@achillieus - Tumblr Blog

May 3

all the things we carry - robby robinavitch x reader

summary: robby knows loneliness when he sees it.

content warnings: reader and robby are both messed up, so mentions of anxiety, insomnia and ptsd. big age gap!! mature content because reader and robby are also horny for each other, robby tries to be moral about it though. he fails

(i went back to writing fanfics just for this man and his layers)

You know what this is, how it goes. Crushes run their course and eventually they pass.

You’re certain about it.

It’s normal. Well, maybe it’s not normal, but it is, at least, expected. You spend so many hours together. You are used to looking for him, asking for his reassurance, his voice has become a wall between you and your doubts.

Back to the beginning

Your first shift. Everything cold and unfamiliar and him in the middle of it, steady and assertive.

You had struggled to remember his name before you finally conjured it. “Michael Robinavitch,” you had said, shifting awkwardly in your sneakers, “right?”

“Yes,” he had replied, ducking his head into a nod. “But everyone calls me Robby.”

Robby.

Robby was a tall man with broad shoulders, a neat beard and a firm handshake. People were careful around him, nobody wanting to appear incompetent, nobody wanting to look like they were trying too hard. His experience was compelling and so beyond you. In a way, he was terrifying.

And yet, when he stood next to you, with his hands bloody and inside a body cavity, when he made the world go quiet and guided you through something as big and important as saving a human life, you couldn’t help what you felt.

It was exactly the same thing you felt back in tenth grade, when you were wide-eyed and crushing on your math teacher, the urge to appear smart and pleasing and also to stick out, do anything to give him a reason to look at you, notice you.

But Robby was no small-town high school teacher and you were not a fifteen-year-old girl anymore. The excuses for fixating on the closest unattainable authority figure were running low.

Either way, it went on.

If you asked him, he’d probably say otherwise but Robby doesn’t really know what to make of you. When you came in, two years ago, you had this startled deer quality that was both off putting and endearing to him. He considers himself a perceptive person, it’s a crucial part of his job, and it doesn’t take him long to decipher the signs. You have a crush on him, he’s aware. And honestly, he thinks it’s ok, it happens. Despite the ghosts of his past, Robby is not the kind of man that sees the special regard of people he has power over, and reaches out towards it.

Robby is a goo-

Dana notices. Goes out of her way to remind him this is serious and he can’t keep making the same mistakes, he needs to be careful. I’ll keep an eye on you, Robinavitch.

Good. He trusts himself. Here’s something unstained and whole and so beyond him. He’ll keep it that way.

Robby tried to be Robby after Adamson’s death but he never really figured out how.

He still appeared confident and straight backed, even a little condescending at times. But if you paid attention, and you did, you could tell his composure was different, much quieter. Not in a positive way. It was a heavy, blue sort of quiet, like he was always falling.

It got worse after the Pittfest.

There was this morning, when you bumped into him at the coffee shop next to the hospital, both of you rushed and clearly sleep deprived. The circles under his eyes were intense and you had the impulse to trace them with your fingers. Grow up.

“Tough night?” you had asked him before you could stop yourself.

“Just another fucking Thursday for me.”

You think he had meant it as a joke, but somewhere along the way he had forgotten to laugh and it had come out sad.

He doesn’t let things slip and you learn to take what you can get – a brush of fingers when he hands you a tablet, a voice of commands when everything is fast and blurry. A nod of approval across the room. Sometimes a smile.

It seems quite funny at times. How close he is and how you cannot grasp him.

He tries to be blind around you, but sometimes he fails. And there are things he notices. Some of them, he makes an attempt to be rational about, note them down as mere observations that can come up in any mentor-mentee relationship.

(example: your keen interest for details others usually neglect)

It’s the other things that make it hard for him.

(example: the hint of jasmine perfume that follows when you walk into a room)

When he leaves the hospital and gets back to his empty apartment, kicking off his shoes and settling onto the leather couch, the white floral scent still lingers around him, sticks to his nostrils, spells out how lonely he is. Loneliness has always been innate to Robby, permeated through his being for as long as he can remember.

It’s times like these he decides he needs a proper distraction. From you, from all of it.

One day, when the inside of your head clashes and scratches and you find no solace, you tell Samira about it. You trust her like that. She asks you what drew you in, what it is exactly that you want from someone like Robby and how you might go about getting it.

Huh

You don’t really have an answer, but it’s then that it downs on you. Being alone is a weird thing, because here you are, not knowing if you’re seeking a friend or a lover out of him.

He starts kind of seeing this woman, Noelle, a nurse at the hospital. He’s not particularly happy to be fusing his professional and personal life once again, but Noelle is bright and beautiful and a disarmingly good kisser. She’s also occasionally cold. Almost cruel at times. He tries not to blame himself for how he holds her at a distance, things aren’t serious, for neither of them, they’ve said so.

Truth be told, it’s been a while since he hasn’t held people at a distance.

Not since the Jake thing

He agrees it’s for the better. Less commotion, less trouble, less broken shambles to pick up in the after. He has enough on his plate already.

It is easy to imagine Robby’s usual type. He must like strong, sophisticated women, women like Dr. Collins, who stand proud and tall, who are refined and beautiful. Not girls, like you, who are too smart for their own good and obviously a little off, jittery and frantic. You know you have a certain prettiness, the boys on the apps say so. You wonder if it matters to him.

What does he see when he looks at me?

For a while he thinks he’s doing everything he’s supposed to be doing. He isn’t sure what he feels, why he feels it, but he manages to wear a straight face and look at you with sympathy and pedagogical concern. At times he reads into the way you move around him, the way you come forward and then withdraw over and over again and he wonders what this is for you, what role you want him to take on.

Robby knows loneliness when he sees it.

It was supposed to end here. You were supposed to be patient for a little while and then go on, accept a position far away from him, grow up, forget and maybe even laugh about it in the long run. But that day in the stairwell, where you promised to keep each other’s secrets, things changed.

Here’s a secret:

After all this time, the aftermath of death is still embarrassingly hard on him. Here and there, he has nightmares about the whole thing. Wakes up soaked, freezing and almost gasping for breath. He knows how to get back, slow down his heartbeat, strip off the wet shirt, wait and shiver uncontrollably until the sweat cools on his body.

