Request - can you please write a story where it's been a year since reader has been working at PTMC as a fellow and Adamson has been slowly noticing her and robby growing closer. and knows before they do that they like and love each other so he talks to both of them and helps them realize they do. then flash forward to the present and they're home talking about him please🙏 p.s. i love you're writing so much. i've reread so many of them multiple times and have some of my favorite lines written in my notes. i feel so lucky i get to read your fanfiction🫶🩷
The first year of your fellowship at PTMC had passed in the strange way all years in medicine seemed to pass, simultaneously impossibly long and astonishingly short. There had been overnight shifts that felt endless, codes that had blurred together, victories celebrated quietly in empty charting rooms, and losses mourned with exhausted eyes and coffee that had gone cold hours before. Somewhere within all of it, without either of you truly noticing, Dr. Michael Robinavich had become woven into the fabric of your days.
Not that either of you would have admitted that. Certainly not Robby. Adamson, however, had eyes. And more importantly, Adamson had spent nearly twenty years watching Michael Robinavich try very hard not to be human.
Which was why, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, while charting beside him in the attendings’ office, Adamson simply sat back in his chair and watched with no small amount of amusement as Robby looked up from his computer for the fourth time in ten minutes.
“You know, Michael,” Adamson remarked casually, never taking his eyes from the chart in front of him. “If you keep staring at the board every thirty seconds, it won’t make her CT result come back any faster.”
Robby frowned. “What?”
“The fellow.”
“What fellow?”
Adamson lowered his reading glasses and looked at him over the rims. “Oh, don’t do that. You’re much too old to lie badly.”
“I’m not lying.”
“No?” Adamson asked pleasantly. “Then explain to me why you’ve spent the better part of fifteen minutes pretending to chart while actually checking to see whether she’s come back from radiology.”
Robby blinked. Then frowned deeper. Then looked offended.
“I am doing no such thing.”
Adamson smiled to himself. God help him, he loved this man. Loved him the way a father loved a stubborn son. Loved him the way only years and wars fought together could allow. He had watched Michael go from med student to resident, to now an attending. Watched him bury pieces of himself under responsibility and impossible standards. Watched him choose medicine over relationships, over sleep, over himself. And he had long ago accepted that Robby would probably work himself into the ground before allowing anyone close enough to matter. Which made this infinitely entertaining.
“You saved her coffee this morning.”
Robby continued typing.
“I save everyone’s coffee.”
“No, Michael, you do not.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely do not.”
Robby sighed heavily. “Adamson.”
“No, no, this is fascinating. You’ve reached the age where you forget I’ve known you longer than half the attendings in this department have been practicing medicine. I know every version of your nonsense.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m not discussing this.”
“You bought almond milk.”
Silence. Adamson nearly grinned.
“I nearly had a stroke when I saw it in the refrigerator. You drink enough cream to stop a horse’s heart. Then suddenly there’s almond milk. Why? Did God descend from heaven and tell you dairy was the enemy?”
Robby didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
“Oh, my dear boy,” Adamson murmured.
“There is no boy.”
“No. Not me. You.”
Robby looked genuinely confused.
“I’m forty-two.”
“And emotionally sixteen.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Robby shook his head and returned to his chart.
“She’s my fellow.”
“Mm.”
“She’s brilliant.”
“Mm.”
“She works too hard.”
“Mm.”
“She forgets to eat.”
“Mm.”
“She’s too young to be carrying half the things she carries.”
Adamson slowly looked over. Robby stopped. The room grew very quiet. And for one tiny second, realization almost touched his face. Almost. Then Robby blinked.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Adamson burst out laughing. Actual laughter. The loud kind. The kind that made Robby stare at him as though he’d completely lost his mind.
“Oh, Michael,” Adamson said through his grin. “You poor bastard.”
Robby frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re doomed.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It means I spent twenty years convinced I’d have to arrange your funeral before I ever arranged your wedding.”
“Wedding?”
“Metaphorically.”
“Adamson.”
“You know what the funniest part is?”
“There are no funny parts.”
“The funniest part is that I don’t even think you’ve figured out you’re happy.”
Robby snorted.
“I am happy.”
“No, you’re content. That’s not the same thing.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Adamson smiled softly.
“Michael, you’ve been perfectly fine since Clinton was in office. Forgive me if I aim slightly higher for you.”
Robby stared. Not irritated. Not angry. Simply baffled. And beneath all that confusion was something Adamson recognized immediately. Fear. Because Michael Robinavich understood death. He understood medicine. He understood sacrifice and grief and impossible choices.
But happiness? Happiness terrified him. Because happiness could be lost. Adamson’s smile softened.
“You know what I noticed yesterday?” he asked quietly.
Robby sighed. “Apparently I have no choice.”
“You were in Trauma Two. She was in Four. She laughed.”
Robby blinked.
“So?”
“So, Michael, you smiled.”
“I smile at times.”
Adamson raised one eyebrow.
“You tolerate joy occasionally.”
“I smile.”
“No, son. You smirk. You grimace. You frighten children into behaving. Yesterday, you smiled.”
Robby looked away. And Adamson saw it. Saw the flush of pink creeping into his ears. Saw the discomfort. Saw the walls immediately beginning to go back up.
