NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
Not sure if anyone will actually see this, but I am going to press pause on Tumblr for a while. This platform feels a little weird right now, and I feel like I’m posting into a void.
I’m not sure whether it’s the algorithm or what I’m posting, so I’m taking a break for now.
If you’re even remotely interested in continuing to follow my WIPs, I’ll be over on AO3.
Summary: Two older doctors walk into a bar…and are absolutely in awe of you. How long will it take for one of them to corner you and have their way?
|| angst, Dr. Robby x Reader, Dr. Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Abbot x reader, Dr. Jack Abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: Nine chapters later, we finally have some contact! Kiss all the time and disco occasionally responsibly, my lovelies, and enjoy this chapter. <3
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit copying without my permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
When Robby walked into the bar, you were already secluded to a minuscule portion of the establishment due to a crowd of smiling faces cornering you to offer congratulations. He could see your tomato cheeks all the way from the entrance, and all he could do was smile as he took in the sea of faces that showed up simply for you.
He couldn’t remember a time when he felt love at that magnitude, but instead of feeling a pang of jealousy or longing, a quiet sense of joy filled his chest. Well, scratch that. There was a sense of longing, but he was in public, and he needed to tamp that down if he was going to hold any semblance of a conversation tonight.
It wasn’t exactly appropriate to walk up and hug you with a raging boner because he got fucking excited over a text message from you. This wasn’t the time or place, and he recognized that as a logical man. However, seeing those pink cheeks shining across the room. God, he was fucking a goner.
Led by the younger doctors who weasled this side quest out of him after Santos spotted him texting with blushed cheeks, Robby and Abbot hung back as they maneuvered through the crowd. The two older doctors briefly glanced at each other in a what-the-fuck-are-we-doing kind of way, but then they caught your smile and anything other than getting near you was completely forgotten.
Finally, Javadi and Mohan were both able to push to the frontlines to bring the group directly in front of your shining self. Robby cleared his throat and tried to remember how to breathe. Abbot, beside him, looked at the ground and began counting to four, holding one breath in and the other out and swaying on his feet.
The two men caught on to the other’s breathing techniques and immediately stopped. They, of course, were too cool and unbothered to be nervous.
After a smattering of nervous hellos and compliments from the line of twenty-somethings in front of them, suddenly there you were. Right in front of him. You smiled at both men, flanked by Mohan and Jivadi on one side and Becca and Mel on the other. Becca clutched your arm with the biggest smile on her face, and Robby’s expression softened at the sight.
You looked up at him with a smirk, “Well, well. We meet again, Ponyboy.” His cheeks immediately turned a violent shade of cherry. You turned to Jack. “Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s own eyebrows raised in surprise. You remembered him?
He stared at you with that intense thousand-yard stare of his, but you only had eyes for Robby and his simple black tee that looked yummy on him. Was that a chain peeking out of his shirt? You squeezed the arm of the darling girl next to you, who was just so happy to be here.
You looked over at her sister, Mel, and shot her a reassuring smile and said, “Why don’t we check out the patio in the back? It’s a lot less crowded, and I could do with a breeze.”
She smiled at you gratefully and tried to lead her sister outside, but Becca would not be moved unless you led the way. And so you did. Your little troupe passed Santos, Whitaker, Dana and Langdon, who were holding court at the bar with your bandmates, as you made your way to the back patio.
The second the balmy breeze hit your skin, you sighed in relief. After the show, you’d changed into a white slip dress, but kept your lavender kitten heels on for a pop of color. Despite the fresh clothing, you were still a sweaty mess following what felt like the biggest night of your life.
You fucking did that.
You felt as if you were wandering through a dream world right now, beaming like an idiot but still riddled with anxiety.
You found a table that could easily accommodate your group, and everyone except you and the older doctors found a seat. You gathered your hair in your hand and let the breeze cool your neck. A soft sigh of relief left your lips.
Both Abbot and Robby stiffened at the sound, but the rest of the group was clueless to their downfall by way of your soft sounds.
“Can you sing Lavender Skies again?!”