It’s worse when the nightmares come when he’s awake.

He thinks he’s been spared from these – haven’t had one since the Pittfest – but today they bring in a kid that looks just like Jake and Robby feels his skin burn and something break and grow in his insides, something like fear, or guilt. It gets bigger and bigger, extends itself like an oak tree, gets tangled around his heart and his lungs and he starts wondering why there’s so little air.

He leaves the room, rushes to the stairs, but his vision is getting blurry and his chest is stingingly tight as if he’s been underwater for far too long and he’s certain he’s going to stumble and fall and make a mess.

It wouldn’t be the first time

Now, though, someone’s there to grab for him. The door of the stairwell makes a sound and as he blinks salty sweat away from his eyes, he sees you only inches away, leaning towards him. He jerks back when your hands find his sides, but you’re firm and while you help him sit down, he can hear you whispering hey Robby, it’s okay, breathe, it’s okay, everything is going to be okay.

One of your hands curls around his forearm, the other brushing away the sweat from his forehead. If this were any other time, any other circumstance, Robby is certain he’d feel ashamed of the way he leans into your touch, the way his whole body calms down when your fingers trace his cheeks, the way every nerve inside of him unwinds when you stroke long lines over his skin. But now, right here, he just closes his eyes, he just lets this happen. Almost enjoys it.

“Do you need water?” you ask him. “I can bring you some.”

He’s still heaving a bit and his eyes look swollen and red. He runs a palm over his face, across his beard and down his throat and he finds it hard to look at you. This is a position he never expected to find himself in.

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” he lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry you saw that.”

Here’s another secret:

“After the shooting,” you tell him, “I couldn’t sleep. I would close my eyes and get so scared of what I saw.” Robby notices how your arms leave his body and cross over your stomach, as if to protect yourself, like a wounded animal. “Sometimes I still do.”

He knows he looks messed up and weak, very unlike of how he wants to be perceived. He knows you’re telling him all that to distract him, to comfort him, to tell him he doesn’t have to feel embarrassed. It's kind.

“Thank you.”

In the after, he will likely hate himself for it, for the relief he feels at your words, for the proximity he allows to settle between the two of you. He can almost hear the regret calling at him, but for now he turns away from it, appreciates the feeling of not being entirely alone for once.

The next time you’re in the same room he barely looks you in the eye and you’re worried this is how it’s going to be from now on. Robby is not the kind of person who will open up, get all gooey and talk about his troubles. He will more likely try to avoid you, go on as if nothing ever happened. Build his walls again, more solid this time.

You think it’s unfair, how he will move past this so easily and you won’t. There’s the burning in your fingers from touching his face and there’s the hazy sensation in your body from being so close to him. And there’s the ugly feeling of worry that creeps up on you. The confirmation that Robby is not doing well.

It’s not easy for him to reveal parts of himself, to feel exposed.

He tries to forget about this day and he’s good at it until it’s late and he’s in his bed, lying awake but with his eyes closed, like he usually does, and he finds himself thinking of you in the lethargy of this empty house. That same morning your presence had brought him unexpected comfort. It was easy to fall and fade into it. A moment of peace and quiet in this shifting and cutting world.

He knows it’s a bad idea, knows this is dangerous territory and he will later blame the lack of sleep for it. But the truth is, he hates to think of you alone and scared. A protective, almost paternal feeling washes over him.

Leaving the tv on helps with the nightmares, he texts you.

Two years in the hospital and you never feel bold enough to ask about him but you catch rumors and snatches of conversations anyway and you make your own assumptions. That Robby is not a particularly easy person. That he has things from the past that he still carries around. That he prefers his relationships skin-deep, just close enough to cover his aloneness with no real risk of harm.

So, when the text comes at 11pm, it comes as a surprise.

He thinks he hasn’t fucked up anything yet.

He thinks he’s just being kind. He would do the exact same thing for Santos or Mel, would do even more for Langdon once upon a time.

He contemplates whether he expects a reply, whether he actually wants one and what he’d get out of it, his mind is racing. He puts his phone on his nightstand and turns away from it, reassuring himself that this is nothing, that it amounts to nothing. He likes to take pride in his moral compass sometimes.

The phone chimes two minutes later.

Thank you, classical music works too

And then,

Goodnight Robby

Robby gets the urge to hit a wall – with his head.

You find it hard to sleep that night and it’s not because of nightmares. It’s because you can’t stop thinking about him. For all his brains and his perceptiveness, you doubt he’s aware of the effect he has on you. You go back, back to the first time it happened, when he was elbows deep in a man’s stomach and standing so close, you could smell his aftershave. You were good then, concentrated and perhaps a little committed to impress him, tying off bleeders much faster than the others. And he was looking at you, paying attention, a sort of pride in his eyes, that felt warm and exciting when it fell on you.

“Excellent work,” he had murmured, “You should come forward more often.”

The words of praise stuck to your head like chewing gum and the feelings came with no question. You got used to looking for him after that and he was always there, always in a safe distance.

Until now

Two years and three months later and his name is under the recent messages on your phone.

Maybe you’re overthinking this and he’s only being kind, probably thinks he has some sort of responsibility over you. Maybe he’s worried you’ll tell the team about the panic attack. Maybe he sent the text unthinkingly and went on with his life, brushed his teeth and got on bed. Maybe he’s not alone.

Whatever it is, you realize things are going to get worse for you.

The next day he makes a mental note and strives to behave like he usually does, show you nothing’s changed. Yet he allows himself five minutes. Five minutes of bad habits that he spends looking at you, observing you from afar. Your hair is tied back in a low bun, some strands falling out, framing your face, that lovely face that glows with the sheen of youth.

Too young, too young

You bite your lip as you tilt your head to take a good look at the board and all the thoughts he’s been keeping locked up suddenly emerge and attack him.

He should really know better.

“I see you Robinavitch,” Dana pats him on the shoulder, raising her eyebrows, “I see you.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, “Not doing anything.”

Still, it is obvious something festers.

You try to move through the next couple of shifts with some discipline and dignity and not let this thing become a problem.

When Garcia makes an unnecessary comment during a patient consultation and Robby steps in and defends you, you struggle not to let it get to your head. And when some days later you turn to look at him and find his eyes already on you, you can feel your body getting hot, your blood rushing through your veins and you know this is not something you can run away from.