“She’s my fellow.”
“Yes.”
“And she’s young.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And she’s brilliant.”
“I know.”
“And she deserves—”
“Stop.”
Robby looked over. Adamson’s voice had changed. Not teasing anymore. Not amused. Just gentle.
“Whatever sentence you’re about to say, stop. Because I know you, Michael, and I know that face. You’re about to explain why she deserves something better than you.”
Robby’s silence said enough. Adamson sighed.
“My God, you’re predictable.”
“Adamson—”
“No. You listen to me. One day, someone is going to love you, Michael Robinavich. Not because you save lives. Not because you’re some hot shot doctor. Not because you’re brilliant. They’re going to love you because you’re you.”
Robby shifted uncomfortably.
“And when that day comes, I hope to God you’re smart enough not to argue with them.”
A voice interrupted from the doorway.
“Dr. Robby? Dr. A? The ambulance from McKeesport just called.”
Both men looked up.nAnd there you stood. Hair slightly messy. Coffee in one hand. Tablet tucked under your arm. And before you even said another word, you looked directly at Robby. Not Adamson. Robby. Without even thinking. Without even realizing it.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Your tea was getting cold, so I reheated it.”
Adamson froze. Robby froze. You blinked.
“What?”
Adamson looked between the two of you. At the tea. At Michael’s stunned expression. At your completely oblivious one. And then, with the satisfaction of a man who knew something the rest of the room didn’t, he simply smiled to himself and stood.
“Well,” he announced cheerfully. “Would you look at that. Miracles do happen.”
You frowned.
“What miracles?”
Adamson grabbed his chart and patted Robby’s shoulder as he walked past.
“Oh, nothing, sweetheart.” He squeezed Robby’s shoulder affectionately. “Nothing at all.”
But as he disappeared down the hallway, he couldn’t stop smiling. Because for the first time in years, Michael Robinavich had started looking forward to coming to work. And if Adamson had learned anything over a lifetime in medicine, it was this.
People did not survive because of machines. People survived because of hope. And for the first time in a very long time, his boy had hope. Even if the idiot had absolutely no idea.
*******
By the time spring arrived in Pittsburgh, everyone in the emergency department had quietly accepted two things as indisputable facts. The first was that Dr. Michael Robinavich was the finest attending physician any of them had ever worked with. The second was that whatever strange gravitational pull existed between the chief and his fellow had become impossible to miss.
Everyone knew. Everyone except the two people involved. Collins knew. The new med student McKay knew. Dana Evans knew. Princess nearly choked laughing one afternoon after watching Robby walk halfway across the department because you had sneezed. Even Mateo, who claimed to notice absolutely nothing outside of medicine and soccer, had once muttered, “Jesus Christ, somebody needs to tell them.”
Nobody dared. Nobody except Adamson. Because Adamson had long ago decided that God Himself had given him the sacred responsibility of meddling in Michael Robinavich’s life. And frankly, he intended to take that responsibility seriously.
It was nearing midnight after one of those endless shifts where the department never seemed to exhale. You and Robby had been running since seven that morning, surviving mostly on caffeine, adrenaline, and whatever protein bars Dana managed to throw in your direction. The waiting room was finally beginning to clear, and Adamson sat in the physician workroom with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, reviewing labs while pretending not to notice the scene unfolding in front of him.
You were asleep. Completely asleep. Head resting on folded arms. Still sitting at the desk. And beside you sat Robby. Charting. Quietly. Carefully. Protectively.
Adamson watched as Robby reached for the blanket draped over the back of his chair and, with all the gentleness in the world, covered your shoulders. The movement was unconscious. Automatic. Like breathing. Like second nature. Like love.
Adamson nearly smiled himself to death. Robby settled back into his chair and continued typing. Then, sensing eyes on him, looked up. Adamson was staring. Not even pretending otherwise. Robby frowned.
“What?”
Adamson blinked innocently.
“Nothing.”
“You have a face.”
“I do.”
“The face.”
“What face?”
“The face that says you’re about to say something.”
Adamson shrugged.
“I was simply admiring.”
“Admiring what?”
“The miracle of modern medicine.”
Robby sighed heavily.
“Adamson.”
“No, no. Continue. Please. Ignore me.”
Robby narrowed his eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“And yet beloved.”
“I question that.”
Adamson smiled.
“No, Michael. You question everything.”
Robby returned to his chart.
“Goodnight, Chief.”
Adamson chuckled.
“No need to get grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re pouting.”
“I don’t pout.”
“Son, you’re old. Everything you do looks distinguished. Even pouting.”
Robby snorted despite himself. And then, without taking his eyes from the screen, he said quietly, “She’s exhausted.”
Adamson glanced over.
“Hm?”
“She’s pushing herself too hard.”
“Yes.”
“She won’t stop.”
“No.”
“She needs a day off.”
“Probably.”
Robby sighed.
“She’s stubborn.”
Adamson smiled.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“And?”
Robby stopped typing.
“Adamson.”
“And?”
He sighed again.
“I worry.”
Adamson’s expression softened.
“I know.”
Robby looked down.
“She’s too good.”
“Yes.”
“She deserves support.”
“She does.”
“She deserves someone who—”
“Michael.”