“Becca, she’s probably tired and doesn’t want-”
You smiled, shaking your head and shooting a wink at the pair of sisters. “The bartender already made me promise to sing a song or two. Let me get a drink in me, and I promise I’ll sing that song and one more of your choosing in a bit.”
This lit a fuse under the entire table. Jivadi leaned across Mohan to try to convince Becca to choose her favorite song, and so began a battle of your catalog. The younger King sister smiled smugly as she listened to their pitches.
You blushed when you saw them fight over your repertoire. The feeling only deepened when you felt the deep voice of a certain doctor behind you.
“You want a drink?” The voice was like a roll of velvet down your back. You looked over your shoulder to see Robby smirking down at you. In your peripheral vision, you watched Abbot slowly walk back inside.
You smiled softly at the man who’s been the only thing able to break through the constant stream of nerves and notes in your head. “I do. Come with me?” He blushed and nodded.
Before you left the group, you called over your shoulder. “Anyone want anything? First round is on me!” Distracted by their intense conversation about which song to pick for their second selection, they quickly called out their drink orders.
A vodka cranberry. A Pimm’s cup. And two ginger ales.
Robby waited until the two of you reentered the crowded main area of the bar to grab your hand. You took a sharp intake of breath and squeezed his hand as he led you into the bar.
He was making sure you didn’t get lost. He absolutely wasn’t losing his mind trying to find ways just to touch you.
However, the second you leaned over the bar top to place your order, your name was yelled across the stretch of patrons lining the wooden top. Your head snapped up to see Jesse next to Santos, Whitaker and Langdon with a line of shots in front of them.
You immediately started shaking your head, which of course only prompted the group to chant your name. Children.
Robby, who was carefully measuring the space between your body and his as he stood behind you, leaned in to whisper, “Go ahead. I’ll order the drinks.” You twisted to look at him and started to argue, but he just smiled. “Go.”
“Fine, but please tell the bartender it’s on me. I already have a tab open, and I want to treat you all as a thank-you. Grab yourself one. And Abbot! And-”
He leaned in. “The sooner you take the shot, the sooner we can-”
He was interrupted again by your name being screamed at an ungodly decibel. You may have jumped from the sheer volume of the little quartet killing themselves for your attention, but your cheeks were fiery red at the implication in Robby’s unfinished sentence.
“Yes. We can.” Your voice came out breathless. He nodded slowly and briefly debated closing the gap between you, but he didn’t have the chance. Presumably tired of your little chat, Santos weaved her way through the crowd and to you, clutching your arm and yanking you toward the neat line of shots waiting to be drunk.
As if remembering you were flirting with her attending, she called back, “Don’t worry, Dr. Robby! One shot and a dance, and she’s all yours.” He blushed again, and you giggled as she pulled you towards the tequila.
As he leaned over to place the lengthy drink order, he heard Santos yell, “Arriba! Abajo! Al centro! Pa’ dentro!” Shortly, a clank of glasses and a collection of groans and hisses.
He looked over to see you calmly nodding. Well, that just wasn’t fair. You weren’t allowed to get hotter.
The bartender returned with the line of drinks and yelled, “You want some help with this, boss?” Robby nodded in thanks and pointed to the patio. He moved to grab the drinks, but the bartender waved him off. “I got it. Go dance.” This made Robby laugh. As if he could pry you from Santos right now.
He lifted his whiskey in thanks and turned around to lean back against the bar, watching as Santos and Whitaker dragged you to the center of the small dance floor to the beat of Waterloo by ABBA.
Having been abandoned, Langdon made his way over to Robby, which made the older doctor grumble and cover it up with a healthy sip of his whiskey. A second later, Abbot joined on his other side, and the three men watched as your trio twirled to the beat.
You looked so fucking happy.
His assessment of you was short-lived, thanks to a spunky charge nurse who, frankly, was at her limit watching these men do nothing but look.
“Robby. Langdon. Abbot. Get off your asses and dance!” She was immediately answered by a chorus of grumbles and hello nos.