It doesn’t help that he starts smiling at you at the end of shifts. You don’t really understand him. Sure, it’s nothing big, nothing too welcoming, but it’s new and it’s there and it’s for you.

Abbot finds him on the roof right when the sun begins to set.

The ten minutes they spend together between shifts are the easiest of his day. Abbot is his best friend and one of the few people that can bring him back down to earth. They know each other.

“So,” Jack says around a mouthful of protein bar, “I need the fawn to cover for Ellis while she’s away.”

Robby raises a brow. “The fawn?”

“Oh, you know. That smart little thing you keep pretending nothing’s going on with.”

“I’m not pretending,” Robby shakes his head and huffs a breath through his nose, “Why do you call her that anyway?”

“Looks like a fawn, acts like one when you’re around.”

Robby rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Ok, shut up.”

They know each other

It goes like this:

On Monday, you change to nights.

Good, he thinks.

No more distractions for a while. No more daydreaming. Back to the real world.

On Wednesday, he impulsively starts walking to work a bit earlier, when the city is still asleep. If they ask him about it, he’ll say it’s because he enjoys the peace and quiet. And if he also enjoys glancing over at the girl that passes, the one with the loosely braided hair, the charming smile and the jasmine scent, that is nobody’s business but his own.

He’s handling it.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

You step away for two weeks and Robby follows.

Those thirty minutes your paths cross every morning, you move through the ER hyperaware of his eyes on you and under no illusion things have shifted. Where he once was avoiding you, now he’s seeking you out. You can’t be wrong, not when you find a chai latte waiting for you at your desk one evening, a sticky note with his messy handwriting next to it, Classical music did help.

You put it in your pocket, cherish it, this first physical receipt of him, and you know that it’s probably the most he’s going to give you and if you want more, it has to be you to do the next big thing and breach the walls between you.

The note is nothing, really.

He’s handling it.

Actually, no, he’s not handling it, but he’s used to playing it off, shutting the horrible truths out, ignoring them until they disappear on their own. Avoidance is his method of choice when moving through the world. This though, this is starting to get away from him.

Two days ago, he was in the shower with Noelle, shuddering with pleasure, mouthing at the shell of her ear and whispering unintelligible words of encouragement when his mind went blank for a second and the world seemed to crash around him and then all he could think of was a pair of big glistening eyes, that didn’t belong to the woman in his arms and that he imagined looking at him, innocently from below.

He took a moment to collect himself, let the water wash away the shame that inevitably lingered and stained him.

Fucking fawns

He curses Jack Abbot and his stupid choice of nicknames. He curses Jack Abbot and his observation skills. He curses Jack Abbot and the visceral unclean images he put in his head.

He curses the PTMC and its Code of Conduct.

The only way out is through

He sits down and decides to go over it rationally. You’re off-limits, he knows. He also knows that is not the issue here. This is not some sort of middle-aged crisis where he goes after what’s denied to him, the forbidden fruit. Robby has his troubles but he is not that kind of man.

He doubts it matters. The fantasies come all the same and they make him feel soiled and weak. And the weirdest thing, the one that he finds unexpected and a little scary, is that the fantasies are not entirely sexual, not always at least.

One night, when he was feeling deep pangs of emptiness and the tv was humming in the background, loud and unable to fill the voids of his life, he sat up on his bed and caught himself imagining you there – leaning against the headboard, a breath away from him, your fingers brushing gently against his skin. And just like that day in the stairwell, he felt calm.

It’s precisely that feeling that is hard to explain. And to ignore.

It’s a hasty brave act, some wild, untrained and lonely instinct that tells you to pick up the phone, text him and save you both from the misery.

10:30 pm Listen to this next time Piano Concerto No. 23 in A major - Mozart 10:45 pm Are all my residents that musically cultivated? 10:47 pm I doubt Langdon can tell Mozart from Beethoven 10:50 pm Well, I'm guilty too 10:52 pm And here I thought you knew music 10:53 pm I'm more of a rock guy myself, but lately you're opening new worlds for me 10:53 pm Good to know :) 10:54 pm Oh and thanks for the chai 10:54 pm Anytime, sleep well doctor

When you do sleep, you dream of him.

He’s warm, strong and sliding his hands down your sides. You can feel him on you. Rough skin and hairy calloused knuckles. Same hands that you so often witness blood stained and saving lives, now moving underneath your nightdress, touching your sternum so tenderly. Your heart beats violently against your chest, almost painful, and he can hear it, I’m here baby, he whispers against your neck, his beard tickling your skin.

He pushes the clothing above your head, removing it, leaving you only in your underwear and shivering. God, you’re beautiful, he says before bending down and licking over your nipples. He takes his time, sucks and bites, draws sounds out of you, makes you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull at him.

You close your eyes when his hands grab at your thighs, caressing the soft flesh on the inside of your legs, before spreading them a little, just enough to press his right knee between them. Instinctively, you roll against him.

You move your hips in circles, your movements quickening and you stop a few times, to catch your breath, it’s okay little one, this is all for you, take what you need, he says as he runs a large hand over your lower back, steading you. You grasp his pants with a demanding noise and he understands immediately, nods and takes them off, lets you have his knee again, bare this time.

Fuck Robby

Your underwear is wet and wrinkled between you, rolling around at times, allowing him to feel your heat and your slickness. You hear him groan, you're opening new worlds for me, and your stomach feels so warm and heavy, makes you hump his leg faster, meaner. It gets messy with sounds and scents. You bring one hand underneath his knee, holding it in place, as your other palm grabs on his shoulder, scratching up.

I wanted to make you feel good for so long

The moment stretches and stretches until it splits when he reaches over and pushes your underwear to the side. You’re shaking desperately, you think you might die, you’re doing so well for me baby, and then,

You wake up in an empty room, almost out of breath, with your nightgown sticking to your body, a body that barely feels like it belongs to you anymore, and the place between your legs hot and aching. You stare at the ceiling for some minutes and promise yourself this is all going to be okay.

Then you turn to the side, find your phone and put some Mozart on.

You know, like you usually do when your dreams trouble you.

People talk about Robby.