Robby stopped. Adamson’s voice had gone soft. Not teasing. Not joking. Not mentoring. Just loving.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, Robby did.
“Why do you insist on making yourself the exception?” Adamson asked gently. “Every patient deserves compassion. Every resident deserves grace. Every nurse deserves support. Every person in this hospital deserves kindness. But somehow Michael Robinavich doesn’t?”
Robby looked uncomfortable.
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, son. It’s exactly what you said.”
Silence settled between them. And for the briefest moment, Robby looked heartbreakingly young. Not the man who carried an entire department on his shoulders. Just Michael. Just the boy Adamson had met decades ago. The boy who had spent so much of his life believing he had to earn every good thing.
“I just don’t want to make things difficult for her.”
Adamson smiled sadly.
“My dear boy, do you really think that woman sees you as difficult?”
Robby didn’t answer. Because deep down, he feared the answer. Adamson reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
“One day you’ll let someone love you, Michael.”
Before Robby could answer, your head lifted. Sleepy. Disoriented. Beautiful in that exhausted, fellow-who-had-been-up-for-twenty-hours kind of way. Your eyes immediately found Robby. Not the room. Not Adamson. Him. And your voice came out soft.
“Michael?”
The name. Adamson’s head snapped up. Robby blinked. You blinked. Everyone blinked. Because you’d never called him that before. Never. Always Dr. Robinavich. Sometimes Robby. Always professionally. But half asleep, with your brain somewhere between dreams and consciousness, you’d let the name slip. Your eyes widened.
“Oh my God.”
Robby froze. You froze. Adamson, meanwhile, looked as though Christmas had arrived six months early.
“I—” Your face went scarlet. “I am so sorry.”
Robby stared.
“No, it’s—”
“I don’t know why I said that.”
“No, really—”
“I swear I don’t usually—”
“No, I know—”
“Oh God.”
And then, to Adamson’s absolute delight, Michael Robinavich’s ears turned pink. Pink. The attending of emergency medicine. Blushing. Like a teenager.
“It’s fine,” Robby managed.
You covered your face.
“I want to die.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
Adamson burst out laughing. Not politely. Not subtly. Laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.
“Oh, this is magnificent.”
“Adamson,” Robby groaned.
“No, forgive me, I just need a moment.”
“Please don’t.”
“I have waited months for this.”
“Months?” you repeated.
Adamson composed himself poorly.
“My apologies. Continue pretending you’re not hopelessly devoted to each other.”
The room fell silent. Your eyes widened. Robby looked horrified. And Adamson smiled sweetly.
“What?”
“Adamson,” Robby warned.
“What? I said devoted. You’d think I’d announced grandchildren.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No, Michael, I’m observant.”
You laughed nervously.
“Dr. Adamson—”
“Sweetheart, I am eighty years old. I have earned the right to meddle.”
“Eighty?” Robby muttered.
“Sixty-two. The spirit is eighty.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. And Adamson noticed something. Something that made his heart ache with affection. Because when you laughed…
Michael smiled. Not politely. Not because he had to. Not even because something was particularly funny. He smiled because you were happy. You were looking at him. Not even realizing you were. Like he was home. Adamson had seen thousands of relationships. He had seen marriages that lasted fifty years. He had seen affairs that lasted six months. He had seen people lose each other. He had seen people find each other.
And as he looked at the two idiots sitting before him, red-faced and flustered and utterly oblivious, one thought settled warmly in his chest. Oh, they were going to break each other’s hearts someday. Because everyone eventually loses someone. That was life. But before that day came…
These two were going to love each other with everything they had. And if God was kind, Adamson hoped he would live long enough to see it. Because Michael Robinavich had spent his entire life taking care of everyone else. And as Adamson watched you unconsciously reach over and slide Robby’s tea closer to him without even looking…He thought, with quiet certainty, There she is. There’s the woman who’s finally going to take care of my boy. Even if neither of you had figured it out yet.
******
The summer before everything changed was, in many ways, an ordinary one. Which was perhaps why Adamson treasured it so much. Ordinary was a luxury in emergency medicine. Ordinary meant there were no disasters. Ordinary meant the waiting room was merely busy instead of catastrophic. Ordinary meant residents complained about charting, nurses rolled their eyes at physicians, and Michael Robinavich drank entirely too much tea while pretending he didn’t enjoy the ridiculous pastries Collins kept bringing in every Friday. Ordinary was beautiful. And somewhere in that beautiful ordinariness, Adamson had watched two people slowly become inseparable.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Not with grand declarations. It was smaller than that. You always knew when Robby had forgotten to eat. Robby always knew when you were overwhelmed before you did. You knew how he liked his tea. He knew exactly how many sugars you put in your coffee. You stole his pens. He stole your granola bars. You sat together during trauma conferences. He waited for you after difficult shifts. And perhaps most telling of all, Michael Robinavich had begun laughing again.
Not often. Not loudly. But enough. Enough that Adamson noticed. Enough that everyone noticed. Enough that, sometimes, when Robby wasn’t looking, Adamson would simply sit back and thank God.