She shook her head and planted herself directly in front of the trio of too-cool men with her hands on her hips. “You mean to tell me we came to this bar just so you can stare like a couple of fucking creeps?” Now, the chorus crescendoed into synopated denials. She just laughed.
Langdon shook his head and walked off toward the patio. Abbot silently shook his head and turned toward the bar to nurse his IPA in peace. This gave Dana the perfect opportunity to lean in and whisper in Robby’s ear.
“There are a dozen guys waiting for their chance to ask her to dance. You’d better make a move before someone else does.” Her statement was timed perfectly with the end of the song. Slightly panicked, he looked to the crowd to find you smiling softly at him. Dana smirked at the pair of you. Your cheeks were flushed now as you wove your way back to him.
“Hi.”
“Hey, kid.” Dana pulled you in for a quick hug and peck on the cheek. “You were fucking sensational tonight.”
You thanked her before she pulled away to shoo Abbot. You looked over to see her whispering in his ear. Maybe they were a thing? You locked eyes with Abbot, and the two of you stared for a brief second, his intense stare never leaving your face. You blushed at the brazenness, biting your lip. Okay, maybe they weren’t.
After a few more words from Dana, she pushed Abbot in the direction of the patio. Santos and Whitaker were still too busy cutting a square on the dance floor to realize they were the only PTMC characters showing off their dance moves. You doubted they cared much.
You turned back to Robby, who watched you with soft eyes. “Hi.”
You smiled and leaned in. “How much convincing would it take to get you to ask me to dance?”
He smiled, sweeping his head from side to side. “None at all. I’ve been waiting for my chance, but you’ve been pretty popular tonight.”
You tossed your hand in a who-cares gesture and tilted your head. “Well, that’s good to hear because I’ve been wanting to dance with you ever since you walked in.” He leaned in closer to you, and a whiff of your amber perfume caught his nose. Sultry and warm and fuck. He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the smell.
You caught the movement and laughed lightly. “Do I smell good, Dr. Robby?”
He groaned softly and nodded. “Like fucking heaven.” Did he really just say that? He almost groaned in embarrassment, but you leaned in closer.
“Yeah?”
He nodded and tentatively rubbed a single finger down your arm. “We can’t wear cologne or perfume at the hospital because it messes with our senses. Prevents us from being completely aware while assisting a patient. But you…” He took another slow inhale. “God, you smell so fucking good.”
You shivered as his voice dropped to a lower register. Your own voice, now raspy with want, came out in a low tone. “One dance. And maybe we…”
“Yeah, we definitely…”
“Yes.”
The pair of you laughed, both with twin red cheeks, as a new song blasted over the bar speakers. C’mon and Ride It by Quad City DJs. You squealed in delight and grabbed Robby’s hand to lead him to the center of the dance floor. His eyes widened in surprise that you even knew this song.
You entered the center of the dance floor just in time to bring your arm up in a chugging motion for the song’s kick-off choo choo. Robby smiled, seeing the utter joy on your face. However, the smile quickly morphed into a look of incredulity colored by a blush as you turned around and pulled him flush against you.
This was Santos and Whitaker’s cue to exit the dance floor. If you didn’t only have eyes for Robby’s hands circling your waist, you would’ve noticed the two doctors making a beeline for the patio door with the biggest smirks on their faces.
Robby didn’t notice them scurry off either. The man could not fucking think past the swirling of your hips. Left to sensuous right. What was English again? He nervously looked around the bar and then realized he didn’t fucking care if anyone saw. You were grinding on him. And he wasn’t dead from the absolute shock of it all.
Before he could self-implode, you turned around and threw your arms around him, and for the remaining few minutes of the song, it was just the two of you. Your bright smiles, his blushes and your hips dancing circles around him. He twirled you a few times but for the most part, held you close, treating the high-energy nineties song like a slow dance. Well, a slow dance with the added bonus of you singing along to the suggestive lyrics.
You threw your arms up and moved your hips in a figure eight, pumping your chest in little bursts to the beat. “Move your arm up and down, and make that choo-choo sound!” He was going to lose his ever-loving mind.