Michael Robinavitch, wit, integrity and a mouth too smart for its own good.

Michael Robinavitch, dedicated to his work, fighting for his patients, for what he believes in, at all times.

Michael Robinavitch, grief in a human form.

The sabbatical thing is his deus ex machina. If you mention it to him, he’ll probably say otherwise but he signs the papers to escape the insides of his head. He tries not to feel guilty and coward-like for running away (Abbot goes out of his way to remind him he’s not a God, only a man), but sometimes he fails.

It’s surprisingly easy. Talking with Gloria, arranging things at the hospital and mapping out the road up to Alberta. He’s not keeping it a secret from anyone, but when Dana sees him walking out of Gloria’s office one afternoon, he doesn’t really go out of his way to tell her exactly what he’s doing. Not yet at least. He moves around the halls, looks at the photo of the team on the wall, sees Collins, and Adamson, sees happiness and spirit, everything he felt so many years ago. Tells himself that Robby then is not Robby now and that’s it. He wakes up every morning with the sun and counts down the days.

Two months to go

Two months is a long time.

And well, of course, you do complicate things for him.

Speaking of complications

Since the last dream, frustration and loneliness sting more than before.

Soon enough you take a leap of faith and it sort of becomes a habit.

Every few days you find a new avant-garde study to read, note down the parts you find most interesting and then, at night, you send him a link along with some well-thought observations, asking for his opinion, wanting to appear sharp and worthy of his attention.

The first time it was scary and you felt like a little kid, unsure of yourself, waiting by the door while holding your breath. But Robby replied ardently and unlikely fast, and you exhaled.

He usually challenges your remarks, asks hard questions that stir your mind and remind you his competency, the very thing that drew you to him in the first place. Sometimes he takes a minute and laughs in awe, When I was your age, I was definitely not that smart, and you can taste the pride in your mouth, sweet like honey.

And sometimes he gets a little warm and paternal-like, No more work today, eat something and try to get some sleep, and you smile until the muscles of your cheeks hurt.

Robby never texts you first. It’s deliberate. He likes to think he’s still keeping the lines and the formalities clear.

He’s always been prone to denial.

Maybe it would be different if he wasn’t that deep in years-old despair. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t looking for an excuse to crush his life. Maybe then, he wouldn’t spend his evenings anticipating your next conversation, transcending back to his foolish, happy, and hormonal teenage self. He would know how to blur you in with the other residents, stand on his feet, be Michael Robinavitch, the exceptional mentor and actually keep things in line.

But he is tired and worn out and feels aged. He lives his life stoically and in-between the hospital and his ever-empty apartment.

Noelle visits him on Tuesdays and Fridays, lets him go down on her for as long he wants and then rushes off to her late-night Pilates class. Robby realizes how much like him she is — self-righteous and avoidant, and for a moment it grates him.

When their schedules align, rarely, he goes out with Abbot, drinks, talks, laughs and looks away when the questions get heavy and serious.

“What the hell are you going to do all alone for three months?”

“Whatever,” Robby shrugs, “Might even start nude yoga.”

“Funny.”

The rational part of Robby — the part that recognizes his own choices brought him where he is, and the part that doesn’t believe there’s a way to correct everything gone awry in his life — that part doesn’t have any second thoughts about his trip. He’s ashamed to admit there’s another piece of him, small as it may be, that has taken the shape of a hope bubble and refuses to burst. He is fairly certain it’s the same part to blame for memorizing your perfume, or dreaming of touching you, or thinking that engaging with you was ever a good idea.

He is trying not to hold onto that piece for too long.

You’re walking home with Santos, whose apartment is within walking distance to yours, and it’s late and you’re a little foggy, exhausted and hungry, thinking about warm showers, Uber Eats and comfy sheets. Trinity is grumbling about Garcia constantly cancelling on her and it slips from your mouth absent-mindedly and before your brain can catch up to it, at least you had sex this year, and Trinity makes a laughing grimace.

“Wait, seriously?” She asks and when you just shrug, she decides it's her mission to get you a date.

You try telling her that you’re not really interested, that you’d rather spend your free nights doing other things, like dreaming about your out-of-reach attending, but you don’t find the right words or the right time, so eventually she sets you up with one of her friend’s cousin and you let her.

This is where fate gets funny and multiple things happen at once.

One — The boy, Alex, takes you to a Thai restaurant. He wears a shirt that looks expensive and spends half an hour talking about the law firm he works at. He’s hot, there’s no denying. But he’s not asking good questions, shows no desire or curiosity to know you. You make an effort to remind yourself you don’t have to care about that, you can just go home with him, let him peel off your clothes and kiss down your body. Have some fun, like Trinity said.

Two — Jack Abbot has the night off. He sits on his couch and thinks of catching up on some lost sleep, but considering his therapist recently changed his barbiturates and he’s still adjusting, he finds it hard. He calls Robby and twenty minutes later, there they are, having drinks at their regular dive bar, sitting entirely comfortable with one another.

Three — Alex grins and offers to walk you to your doorstep. Maybe somebody else, a normal girl, would smile back, thank him and lead the way. But you’ve already decided you’re not going to sleep with him and you really don’t want to go through the awkward phase of having to say goodnight to him outside your house, while avoiding any of his clumsy attempts for proximity. You make up a quick lie, something about an emergency with your best friend at a bar, and you flee. You hustle down four or five blocks, try to gather your mind, come up with an excuse to tell Santos, who’s probably going to kill you tomorrow, and forgive yourself for being the way you are. You need some vodka.

Unlikely paths do intersect sometimes.

In the middle of the sparsely-packed bar, you feel weirdly misplaced.

The thing is, you hardly know how to move outside the ER anymore. Your whole brain, the same one that gets you around the hospital, that is usually quick and sharp and high on adrenaline, that anticipates the cacophony, that has learnt to work through the tragedy and the worst of times, now stalls.

So, naturally when two pairs of eyes fall on you as you sit down and shrug off your jacket, you don’t notice.

Robby spends a long time looking at your face, before the realization settles into his stomach.

He escapes his dreams, only for them to follow him.

Abbot has the audacity to laugh.

“I’m going to leave now and you’re going to talk to her.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Robby.”

“Jack.”