Because happiness looked very good on his boy. Which was why, one evening after a brutal twenty-four hours, Adamson finally decided enough was enough. The three of you had stayed late finishing charts while the department settled into the strange calm that came sometime after midnight. The halls were quieter, the fluorescent lights softer somehow, and the city beyond the windows glittered in the darkness. You were gathering your things. Robby was pretending he wasn’t exhausted. And Adamson was watching both of you with the expression of a man who had reached the end of his patience.
“Sit down.”
You looked up.
“So authoritative.”
“Decades of practice.”
Robby frowned.
“Adamson—”
“Sit.”
You grinned. Robby sighed. And somehow, despite being chief of emergency medicine and a man fully capable of running an entire department, Michael Robinavich obediently sat. Adamson smiled in satisfaction.
“There. Wonderful.”
You laughed. Robby pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What crime have we committed?”
“No crime. Merely stupidity.”
“Adamson.”
“No, Michael. No interruptions. I have earned this.”
You looked amused. Robby looked wary. Which only made Adamson happier. He folded his hands.
“You two are exhausting.”
You blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I have practiced medicine for fifty years. I have survived lawsuits, budget meetings, interns, managed care, and the invention of the electronic medical record. And somehow, despite all of that, you two have become the greatest test of my patience.”
Robby groaned.
“Adamson.”
“No, son, you’ve had your turn.”
You laughed softly.
“What exactly have we done?”
“What have you done? Sweetheart, you’ve spent the last year falling in love with each other while behaving as though everyone around you is blind.”
Silence. Complete silence. You stared. Robby stared. Adamson looked delighted.
“There. I said it. Finally.”
“Dr. Adamson—”
“No.”
“Adamson—”
“No.”
“We’re not—”
“Oh, stop it.”
You and Robby exchanged horrified glances. Adamson sighed.
“My God, you even panic together.”
“We’re…friends,” you managed.
“Wonderful.”
Robby nodded immediately.
“Exactly.”
“Marvelous.”
“We work well together.”
“Splendid.”
“We respect each other.”
“Outstanding.”
“We care about each other.”
“Excellent.”
“We—”
Adamson raised a hand.
“Michael.” Robby stopped. “Son.”
His voice softened. Not teasing now. Not amused. Just gentle.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, Robby obeyed.
“When she has a bad day, whose office does she end up in?”
Robby frowned.
“Mine.”
“When you have a bad day, whose voice calms you down?”
Robby hesitated. Silence. Adamson smiled softly.
“And whose opinion matters to you more than anyone else’s?”
Robby looked away. Adamson turned to you.
“And sweetheart, when you have good news, who do you tell first?”
You swallowed.
“Robby.”
“When something scares you, whose hand do you reach for?”
You couldn’t answer. Because you knew. And Adamson knew you knew.
“Who makes you laugh when you’re tired?”
“Robby.”
“Who notices when you haven’t eaten?”
“Robby.”
“Who are you looking for right now?”
Your eyes immediately shifted. To him. And Adamson nearly smiled himself into the grave.
“There.”
You looked stricken. Robby looked stunned. And neither of you said a word. Adamson sat back in his chair.
“Children.”
“Adamson,” Robby whispered.
“No, listen to me.”
The room quieted. And suddenly he wasn’t joking anymore. He looked older. Softer. The years visible around his eyes. The wisdom earned from a lifetime of loving and losing.
“Happiness doesn’t come often.”
Neither of you moved.
“It doesn’t. People think it does, but they’re wrong. Life gives us moments. Little moments. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, God gives us people.”
His eyes rested on Robby. And the love there nearly broke your heart.
“Michael, I have known you a very long time.”
Robby swallowed.
“You’ve spent decades taking care of everyone else. You’ve buried yourself in work. You’ve convinced yourself that service is enough and sacrifice is noble and loneliness is simply the price brilliant people pay.”
Robby looked down.
“And son, I have allowed that nonsense because I knew you weren’t ready to hear otherwise.”
His voice gentled.
“But you are now.”
Robby’s eyes were shining.
“Adamson—”
“No. Let an old man finish.”
Then he turned to you.
“And sweetheart, you’ve spent your whole life carrying things that were never yours to carry. You’ve worked too hard, expected too much from yourself, and loved people who didn’t always know how to love you back.”
Tears stung your eyes. Adamson smiled.
“But this man?”
He nodded toward Robby.
“This man loves deeply. Quietly, stubbornly, and completely. He won’t say it first because he’s terrified.”
Robby looked scandalized.
“Adamson.”
“Terrified.”
“I am not—”
“You absolutely are.”
You laughed through tears. Adamson smiled triumphantly.
“And you, sweetheart, are brave enough for the both of you.”
The room grew quiet. Outside, the department hummed. Monitors beeped. Footsteps echoed. Life continued. But inside that office, time seemed to slow. Adamson looked between the two of you. His children. Not by blood. But by love. And he smiled.
“Listen carefully, because I don’t repeat myself.” His voice was so gentle now. “If either one of you walks away from something beautiful because you’re afraid…”
His eyes twinkled mischievously.
“I will haunt you.”
You burst out laughing. Robby actually smiled.
“That’s not funny.”
“Oh, Michael, I promise you it is. Ask my wife. I can be very annoying.”
“Can?” Robby muttered.
Adamson grinned. And then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he loved this stubborn, beautiful man like a son and loved you already like a daughter, he reached over and squeezed both your hands. And quietly, with all the tenderness of a father sending his children out into the world, he said the words neither of you would ever forget.