By the bar, Dana nursed a Bahama Mama and provided Jack company as he tried not to watch your hips move in that hypnotic dance. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, wishing briefly for the reality where you came in during the night shift instead of the day so that he could have had more time with you. Then, he chided himself because what kind of fucked up wish was that?
“Cheer up, Jack. She’s just not the one for you.”
“She could’ve been.”
Dana smiled at him sadly. “She’s not. C’mon. Let’s round up the kids.” He threw back the remaining sips of his IPA just in time for Dana to lead him outside before he could see Robby dragging you to the side hall that leads to the bar bathroom.
The logical downsides of a hookup in a bar bathroom completely eluded you and Robby both as you tugged on his shirt to pull him inside the small closet of a room. Germs. STIs. The ghosts of hookups past. Feces.
It all left your mind the second he laid eyes on your flushed face. You slowly retreated into the dimly lit bathroom until your back hit the small vanity against the wall. His eyes darkened to black as he panted. “Anyone in here?”
You bit your lip as he took one step toward you. You glanced at the stalls. “Hello?” You leaned down to check if the coast was clear. When you were both marked safe, Robby’s face morphed into a sexy, dark smirk as he reached behind him to lock the door.
Following the click of the lock, the only sounds in the bathroom were your panting breaths and the thumping bass of the bar music.
“Robby…”
“Yeah?” He reached a hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear. You leaned into the touch and practically buzzed from pure need.
“Please.”
He tucked a thumb under your chin and ever-so-gently tilted your head back so that your eyes locked on his. “Please, what?”
Your breaths came out faster. “Kiss me.”
He leaned in. “Good girl.”
Your world completely exploded. The second his lips touched yours, and the scruff of his beard tickled your cheeks, you were a goner. His lips were slow and sensual, but his desperation to touch and taste you filled every one of your senses. Your toes curled in your heels as he lightly licked into your mouth.
He tasted like whiskey and mint and pure want. You whimpered at the taste and nibbled on his bottom lip. The man moaned. His hand flew up to the vanity to brace himself as your tongues tangled together. He cupped the back of your head with his other hand, letting his fingers tangle in your locks. You used your own grip to pull him flush against you.
After a few minutes of toe-curling kisses, you broke apart for a short breath of air before leaning in for more. His kisses turned you into an addict, and yours made him absolutely lose his mind. There was nothing inside this man’s head except the taste of you.
He pressed closer against you, and when you winced at the feeling of porcelain pressing against your back, he drew back. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” You shook your head and tugged on his shirt to pull him back. This time, he slotted one of his thighs between your legs and placed a hand at your lower back to cushion your lean. You let out a shaky sigh of pleasure.
“Robby…”
He hummed and leaned in to kiss a spot behind your ear that made your eyes roll back into your head. His voice was a low growl that sent vibrations across your skin. “God, I thought I was too old for this.”
Panic briefly filled your belly. “You wanna stop?”
“Fuck no.” You whimpered again and slid your arms around his neck. He leaned back to look at you, and you saw his pupils blown wide.
You leaned in and gently pecked his nose before kissing down his cheek to his neck. To that chain that’s been driving you crazy all night. His other hand flew to the sink, white-knuckling the countertop as your lips and fucking tongue worked over skin.
You smiled as you took in his scent. Soap with a little musk to mark the end of the day.
You leaned back as you felt his grip finally loosen on the sink. He moved both hands down your sides to your hips and guided them in a small roll, causing you to moan his name. “I still have to perform.”
He shook his head and rolled your hips again. Fucking tease.
“Robby…if I don’t get back out there, your staff will come looking for me.”
He made a mental note to divert every single patient that came in with a bowel issue to them on Monday.
He paused his movements and leaned back, inhaling. Amber. “You’re right.”
You nodded as he placed the tiniest inch between you. “Two songs. But later…”
He smirked at you. “Yeah, later…”
“Yours or mine?”
“Who’s closer?”
He leaned in to kiss your neck again. How were you supposed to think when his lips were moving like that? “I’m not far. Maybe twenty minutes.”