Jack’s giving him a look that he knows all too well, a look that makes him feel a little ashamed that he’s giving himself away so easily and that says, despite everything, the only thing Jack wants and presses about, is for his friend to be happy.

“Whatever, okay.”

The alcohol warms you up, slows your head, gives you the luxury of mild pleasant confusion. When you hear his voice, you’re certain it’s a product of your imagination.

“Not studying clinical trials tonight?”

Yeah, well, Robby feels like an idiot.

It feels like a very long time that you spend watching each other, without speaking, wondering how to go on about this, this thing that is suddenly not messages, not dreams, but happening and in front of you.

“Is it alright if I—” He gestures in the empty seat next to you.

You’re still caught off-guard, still questioning whether he’s real, so all you do is nod. He’s wearing a dark blue plaid shirt and he looks good, sleeves rolled up and everything.

“Come here often?” You ask, as he says, “You know, this is Abbot’s favorite bar.”

This makes you laugh for some reason. A hundred bars in the city and you managed to walk into this one. The universe clearly has a sense of humor tonight.

He looks straight ahead, never lets his gaze linger on you and tries to make conversation for a while. Talks about the hospital, about your skills, about the last paper you sent him, about positions you could consider. He sounds like a teacher. He sounds scared and guarded.

“We can talk like normal people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think anyone else is talking about medical stuff in here?”

It’s his turn to laugh now. “Alright,” he hesitates a moment, turns to look at you, stares actually, “What do you want to talk about?”

Robby learns you have a cat named Vincent, that still lives in your parents’ house, where you grew up, because a) your landlord is a grumpy old man that doesn’t allow any pets in the building and b) you’d feel bad to have the poor animal all these hours of your shifts on its own. You learn he has no siblings and usually spends the holidays with Jack and his sister. He learns you know all this classical music from doing ballet as a kid and you learn he once won a chemistry contest, years back, when he was still in school.

You drink vodka and he drinks beer and time passes and neither says out loud, but you both know, it’s nice to be with each other.

And then, “Do you ever feel alone?” you ask him in a loud whisper and your stomach curdles a little at the hasty evidence of your issues.

He smiles, fidgeting with the rim of his glass. “I’m practiced at being alone.”

“It's not a skill,” you say, and you know what he means, really.

Robby knows it’s his responsibility to not make any bad decisions right now, to prove to everyone, himself included, that he’s learnt from his mistakes. That he’s not letting any other strings loose, not now, when he’s made up his mind on the future.

But there’s this feeling. It drops on him like a bucket of ice.

He is well aware of how it would make him look. He is also well aware of how he is supposed to act in such situations. Yet, despite himself, he offers to walk you back to your apartment.

You like walking next to him, it’s grounding somehow. Feels safe.

When you reach your building, it’s late and you’re smiling at him and caught between his head, his heart and his cock, he can’t find the words to speak. He just stares at you, impulsively takes a strand of hair that falls in your face, tucks it behind your ear and imagines a thousand different things.

“You can come up for one more drink, if you want,” there it is, out of your lips, with a sharp inhale.

It’s the same feeling again, hot and tunneling, inside him. He allows himself a second. Lets his eyes travel and curses whoever designed that short black dress you’re wearing.

He opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. He rubs a palm over his face, across his beard and down his throat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, I’m sorry.”

“Right,” he can tell you’re hurt and embarrassed and he hates himself for it, “We both need some sleep either way.”

"I-"

"No you're right."

When he tucks that piece of hair behind your ear, you can feel his hands on you, almost caressing on the intimate part of your neck. Rough skin and hairy knuckles, like in your dreams.

And you’ll remember it in the after.

Please, touch me again. You don’t tell him. Please, don’t let me be alone right now.

He makes you brave and you are certain you haven’t read this wrong, so when you offer and he rejects, it hurts a million times worse than you thought it would.

Right then, it downs on you how tall he is and you feel small, childish and stupid and wanting to disappear. But he does this thing, he pats your shoulder first and then hugs you on the side only for a moment, that is enough for you to memorize his scent, woody, and the weight of his body on yours. Goodnight kid, he says and off he goes.

Kid, you know it’s probably not his intention, but the word sounds mean.

When Robby goes home that night, he just can’t ignore it.

His whole heart is thundering, his whole body is warm and tense and disordered. He has the urge to walk back to your apartment, force his way into your room, tell you Hey, you can’t do that, you can’t come close and mess with my head, make you feel guilty. But simultaneously he wants to wrap his arms around you, properly this time, hold you into him until his muscles grow stiff and tired and the world goes quiet.

He ends up in his shower instead; forehead pressed against the cold tiles, mouth breathing out aching groans. He has his eyes closed, but the images are still there, agonizing him, driving his hips to spasms. When was the last time he wanted it this much?

When was the last time he wanted anything this much?

It must have been nothing, you figure.

All of it – the texts, the kindness, the look in his eyes – it must have been nothing. Maybe he does that with all the residents and you’re just too lonely and confused and reading into things wrongly. It’s a well-known truth after all; hungry girls eat anything.

You can’t make it go away, the memory of him staring at you and then shaking his head, withdrawing behind the lines you had so willingly crossed for him.

You try to sleep the embarrassment away but it stays, heavy and repulsive.

He’s not sure how to go on from there.

He doesn’t know what he should be doing, what you want him to be doing, whether you want him to be doing anything.

He watches himself working, watches you come in from the hall, into the sterile room. Watches the dread cover your face the moment your eyes meet, watches the way you carefully fix your posture and pull back into yourself and far away from him, and he can see it, the defensiveness of it all. You don’t want his gaze falling on you and exposing you. You want to be the one that decides what to give and what to take, to feel like this is something you still have some control over.

But at the same time, he recognizes the longing inside you, the need for him. It hits him like a whirlwind, makes his lungs burn and his nerves twitch. You are asking for Robby in a way Robby isn’t used to.

And so, he doesn’t know what to do, what’s the best approach, how to handle this.

Two days later he gets handed the transition paperwork, the form with your signature that awaits his.

“She requested this?”

Gloria nods and goes on to explain something about personal matters and family issues. “Dr. Abbot has been notified, he says it’s up to you.”