“Life is so very short.”
His smile softened.
“So don’t waste time.”
Neither of you realized then how prophetic those words would become. Neither of you knew that within a few years, a pandemic would sweep across the world. Neither of you knew that grief was coming. That loss was coming.
That the man sitting across from you would someday become the ache both of you carried together. But Adamson knew life. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he knew something else. That he wouldn’t always be there to take care of Michael Robinavich. And so, as he looked at you sitting beside him, eyes soft whenever you glanced at Robby, he felt peace settle in his chest. Because for the first time in decades…
He wasn’t afraid anymore. His boy was going to be alright. Not because life would be easy. Not because tragedy wouldn’t come. But because someday, when Adamson couldn’t stand beside Michael anymore…You would.
And as the three of you left the office together that night, with you and Robby still blushing and protesting and pretending Adamson was ridiculous, the old physician simply smiled to himself. They’ll figure it out. They’ll love each other enough for the rest of their lives
And that, Adamson thought happily, was more than enough.
******
After Season One
The apartment was quiet. Not peaceful. Not restful. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that followed catastrophe. The kind that came after sirens stopped screaming and helicopters stopped circling and the adrenaline finally bled out of everyone’s veins, leaving only exhaustion and grief behind.
PittFest had ended hours ago. But neither of you had truly left. Not really. Because mass casualty incidents had a way of following doctors home. They lived in your bones. In your dreams. In the spaces between breaths. And they stayed.
You had showered because Robby asked you to. Robby had showered because you practically shoved him into the bathroom. Neither of you remembered eating dinner. The dishes sat untouched on the counter. The television was off. The lights were dim. And for the first time since arriving home, Dr. Michael Robinavich sat perfectly still.
He sat on the edge of the bed in a pair of sweatpants and an old PTMC t-shirt, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Not moving. Not speaking. Not even pretending to read.
Which scared you. Not because he was angry. Not because he was upset. But because Michael Robinavich always moved. He cleaned. He organized. He made tea. He folded laundry. He fixed things. He carried things.
Stillness meant the burden had become too heavy to carry. And tonight, after what the hospital had endured, after what he had endured…You knew.
You quietly set down your own book and climbed onto the bed beside him. Not speaking. Not asking. Not fixing. You simply sat. Shoulder against shoulder. And waited. Because that was something Adamson had taught you. Years ago. Long before COVID. Long before he died. Back when you had still been a fellow and Adamson had found you crying in a supply closet after losing your first pediatric trauma. You had apologized. He’d laughed.
Then sat beside you and said, “Sweetheart, people always think doctors have to fill silence. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is sit beside them and let them know they don’t have to be alone.”
So you sat. And you waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Until finally Robby whispered into the darkness.
“I kept hearing him.”
Your heart broke. Because you knew immediately who he meant. Adamson. You reached for his hand. And Robby squeezed yours like a drowning man.
“I kept hearing him all day.”
His voice sounded rough. Exhausted. Raw.
“There’d be a decision and I’d hear him. Somebody would panic and I’d hear him. Collins nearly bit my head off and all I could think was that he’d find that hilarious.”
You smiled sadly. And Robby’s voice cracked.
“He should’ve been there.”
The tears came immediately. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet. A fifty-two-year-old man finally allowing himself to grieve.
“He would’ve known what to do.”
“Oh, Michael.”
“He would’ve walked in and everybody would’ve calmed down because he always knew what to do.” He laughed softly through tears. “And he would’ve called me dramatic.”
You smiled through your own tears.
“He absolutely would’ve.”
“He would’ve told Frank to stop swearing.”
“He would’ve failed.”
“He would’ve tried.”
You both laughed quietly. And then Robby’s face crumpled. Really crumpled. And suddenly he wasn’t the chief. He wasn’t the brilliant attending everyone leaned on. He wasn’t the man who carried entire departments. He was simply Michael. Adamson’s boy. And his voice broke.
“Fuck, I miss him.”
The words were barely audible. But they shattered you. Because in fourteen years of knowing him, you had seen your husband cry exactly three times.
Once when he lost a child. Once when you miscarried. And once at Adamson’s funeral. But this? This grief had never really left. COVID had stolen Adamson. And Michael Robinavich had never stopped missing him.
You climbed into his lap without a word. Just like you had a hundred times before. And immediately his arms wrapped around you. His forehead dropped against your shoulder. And for a while, neither of you spoke. You simply held him. Held the weight he was too tired to carry. Eventually he whispered quietly against your neck.
“Do you remember when he figured us out?”
You laughed softly.
“Oh, before we did?”
“He was unbearable.”
“He was insufferable.”
“He laughed at me for buying almond milk.”
You burst out laughing.
“Oh my God.”
“He mocked me for three weeks.”
“He adored you.”
Robby smiled. Small. Broken. But real.
“He adored you too.”
The room fell quiet again. And after a long moment, Robby spoke softly.
“He loved you.”
You blinked.
“Honey—”
“No.”
His voice was certain.
“He did. He loved you.”
His eyes were wet.
“He trusted you.”
Your own tears spilled.
“He trusted me with you.”
Robby nodded.