You nodded as his mouth traveled back to yours. Your lips twisted and slotted together in a rhythm that was making you forget your own name.
“Two songs. Then, your place.”
He nodded and stepped back to grab your hand. “Lead the way, Cherry.” His smirk sent you into the stratosphere.
You grinned as you brazenly unlocked and opened the door to the crowded bar. Thanks to the crew still occupying the patio, no one saw the pair of you exit the bathroom. When you emerged outside, it was clear to everyone that your cheeks were flushed from more than a few dances.
Summary: The first night of your regional tour has finally arrived, and to kick it off, you’re beginning in your band’s hometown, and you’ve invited a few PTMC doctors to tag along…
|| angst, Dr. Robby x Reader, Dr. Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Abbot x reader, Dr. Jack Abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: The night we’ve all been waiting for!! It’s finally the night of your big show, and maybe, just maybe, a certain doctor (s) will show up and give you a little post-show surprise. Maybe…definitely not in this chapter. But maybe the next one…
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit copying without my permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
Today was the day. The day. The one circled in bright red on your Pittsburgh Penguins calendar. The one glaring at you as you stand half-dressed in your rehearsal clothes. Today was the day.
Your bandmates agreed to get together before the show to run through a few songs, including the newer ones, to loosen some pre-show nerves. Of course, you were running late, but not because you overslept or left a boot behind. Both were set before you, here and counted for. No.
Your anxiety rooted you to the spot. The edges of your vision were hazy, and the only thing you could focus on was that bright red circle below Sidney Crosby’s face: that and the crazy litany of questions flooding your mind.
What if you sucked?
What if your bandmates never wanted to perform together again because you were so awful?
What if Robby saw you and agreed you should stick to posting videos and avoiding live performances?
What if…what if you loved it, but no one loved you?
You swallowed audibly, although no one was actually there to hear it. You took a deep breath and tore your gaze away from the circled date to your shoes set neatly before you. You’d already tugged on a denim skirt and your socks. You’d managed to get your bra on, but somewhere between tugging on the right arm of your cropped crewneck sweatshirt after successfully slipping your left arm through, your entire being paused.
This was when the calendar incident occurred.
Another deep breath, and you forced the right arm through and tugged the wrinkled memento left over from high school over your abdomen. Now. The shoes.
The parallel of the moment hit you like a freight train. A rainy day. A lost shoe. The world turned upside down. His comforting, brown eyes.
But today, you weren’t taking a car. It still sat unused, parked in front of your building. No, today, you were taking the train, and the sun was shining, and it was going to be okay.
“You can do this.”
Another beat, and you shoved your feet into the boots and grabbed your tote bag, which lay slung over your couch. The poor thing was stuffed full of sheet music, electrolytes and about three different books you were reading at the moment. The messy girl’s guide to conquering her fears.
The light from your buzzing phone caught your attention, and you stepped over to see what was causing the thing to practically buzz off the countertop. Seven missed calls from Dawn, a text from Timmy, a call from your mom, who was no doubt trying to figure out the metro system, and a single text from Robby.
Dr. Robinavitch: Excited for tonight.
It was succinct and to the point, but boy, did it send a flutter of butterflies through your center.
Earlier in the week, you’d bravely sent a text to Robby letting him know that he was invited to your first show and if he wanted, he could bring as many friends or coworkers as he pleased.
Unbeknownst to you, he’d read that the invitation aloud, against his better judgment, to Dana at the nurse’s station. Of course, he was overheard by not one, but three of his med students and word spread like wildfire.
At first, he pushed back, saying he was only extending the invitation to a few people. Still, after a teary display from Jivadi, a few not-so-subtle hints from Langdon and Mohan, and a full-on glare from Dana, almost the entire PTMC day shift was set to attend. That, and Dr. Abbot, who somehow synced his night off with the show.
Robby would only admit to himself how this slightly aggravated him. But he was glad to have another companion over the age of forty.
Now, when you looked into the audience tonight to find your recently favored pair of eyes, they would be accompanied by Jivadi, Mohan, Langdon sans his family, Mel (after much convincing), her sister Becca, Santos, Whitaker, Dana, and Abbot.
