'm gonna get a cat. Maybe a tabby, a cute little one. Name it something stupid like Scribbles or Aster and live out the next twenty years of my life with it."
The thought made him smile. He didn't know you well, couldn't tell anyone who asked what your favorite song was, but he knew you liked pink. Maybe that was wrong, then. Maybe he really did need to leave and go back to being nearly fifty and alone.
You were pretty though. He was being selfish, he knew that. But there was something so fucking interesting about you. So smart and so young and yet so strong.
He had watched you deliver compressions for 20 minutes straight during Pittfest, going from patient to patient. It was nearly inhuman the way you moved, yet you didn't seem to care. Robby remembered that day well, of course. But that wasn't as shocking as the next day, where you complained once to your partner about your arms "kind of hurting."
Everything about you was a mystery, all he really knew was that you needed help. And god, he needed to give it.
—
An: well that’s it for chapter one! Let me know what you think, as always reblogs and comments help the most. Much love to everyone who reads this 🩷