“Yeah.”
Silence. Then his voice grew smaller.
“So why do I still feel like I’m disappointing him?”
Your heart physically hurt. Because there he was. The boy Adamson had met decades ago. Still searching. Still wondering if he was enough. Still carrying impossible expectations. You cupped his face immediately.
“Michael.”
He looked up. And your voice softened.
“That man loved you with his entire heart.”
Robby’s eyes closed.
“He would’ve been proud today.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes.”
“He would’ve—”
“He would’ve been proud.”
Your forehead rested against his.
“He would’ve looked at you after the twentieth patient and told you to unclench your jaw.”
Robby laughed.
“He hated when I did that.”
“He would’ve called you bossy.”
“He would’ve called me worse.”
“He would’ve.” Your smile trembled. “And then he would’ve hugged Collins.”
Robby snorted.
“Against her will.”
“Against everyone’s will.”
He smiled again. And this time the smile lingered. Because for one beautiful second, Adamson wasn’t gone. Not really. He was there. In the stories. In the memories. In the love. And as you lay down together beneath the blankets, Robby curling around you with his face buried against your neck like he always did when he was hurting, he whispered one final thing into the darkness.
“So much of me is him.”
You stroked his hair gently.
“I know.”
“And so much of me is you.”
Fresh tears stung your eyes. And then, quietly, sleep beginning to pull at him, he murmured words that made your chest ache.
“I think he’d like us.”
You smiled into the darkness.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
And somewhere in your memories, you could practically hear the old man’s voice. Like he was sitting in the chair by the window with those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose.
Children. I adored you. But Michael? Michael was always my boy.
And sweetheart? Thank you for loving him when I couldn’t anymore.
And with your husband’s arms around you and his breathing finally evening out against your heart, you kissed his silvering hair and whispered into the darkness, to the mentor you both still missed and the father Robby still carried inside him.
“We’ve got him, Adamson.” Your hand rested over Robby’s. “We’ve got your boy.”
And for the first time since PittFest… Michael Robinavich slept.
*******
After Season Two
Nearly a year after PittFest, you knew something was wrong before Michael Robinavich ever opened his mouth. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t one catastrophic shift. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t even unusual. That was the terrifying part.
Nothing had happened. Which meant everything had happened. Because exhaustion didn’t always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes it came quietly. Sometimes it arrived after years of being strong. Sometimes it crept into the spaces grief had hollowed out and simply whispered, You’ve carried enough.
And your husband had been carrying enough for a very long time. COVID. Adamson. PittFest. Leadership. Residents. Losses. Expectations.
The impossible burden of being the man everyone leaned on. The world saw the chief. You saw Michael. And over the last month, you had begun noticing things.
The tea he forgot to drink. The books he no longer finished. The headaches. The way he’d stare out the kitchen window after work. The sleepless nights. The exhaustion behind his eyes. And perhaps most telling of all…
He’d stopped laughing. Not entirely. But enough. Enough for you to notice. Enough to worry. Enough that one Thursday evening, when the front door opened and your husband walked inside, your heart dropped. Because he looked old. Not physically. Not really. But tired. Bone tired. Soul tired. He set his bag down. Missed the hook entirely. Didn’t even notice. And Michael Robinavich never missed. You stood from the couch immediately.
“Hey.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” His voice was gentle.
Soft. But empty. He smiled at you. And the smile didn’t reach his eyes. And just like that, you knew. Not tonight. Tonight, your husband had nothing left. He bent down to take off his shoes. Stopped. And simply sat on the floor. Not because he intended to. Not because he wanted to. But because he didn’t have the energy to make it another ten feet. And when he looked up at you, his eyes were wet.
“Hi.”
Your heart shattered.
“Oh, honey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He laughed weakly.
“I’m sitting on the floor.”
“So?”
“So I don’t think I can get up.”
His voice broke. And then the tears came. Not violently. Not dramatically. Just the quiet collapse of a man who had spent too many years being everyone’s safe place. You sank down immediately and wrapped your arms around him.
And for the first time since Adamson died…
For the first time since PittFest…
For the first time in years…
Michael Robinavich stopped pretending. He buried his face against your shoulder. And he cried. Not because he was broken. Not because he was weak. But because he was exhausted.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
You held him tighter.
“I know.”
“I can’t keep—”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how.”
“I know.”
His shoulders shook. And after a long while, after the tears quieted and his breathing steadied, you gently took his face in your hands.
“Michael.”
His eyes were red.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
He did.
“You know what Adamson would say right now?”
He laughed wetly.
“That I need to unclench my jaw.”
You smiled.
“He absolutely would.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“And he’d tell me to stop apologizing.”
“Without question.”
“He’d tell me I look terrible.”
“He’d say you’ve looked terrible since Clinton was president.”
Robby laughed. Really laughed. And suddenly you could almost see the old man sitting in your kitchen. Reading glasses crooked. Coffee in hand. Smiling at his ridiculous children. The thought made tears spring into your eyes.
And then you said softly, “Honey…if Adamson walked through that door right now and saw you like this, what would he tell you?”
Robby’s smile disappeared. His eyes fell. And after a long silence, his voice came out almost as a whisper.
“He’d tell me to stop trying to earn rest.”