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. Whatever sensation he’s feeling must be akin to relief because some of the uneasiness that’s been tangled in his guts all this time releases. He doesn’t have to worry about what to do anymore — you decided for him. And yes, it’s a blow to his face but at least, it’s over now. He can forget about it and move on.

You know it’s stupid and childish to go and hide. You know it’s unnecessary too, because despite everything, Robby shows no signs of awkwardness or discomfort around you at work, he’s merely being his usual self. But this decision is more about you than it is about him.

You want to put a good 12 hours between you and give yourself a chance to forget about it and move on.

The ER is different at nights– not better or worse, just different.

From previous experiences you know what to expect; the quick but laid-back tempo of things, the witty comebacks of Parker and Shen, the reliableness Jack Abbot gives off, the trust he puts in his people. He has this quality, one that sets him apart from Robby and every other extremely qualified human in the room, where he always appears unfazed, calm and grounded, despite the buzzing chaos around him. He’s easy to follow and learn from, he’s easy to like and respect. It’s just that –

It’s just that he’s not Robby.

Good. That’s the point. That’s why you came here, remember?

Well, sometimes it’s easy to forget and you catch yourself looking around, searching for signs of him, almost worried. How is Robby? Is he fine? Does he breathe okay? The only news you hear are from Lena and they are the news of his departure – two weeks from now.

“Apparently, he’s going to ride all the way to Alberta.”

Knowing Robby, that’s unexpected and it doesn’t really answer any of your questions but you don’t have much time to think about it because there’s Abbot yelling at you to come look at a spleen with him, so you decide to trust that finally being away from the place that’s been haunting him for so long, might actually be good for him.

When Jack asks him, he says he doesn’t think of you. He prides himself on how much he doesn’t think of you. It’s easy to do when he doesn’t see you.

Jack knows when Robby is lying.

Once again, it’s a quip of fate that shifts things.

You have three days off and Dana’s annual barbecue night happens to fall amidst them. You make a bit of an effort to skip, emphasizing your exhaustion and how you’ll be bad a company or may even end up asleep in her garden but Dana is a difficult person to say no to, so you get out of your pajamas, prepare your go-to five-ingredient truffles and show up.

He’s standing alone with his back on the wall, waiting for Donnie to bring him a beer and wishing Abbot was there. And then,

It feels like a ripple, a flicker of light that he feels deep in his bones, when he sees you. He knew you were bound to run into each other eventually, but he expected it to be different – shift changes, black scrubs, sunrises and all.

This though, this is straight out of a film. Or one of his dreams. The afternoon light is falling down on you, dancing across your features, glistening against your skin. For all his strength and his composure, Robby can’t stop looking at you. You’re wearing some kind of boho embroidered white blouse that hoovers just above your hip bones and your washed denim shorts that leave your legs bare. God, help him.

He really hopes Dana is too busy to catch him staring.

You have Samira on one side and Cassie on the other, asking you how you are, whether you’ve missed them enough to come back to days already and your heart warms a little as you smile and say, I always miss you. And then you turn searching for Dana to give her the truffles and there he is, with his hands in his pockets and a khaki t-shirt that shows off the strong and thick muscles of his upper arms, there he is, with his somber brown eyes gazing at you from afar.

“You should go and say hi,” Samira says with an all-knowing look.

“I don’t think he-”

“Oh please,” Cassie says, grinning, “He lost all his gooeyness when you left.”

“When exactly was he gooey in the first place?”

The girls are laughing when Trinity comes around the corner with clear amusement in her face and her phone in her hands.

“Javadi is famous on TikTok!”

And while they look at the videos on the bright screen you can’t stop thinking about Cassie’s words.

It’s a ten-step walk but it feels so much longer. Your cheeks are burning and you worry you might trip over your words or worse – miss a step and fall, but somehow you manage to slow down the buzzing in your head, go up to him and say hi, Robby.

“Hey,” he smiles at you, a nice, polite, very grown-up smile, “I didn’t know you were here.”

He’s lying.

Robby saw you the minute you walked in. He just couldn’t help it; it was like his whole body reacted to your presence. But he thinks he can still play it off, lie about it and keep it hidden behind his teeth.

“Yeah, Dana would probably kill me if I missed this.”

I missed you, he wants to say but he goes for how’s Abbot treating you instead.

“He’s great, very funny actually.”

“I’m sure you’ll grow tired of him and come back to us,” he says as he plays with the beer bottle in his hands and he can’t tell if he means it as a joke or a prayer.

“I’m sure you’ll be in Alberta by then.”

“You heard?”

“Well,” you say, “It’s big news.”

He nods, keeping your gaze, steady as he can make himself. This is not something he wants to talk about. Not right now. Not with you. You’re trying to read his expression and his mind and he doesn’t like how close to the truth you might get. Because really, around you, he rarely has an armor.

“I’ll bring you a souvenir,” he chuckles.

“I’ll hold you to your word.”

You don’t talk to him much for the rest of the night and it’s okay. You’re all sitting together around the big table, sharing stories, jokes, and it could be the beers you’ve had but you swear you feel good, almost happy. Things are good. Robby’s here and you didn’t embarrass yourself or wore your heart on your sleeve for him, it was all as it should be, normal.

It’s a little before midnight when you get your purse, hug Samira, promise Princess you’ll bring her some more truffles at work, say goodnight to everyone and leave.

He should really sit down.

The urge is there, strong and instinctive and the alcohol in his blood is blurring his judgement and Dana is looking at him. He must be losing his mind. Tomorrow he will hate himself for this. He should really sit down.

Well, honestly, did he ever have a choice?

You’re not sure what to expect when you see him walking behind you. He yells at you to wait and you wonder if he’s drunk, you wonder if you are drunk and hallucinating stuff.

He stops when he’s close enough that you can smell his piney scent, looks at you for a moment as if to decide what to do next and then he touches your shoulder.

“Let me walk you home,” he says.

Of course. Of course, he goes and does this, right when things feel normal.

It almost feels like déjà vu; the road to your house, you by his side, the frantic beating of his heart. Last time it happened, he had pushed you away, got himself pining and aching and more alone than ever. So, he’s careful now. When you reach your building he leans against the door, takes your moonlit image in, whispers let me walk you up, and gets in after you.