Quite the crowd to witness your inevitable breakdown.
Another buzz from your phone signaled Dawn’s no-doubt death threat, so you grabbed the damned thing and threw it in your bag before taking long strides out of your apartment and to the metro station.
Hours later, you repeated the same routine, but this time inside Thunderbird. The Lawrenceville venue already buzzed with the crowd forming inside. Instead of staring at a circled date on your calendar with a stony-faced Sidney Crosby floating above it, you stared at the tiny gap between the curtains that separated you from the audience.
You stood at your mark with a muted microphone in front of you. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
You felt Roger sneak up behind you before he uttered a single word. Your silent protector.
“I’m fine, Roger. Really.”
You saw him nod out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t speak for a full moment, and you relished in the quiet support.
Then, he spoke, “Remember that really cool gig we played at the cafe on campus? You danced around the stage and we received three standing ovations. Forced the cafe to stay open an hour past closing. All of those people came to see us. To see you. That was one of the best moments of my life. It was electric.”
You nodded and swallowed back tears. Your voice cracked when you responded. “What if it was a blip? What if tonight just proves I can’t do this?”
He now stood directly beside you. You turned to look at him. “Impossible. Something happened that day. Something clicked. And it wasn’t because of Dawn or Timmy or Jesse or me. It was because of you. We’re great apart, but you bring us together and create something fucking magical.”
“That’s bullshit Roger, I-”
“You are capable, and talented, and meant to be here.”
You shook your head in response, so he moved in front of you, blocking the microphone. “Be that girl in the cafe.” You took a deep breath, and he leaned in. “She has been gearing up for this moment her entire life.”
You gave him a small nod, and he smirked before giving you a chaste kiss to the forehead. “Plus, shots on me if we survive this shit.”
You chuckled loud enough that the first two rows of the crowd heard your delighted laugh, and it created a new buzz among the crowd.
You gripped the sides of your skirt and forced yourself to focus on the deep, lavender color of the puffed skirt. The matching cropped halter bunched at the back to accommodate your mic set, and the assembly already chafed a little. But what a crazy, luxurious thing to focus on.
You took another deep breath as the stagehand signaled one minute, and you looked down your pointy lavender kitten heels and tapped one, two, three times.
Your outfit was inspired by your very first single, Lavender Skies, and you felt plucked from that feverdream of a song. The girl who wrote that song had no clue what Pandora’s box she opened up, and she would be terrified to stand in this spot. But what a crazy, luxurious dream.
The stage lights dimmed as bright white lights backlighted your band. The effect cast your silhouette on the still drawn curtain. Roger’s synthesizer and the two hired horn players rose in a slow crescendo as the crowd tuned in. The hush was almost immediate, but it soon turned into a deafening tunnel of sound as the lights behind you dimmed, the horns grew in volume, and the curtain rose.
Timmy added his snare drum to the mix as it rose higher and higher. Your arms mirrored the instruments’ volume, looking like wings as you slowly raised them above your head. You sang the first few words of the opener.
These notes are a roadmap to a dream I haven’t named. Just words I’ve been holding in my pocket.
I don’t know where it’s going, if it’s one… or maybe two. Or half a dream, a feeling, but it’s something new.
The curtain finally rose to reveal your purple set and your favorite group of souls to a sold-out crowd.
It was showtime.
Come and sing a little with me. Green eyes and ink stains, things I’m learning to be.
You started the show with your eyes closed, but now, you opened them and saw a sea of sparkling eyes and phone flashlights blinking up at you. Your voice diminished to a whisper as you sang the next part of the song.
\Pittsburgh…Will you sing this song with me?
This first song was a slow build, a little ditty off your first EP, revealing the inner parts of yourself in a simple haiku of a song. The simple truth of a girl who had a few notes and a dream. The song had become a cult favorite amongst your TikTok fans, and in your eyes, it grew bigger than it was ever meant to be.