Your throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“He’d tell me being tired isn’t a moral failing.”
“Yes.”
“He’d tell me I’m not thirty anymore.”
You smiled.
“He’d absolutely tell you that.”
Robby’s eyes closed.
“And he’d tell me…”
His voice cracked.
“He’d tell me it’s okay.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks.
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. And suddenly you saw it. Not the chief. Not the attending. Not the man everyone depended on. Just Adamson’s boy.
Still trying to make his mentor proud. Still wondering if he was enough. Still afraid to stop. And so you reached over to the coffee table. Picked up the folder. And handed it to him. Robby frowned.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Should I be frightened?”
“Probably.”
He opened it. And stared. His eyes widened. Therapy appointments. A three-month sabbatical proposal. Financial spreadsheets. Fishing reservations. Books he’d been talking about reading for two years. Weekend trips. Sleep schedules. A list of restaurants. And, clipped neatly to the front page…
A sticky note. Written in your handwriting.
Life is so very short. Don’t waste time.
Robby froze. Completely froze. And suddenly his lip trembled.
“Oh.”
Fresh tears spilled down his face. And you moved closer.
“Sweetheart…”
“He said that.”
“I know.”
“He said that.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked. And suddenly he was crying again. But differently. Not from exhaustion. Not from despair. But from being loved. From being seen. From finally understanding he didn’t have to carry himself alone. And after a long moment, he whispered brokenly,
“You made all this?”
You smiled softly.
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“Three people made it.”
His eyebrows furrowed. And you touched his cheek, wiping a tear.
“Me.”
Then you touched his chest.
“You.”
And finally, you smiled through your tears.
“And one very annoying old man.”
Robby laughed through his tears.
“Oh God.”
“He’d be unbearable.”
“He’d be insufferable.”
“He’d say I looked terrible.” Robby shook his head, smiling now.
And then, to your surprise, he suddenly stood. Not gracefully. Not quickly. But with purpose. And he disappeared down the hallway. Confused, you followed. Until you stopped in the doorway of his office. Because there, hanging on the wall above his desk, was the framed photograph. Adamson. Smiling. Arm slung around a much younger Michael Robinavich. The mentor. The father. The man both of you still loved.
Robby stood in front of it quietly. Hands on his hips. Eyes shining. And after a long silence, he smiled. Not sadly. Not brokenly. Just lovingly.
“Alright, old man.”
You leaned against the doorway. And listened.
“I’m listening.”
His smile widened.
“I’m tired.”
Silence.
“I’m happy.”
Another silence.
“And she’s taking very good care of me.”
Tears stung your eyes. Robby looked back at you. Really looked. And suddenly, for the first time in months, the light had returned. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough. And he smiled that beautiful smile you had fallen in love with all those years ago.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
You did. Immediately. And when you wrapped your arms around his waist, he kissed the top of your head and rested his cheek there. Together, the two of you stood before the photograph. Three hearts. Separated by time. United by love. And if Adamson could have seen you then…
His brilliant fellow. His stubborn boy. Older now. Silver-haired. Still hopelessly devoted. Still making each other laugh. Still choosing each other. Still building a life.
He would have smiled those soft, proud eyes. And perhaps squeezed your shoulder affectionately before muttering with all the satisfaction of a father whose greatest prayer had been answered.
“Took you long enough.”
Because life had been short. Just as he said. Painfully short. But love? Love had endured. And in the end, Adamson had been right about one thing above all else.
Michael Robinavich had finally allowed someone to love him. And you? You had never once argued with him about it.
Pitt/Leverage crossover idea where Harry fakes being a doctor for a heist. Only, partway thru the con, he does actually need to play doctor For Real and has to ask Breanna to patch his medical emergency contact thru the team comms.
And now his brother, Robby, is trying to verbally walk him thru a surgery or trach or something (thank GOD he's good at teaching in a crisis) while trying to figure out where the fuck his brother is and why he's on a 6-way phone call with a bunch of bickering strangers.
Bonus Twist: They end up having to rush the con to the ER anyway, and Sophie and Parker rope Robby into pretending to be Harry-pretending-to-be-Robby to save the con (and perform some medical miracles) while actual Harry-still-pretending-to-be-Robby tries to float around the ER without drawing attention or getting pulled into any crises.
(Except they notice their Robby is wrong immediately (he's way too cheerful), and Dana benches Harry while trying to keep the ER afloat during their temporary MIA attending crisis. Also everyone grills Harry to learn more about Robby.)
me, a writer, at 3am: WHAT? I CANT FIND THE SPECIFIC FANFIC THAT I MADE UP IN MY MIND WITH A WHOLE PLOT AND ORIGINAL CHARACTERS??? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE??? DO THEY EXPECT ME TO WRITE THE STORY I THOUGHT UP OF???
I know we all joke about the jet ski scene in Tron: Ares
But can we appreciate that ares took the time to safely and accurately take the right approach into carrying someone on a vehicle like that who was in the verge of drowning. Like that’s the correct way to do that, it looks very weird but it’s so you can hold onto said person to keep them secure and monitor their condition while driving.
I just realized that in the episode where neal and peter switch places, neal asks peter to bring him coffee with "cream, no sugar" and peter puts the entire packet of sugar in it out of spite 😭
One of the things I'm super fascinated by is the difference in nature of Eve's digitisation vs. Julian's.