Robby is in your house and all of this is very surreal and probably some sort of a joke that will end up blowing in your face and leave you in pieces. You blink and to your surprise he’s still there, standing right in front of you, mingling in with your old furniture and the photos on the walls.

Your whole body is tense, nervous and you have no idea what to do. You figure he’s just as lost cause he’s looking at you like you’re about to turn and run away from him.

“I can leave if you want,” he says.

“No, please.”

Robby sighs, his eyes flashing with something melancholic and dangerous. He’s been thinking about kissing you all night. He’s been thinking about kissing you for a long time now. He remembers something Abbot said to him once, oh boy she’s got you in trouble. He can hear it like an echo, only now it doesn’t scare him. No more running.

When he kisses you that night, he can taste the faded vanilla lip balm and the two-year-old despair. He feels like an idiot for waiting all this time. He’s almost afraid to touch you, to wrap his arm around your waist, to pull you into him, but you’re demanding – your fingers winding into his hair at the nape of his neck, your body arching towards his.

“I shouldn’t do this,” he tells you lightly but then he kisses you again and his hands tug at your shirt and bring you closer.

He knows he shouldn’t do this but at this point he can’t really find it in himself to care. He goes blank at the sensation of your lips on his and all he can think of is getting the right sounds and whimpers out of you, feeling more of you against him, holding you there for him, forever.

And then he breaks the kiss and strokes your hair, marvels at the way you look at him, eyes heavy-lidded and glistening and so hungry.

“Please,” you breath.

He’s hyper-aware of every single move of your body over his, your hands rubbing his chest, your hips grinding into his and it makes him want to swallow you whole.

“Sweet girl,” he says pressing a kiss into your hair, “What do you want?”

He decks his head, inhales the jasmine notes, scrapes his teeth down the soft flesh of your neck, licking and kissing and biting and you close your eyes and let out a moan and he thinks he forgets his name and his place in the world.

“I have to be sure about this, so you have to tell me what you wa-”

“Robby please,” you cut him off softly and blushing severely – and he can tell it’s because you’re partly embarrassed and partly overwhelmed, “I want you to touch me.”

It was as if he knew you.

That was the first thing you noticed when working with him.

In-between trauma rooms and death, Robby knew you. He could tell what you needed, how to push you forward. He saw right through your doubts and fears and let no space for them to grow. He wasn’t easy on you – he wasn’t easy on anyone. He asked difficult questions that pinned you down to the spot, but he never left you alone. He remained steady as a rock and walked alongside you until you got to the answer.

It was as if he could read your mind.

He could see when you were afraid, when you faltered and folded yourself like paper, wanting to appear small and trivial. And he knew how to pull you out of it. He showed you how to follow your instincts, how to do things scared, how to keep on moving.

You trusted him with you.

It feels a lot like that now too. Like he knows, like you can trust him.

He has his mouth down your neck, sucking at a sensitive spot and he makes you gasp when he brings one arm under your thighs and effortlessly wraps your legs around him. You are aware Robby is a big man, almost towering over you at times, but it’s different to feel that physically, to feel his large sturdy hands on you and to hold onto his shoulders for stability and still remember how fragile he is sometimes. Where you touch him, it’s warm and you can’t resist to ask for more, tug at his shirt and push it off. He lets it fall on the floor.

You trace along his bare chest and you don’t realize you’re biting down on your lip until he grazes your jaw with his fingers and pulls your bottom lip from between your teeth with his thumb. You press a small kiss to his fingertip – twirling your tongue a little on the top of it – your eyes looking up to his, and you see him furrow his brows as if in pain.

“I want to go slow,” he says, “But you’re making it hard for me.”

You grin at that, feeling some kind of strange power over him that makes your self-consciousness subdue, your body heat up and buck against him.

“Robby,” you whisper, smiling, “I’ve wanted this for so long, you don’t have to go slow.”

He worries a little. He thinks of his body and his age, of the things that can go wrong, of the moments in the after. He spent forever avoiding this, trying to ignore his feelings – whatever they were, desire or anything different than that – that he never thought about how it’d actually be, details and specifics, if it happened.

He carries you to your bedroom. He takes your shirt off along the way, runs his hand between your breasts and over the soft cotton bra, almost laughing when he notices the small bow in the center. God, he’s old.

He’s old and all kinds of messed up and doesn’t really know what you see in him, why you shudder when he lays you down on your bed and leaves one kiss on the flesh of your stomach and then one more, lower, on top of your jean shorts.

With a strange quick mix of hesitation and tenderness, he pulls off the denim clothing and the panties and takes in the image of you. Eyes closed, lips parted, nipples stiff and peaking underneath the bra. Legs open, the slickness and ache between them already apparent. And of course, your beating hungry heart.

All of this, for him to take.

Perhaps it’s unfair.

He can feel every muscle in your body, tensed and waiting, focused on his thumbs drawing circles on the inner of your thighs, getting closer and closer until finally he turns his hand and his middle finger pushes in just slightly, greeting the wetness.

“Robby –” you say and grab his shoulder. He starts stroking you, one finger swiping through your feathery folds and then moving up and down over your clit, rubbing soft patterns, and then dipping farther and farther inside you with each stroke. Your try to push into it, your hips moving clumsily against his hand and for a moment, when he looks at you, he thinks you have stopped breathing.

“Pretty girl,” he says and kisses your leg, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He thinks back to your early days in the hospital. Your initial wide-eyed innocent reaction, the slight moments of fear fed by inexperience and uncertainty, and later, the emerging confidence and the agonizing stubbornness to prove yourself. He remembers everything. That one morning where Abbot had confessed to him quietly, Sometimes I don’t know why I keep coming back here, and how it had stuck on Robby’s mind. The way he had searched all day for something to answer for himself. It was a tough shift, death in every corner he looked at, and it wasn’t until hour 6 that he was taking a breath in the nurses station when he saw you across the hall, playing with a little girl whose mother had been brought in after a car accident. His heart had warmed at the sight. It took him some time after that to realize how his eyes instinctively look for you in moments of despair. Always, as if in a grounding technique. It used to be like that with Collins too. But that story hadn’t ended well and Robby didn’t really believe in second chances, not anymore, not at his age. He thought he was only repeating the past and that the outcome was predefined, so he decided to avert his gaze whenever it fell on you and keep digging his grave.