From there, it all built into a beautiful crescendo, and you let yourself lean into the energy of your best friends and the crowd before you. By the second song, your lavender skirts swished around you as you danced to the beat Timmy set, grabbing your microphone and twirling across the stage.
From where Robby and the rest of the PTMC crew sat, you looked like a vision come to life. Both he and Jack were awe-struck with your talent and ability to just exist in this beautiful space.
With each song, you felt the anxiety leave you bit by bit, and by the ballads section of the setlist, when the house lights came back on, you were elated to see all of the smiling faces staring back at you.
A twinkle of nerves licked up your spine briefly as a stage hand offered you your acoustic guitar, but a wink from Dawn sent those nerves packing. You smiled at her and walked back to your mark on the center stage.
“Hello everyone.” Your voice was soft, a direct contrast to the belting notes of the previous number. You slung the guitar over your shoulder and adjusted the capo, plucking a few notes to buy a few seconds for your bandmates to gear up for the acoustic set. “I want to thank each and every soul who came out to celebrate with us tonight.”
A few scattered cheers, and you smiled. “A hometown show is no small feat, and you are making us feel so loved, Pittsburgh.”
A whistle forced a giggle out of you, and Dawn returned with an echoed whistle of her own. You smiled. “We’re going to slow things down. Give you a chance to catch your breath, and then it’ll be fun and dancing for the rest of the night. Does that sound okay?”
The crowd surged with approval, and you began strumming the opening notes of the next tune. It wasn’t until halfway through the next song that you spotted him. He was unassuming in the crowd, and if it weren’t for the smiling faces next to him, you would’ve missed him completely. It’s almost like he was trying to blend in, but your eyes caught onto his, and then you couldn’t look away.
It, of course, didn’t help that you were singing a song about first smiles and flutters when that certain someone decides to make an appearance in your timeline.
The two of you locked eyes for so long that Dawn was smirking like a fiend behind you, and more than one PTMC staff member caught on to the fixation. You finally broke away when you strummed the final chord of the song. The house lights dimmed as you handed off your acoustic guitar and raised your mic.
Down in the audience, Robby cleared his throat as his staff looked at him in curiosity. Well, all but Jack. His eyes stuck on Robby in a sideways view that stuck with him for the rest of the performance.
He knew that you inviting them via Robby revealed a few missing pieces his friend hadn’t made him privy to. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been able to forget your visit to the ED.
He tried to shake the drop in his stomach as Robby attempted to calm the flutter in his. Meanwhile, you were grinning ear to ear on stage, a stark contrast to how you thought the hour-and-a-half set would go. You were terrified you would stumble over your cues and mess up your notes. Instead, you were fighting a blush and wishing this night would go on forever.
The horns began to swell as a backlight painted your silhouette. You stretched your arms up high and moved with the little lilt of the notes, and in a flash, strutted off the stage. The crowd roared, and you squealed in excitement as you shed your longer lavender skirt and emerged back on the stage in a mini skirt and a new energy for the second half.
Robby’s face turned an even deeper shade of crimson as your legs stretched across that stage. He swallowed and looked down, trying to curb the rising thoughts of those fucking legs. Dana was absolutely eating it up and reached over to pinch his arm. He grinned and shook his head.
God, she was never going to drop this.
“Pittsburgh! Are you ready to move?!”
You jumped as the horns launched you in the second half of your set. Little did Robby know, this very song was born from your impromptu museum date, and as he swayed in the crowd and you two-stepped across the stage, you were both grooving to the very notes born from your first date.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of smiles, hip-shakes, and utter euphoria. At one point, you turned towards your gaggle of friends and shook your head, grinning. To the crowd, you were simply faced away. In that moment, you were infinite.
Roger. Timmy. Jesse. Dawn. Your people.
It was time for the final song. You couldn’t believe one of the scariest moments of your life had flown by in a flash. How was it already over? As you approached the mic for the final time, you pressed a hand to your heart.
“Pittsburgh, my love. I fear this is the last one. Let’s make it a good one, okay?”
You sang one verse and chorus before approaching the small set of steps at the side of the stage. Per your rehearsal, a security guard waited with a hand outstretched. You grinned and accepted the offering as you stepped down to crowd level.