When Julian digitises Eve and she ends up on (in?) the Dillinger Grid, she very much has an appearance that falls more in line with her being a User. She's got almost a Flynn vibe to her (also kind of mixed with that of Legacy's Sirens) complete with the white of the Users we're so familiar with. And her disc reflects that, being the bright blue-white and looking nothing like the programs' discs (which I think is a neat touch because even Flynn's disc in Legacy appears to the eye as nothing special despite him being the Creator iirc.) Eve's disc is gorgeous imo.
But Julian's is a whole different story.
Julian doesn't initially begin his own digitisation. I mean, he does, kind of; he has to initiate it in the end and step into the beam, but It's almost like the idea wasn't really his in the first place. At least that's how it reads to me. This is how I interpret the Julian scene(s) toward the end of the film. Agree or disagree, that's up to you.
He's standing by the laser control terminal as the news reporters are covering what has gone down and how the blame is being put on Dillinger Systems, but the screen flickers without any User input, acting with a mind/will of its own, and who should it be restoring but a certain program—
My dearly beloved Sark.
Julian even looks at this when it begins running like tf is going on here but with the long arm of the law threatening to close in on him, he's not really thinking about it too much.
Truthfully, I don't think he really understands the implications of that. Certainly not in the heat of the moment. He's being hunted by the police, blamed for all the destruction Athena has wrought (rightfully so) and with Elizabeth having been murdered by Athena, he's likely on the hook for that too. It's looking dire and he can feel the noose tightening around his neck.
Maybe had he had the chance to stop and think, he might recognise that program name from his grandfather's legacy. Maybe only Ed Dillinger Jr. would have picked up on it and that's just Dillinger history he's unaware of.
Maybe he wouldn't. Sark in all the OG media I've seen was just Sark. His name wasn't an acronym for anything that we were ever told about. This is the first I can recall ever seeing SARK in the sense that it stands for System Analytics and Reporting Kernel.
But regardless, there's clearly a ghost in the machine. Maybe Ed Dillinger Sr isn't well and truly gone after all. Maybe there's some other shit at play and that's why Julian's inheriting the legacy.
I know Legacy doesn't really have too much bearing on this film, but with the Flynn Lives ARG info and the Tron: The Next Day short that was released with the DVD, we know Ed Dillinger Jr was in contact with his father whose username had MCP_ in it. I don't remember the small string of numbers. 7XX? Whatever. I think that has to be foreshadowing something.
It would be super fucking fascinating if the song Shadow Over Me was actually about Julian/Sark in the end.
Here I stand, indiscreet, obsolete
Now I know for sure
Poisoned thoughts infiltrate, eradicate
Now I know for sure
I know what I am, I know who I am
And I know what I have to do
I know what I am, I know who I am
But what if everything is true?
I got a shadow over me
I am not what I appear to be
And I know that you believe in me
And it feels so real, and it feels so real
Idk I get some mad Julian vibes here. If the shadow's Dillinger Sr, the poisoned thoughts are his transformation into Sark, and once he slips on that identity disc he'll 'know who he is'...?
ANYWAY, I GOT LOST ON A TANGENT.
Going back to Julian proper now and the scene—once that runs, Julian's laser systems begin to take on a life of their own, but with the Dillinger Grid just taken down by the ENCOM team to stop Athena and her army, the system needs to be rebooted.
And that's when Julian springs into action, running his command prompts to bring the laser systems back online. He reboots the laser systems, reverses the transfer, and steps fearfully into the beams, digitising himself.
Then when he gets to Dillinger Systems' Grid? Oh, wow, it's a mess. Nobody is there to oversee his arrival. Unlike Eve, his clothes did not change at all from what he was wearing. He has no circuitry, no bodysuit, no armour. Granted, Eve's circuitry didn't blaze until her identity disc was connected to her port, but still.
The identity disc that is created for him is not his. Not really. It's not the disc of a User. It's Sark's identity disc from the OG film, and if that initial prompt and the voice of the MCP saying "...Sark..." when Julian approaches is anything to go off of, that's Sark's backup restore loaded onto that disc that is going to merge with Julian's own identity whether he wants it to or not.
Also the way the MCP voice says Sark's name when he reaches for it is like exactly the way it is said when the MCP is pushing all its functions into Sark's corpse at the end of the OG film to use his body to protect him.
Julian's 'acceptance' of that identity disc is PAINFUL. Eve didn't have that kind of visceral reaction when she got hers. Just a sudden jarring return to consciousness so to speak, but she wasn't hurt. Julian screams.
I wonder if they'd spin this like a Rinzler/Tron type situation. Or if Julian's rage and grief is just going to mesh nicely with Sark's personality.
Is this kind of going to be like repurposing but for a User? With this disc, what kind of permissions will he have? The MCP should not* exist anymore, so unlike original Sark, he serves no master.
Will he be able to do to the Grid what Clu could only manage if he obtained Flynn's disc? Can he get into other systems? If he can get into ENCOM's system somehow is that going to force them to do something similar and grab a backup of Tron??
Are Sam and Quorra gonna step in? Are we maybe going back to Legacy's Grid somehow??
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