And now, here, his stare is long and steady as he gets another finger fully inside of you, curls and pushes against the slick and soft of your walls. He can feel the pressure building up in your body and he enjoys the sensation, the knowing that it’s him that makes you whimper and blush and cry out. Your legs are trembling in his arms and it feels surreal and unfamiliar to him. It feels like – it feels like he’s finally breathing right.

“I want to see you,” he says when your hands go to cover your burnt up face, “I’ve been dreaming of you like this.”

That seems to do the trick. You grab onto his forearms and with something that sounds partly like a moan and partly like a sob, you come around his fingers, as he whispers sweet affirmations into your warm sticky neck, good job, you did so good for me.

Your heart is pounding.

So, this is what it is like. To have him here, have him touch you, tell you he dreams too, make you implode like a star. You are acutely aware of how you look: sweaty, open, flushed, startled by the new and honest sensation you’re feeling. You want him inside you. It’s a strange, greedy and vulgar thought, one you usually allow yourself to have only in the lonely afterhours, just now it’s different, fortified.

Robby is on top of you, breathing into you and biting gently at your earlobe, one hand still caressing your core. His other hand is pressed on your ribcage, pushing your bra up before he gets rid of it, playing lightly with your nipples, pinching at times. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he takes one breast on his mouth, kissing and sucking and nipping. And you can’t think about anything else than him. You wonder if he wants you to beg for it.

You reach down, tugging gently at his belt and you feel him laugh against your chest.

“Someone’s impatient,” he says and he helps you undo his jeans and take off his boxers.

You’ve done this before and yet for some reason the whole thing feels like an anxiety-inducing first time. You run your hand up and down his length experimentally, tracing your fingers along the hot velvety skin. You give a delicate lick to the tip and some faint kisses before taking him into your mouth. Robby groans and a funny proud feeling goes down your spine.

Then, suddenly, he pulls away and, in an instant, drags your face up to bring it across from his own.

“Hey,” he says and with the same brutal efficiency yanks your hips closer, “We’re here for you.”

You aren’t Noelle, you’re half his age and don’t know how to do some things and there are moments where he gets ashamed and scared he’s going to crash you, but you keep looking at him with so much ardor and warmth that he just cannot stop and when, finally, you find your rhythm together, his breath grows heavy and ragged. The pieces of you fit so well against his own and he’s feeling a bit raw, a bit numb, a bit like God. And of course, you’re not Noelle or Heather or anyone else if it matters, you’re you. You like it when he bites down your breasts and shoulders, and you like it when he cups your face and you can suck on his thumb, and you really like it when he arches his back – you make small sweet breathy sounds then.

Your body is hot and sweaty and he can smell the white flowers mixing in with the primal odors of want and he thinks this is it, this is worth to hold on to, to keep him from running away. And as if you’re reading his mind, you let out whispers that taunt him, don’t leave Robby, please, I don’t want you to leave.

What happens next, is a first for him too.

He’s deep inside you, thrusting in your tight grip, and he has his head into your hair, moaning and grunting and pressing kisses down on you at times. Your eyes are closed and when you open them and look up, it takes you some seconds to realize he’s crying. Robby’s crying.

He’s not entirely sure how or why it happens. He’s almost aware enough to feel embarrassed at it, at his current state. There are the muffled tears and the groans of pleasure, there is the heavy way he grasps at you, there are the words that trail out of his mouth, I don’t want to leave, please, let me stay here, with you.

When he was eleven years old, Robby’s mother left him at his grandparents and never came back. He didn’t really understand what was happening then, only that it felt a lot like a failure. Growing up he was always afraid there was something wrong with him, that there was a rotten part buried inside him that his mother had found out and walked away from. He spent the rest of his life trying to hide that part.

Hey Robby, can you breathe with me?

You can stay here, I’m not going anywhere.

"I think there's something wrong with me," he says in a whisper, still inside you, and with your hands cupping his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His whole body is shivering and he’s certain he can’t talk about anything right now.

“About the crying,” you press and he finds the strength to shake his head.

“No. I just – I just want to lay here with you.”

You settle into each other. His arm wraps tightly around your stomach and his face presses against the crook of your neck. He’s holding onto you, gripping almost desperately.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, “It doesn’t usually end like that.”

“Robby, I don’t care about sex,” you say with no hesitation, not even blinking. “I care about you.”

Robby exhales.

You had been watching him struggle for almost a year.

You’d catch yourself thinking about it, about him, and how much effort he was putting in. He was not like before; his hands were shaking sometimes, his face nervous and cracked despite of how adult, sure and knowing he was trying to act. He was rushing, forgetting to stop and breathe, chasing after the finish line and life. He felt responsible for every bad thing that happened inside the hospital, you knew that, and that’s why he was trying so damn hard.

You had been learning how to see right through him.

He would walk around, making sure to act as light and sarcastic as he could; make it mean nothing, be his old, happy and caustic self. It was getting hard to pull it off.

Now, in your arms, he’s big, wiry and muscled, with feathered, white hair across his chest that he probably feels insecure about. When he finally looks at you, you can tell he’s still embarrassed and trying to hide it, and it’s so unfair that he thinks he’s the only one that’s screwed up here.

You know you both need each other because fuck this life, how you’re fifty-three years old or twenty-seven – it doesn’t matter – and it makes you into someone you can barely trust or stand, how the misfortunes never seem to end, how you lose your hope and your sense of self.

You want him to keep looking at you, to never stop, but as you’re drawing circles in his forearms, he closes his eyes, drifting into sleep. You slump against him and he holds you close to him and you’re feeling a bit off and strange, as if somebody is cutting you open somehow.

Robby thinks about the past year, about him walking on his balance beam, about you circling around the drain in your own way. About Noelle and the sleepless nights, about the one-way road of his sabbatical. About how he feels calm now. About how having you around might be the one thing, the only thing, that can keep him here.

He thinks of asking you to come back to days because you can read his mind, because he needs to see you, close by and safe, because he trusts himself better when you’re there. He thinks of telling you he might be in love with you.

Instead, in his sleep, you’ll hear him murmuring I care about you too.

#dr robby x reader #robby robinavitch x reader #robby robinavitch x you #noah wyle #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x you

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