You finished the verse, squeezing the hands of various fans before walking down the right aisle.
“Okay Pittsburgh, let me finally introduce you to some of my favorite souls. Help me show them some love! We had Jesse on bass…”
You slowly sauntered up the aisle with security trailing behind you. “Roger on keys…”
You spun on your heel as you reached the halfway point in the crowd. Grinning cheeks and sparkling eyes stared back at you, and your voice caught on the next introduction. How did you make this happen? “Dawn on guitar!”
You forced a smile to hide the tears. “Timmy on the drums!” You took off in a light sprint to the back of the crowd and to a very small stoop that you decided the day before would be a secret stage. You hopped onto the raised perch, and a spotlight illuminated you and the two hired horn players.
“And finally, we have Germaine and Jack on the horns!”
It was hard to sing the final verse of the very song that launched your career, thanks to a silly little video, but you somehow managed between the smiles and the tears. What a life you lived.
Security moved to the other side of the small stage to offer you a helping hand as you stepped down. You sang an extended version of the final verse, squeezing outstretched hands as you slowly walked up the left aisle of the theater. You were almost to the stage when you caught that very pair of eyes that centered you.
Robby.
You grinned and walked over to hug Dana, who occupied the aisle spot. She had tears shining in her eyes as she rubbed your back. You grinned at Mel, who looked happier than ever with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones standing next to presumably her sister and a handsome doctor you had yet to meet.
Finally, your eyes met Robby.
You winked and stepped back before you could see the cherry red cheeks of the older man who was trying to keep his cool in the presence of your incredible starlight. He was in absolute awe of you.
Next to him, Abbot’s side glances turned into a pained expression tinged with a small smile as he took in the sheer size of love that surrounded you.
He never thought he’d see you again, and tonight he thought something could bloom. Clearly, his ship had already sailed away.
You quickened your step until you were climbing back onto the stage. With a deep breath and aching cheeks, you finished the song and the very first show of your regional tour.
You fucking did it.
The crowd continued to roar in applause as you stretched down into a bow. You stepped back with your hands outstretched for your friends to join you, and one by one, you formed a chorus line to take the final bow.
As you rose, you brought your hands to your chest as a small river of tears began to fall. You were so proud of these amazing people you were lucky enough to call friends.
The cheering continued, and you turned to Dawn, who now hugged your side and grinned. She kissed your cheek and shouted, “You fucking legend!”
You blushed and looked at the crowd, which was now on its feet. You gasped at the sheer size of applause that continued to rise. You look to your left at Roger, who leaned his head on your shoulder. He turned to you with a shrug.
Timmy leaned down to grin at you. “One more, c’mon!”
Jesse, next to Dawn, nodded. “Lovely Day!”
You shook your head as the anxiety began to rise again, but you shoved it down and approached the mic for an encore.
“Do you mind if we play one more?” The resounding applause was answer enough for you. “If we play this next one, I need to see every one of you on your feet. Dance us home, Pittsburgh!”
The cover of the classic Bill Withers song fell from your lips with renewed energy as you danced around the stage. As you twirled, both Robby and Abbot were completely captivated.
After you exited the stage for the final time and the house lights came on, Robby and the PTMC crew stood and took a breath as the crowd began to file out. Robby stared at the stage, still in awe, and only looked away when his phone buzzed with a text.
You: If you’re up for it, we’re heading down to Cork Harbour. I’d love to see you.
His heart fucking hammered as he typed out a response.
Summary: Robby finally makes good on his promise to take you out, but not after some not-so-subtle encouragement from a few PTMC doctors…
|| angst, Dr. Robby x Reader, Dr. Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Abbot x reader, Dr. Jack Abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: Slow and steady…both for these characters and my updates LOL thank you sticking with it if you have!
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit copying of my work without my permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
He was embarrassed. Plain and simple. There was no eloquent wrapping he could place over those feelings other than that he was simply embarrassed. What was he doing?
As he wove through the never-ending influx of critical patients with parts of their bodies falling apart, and the less critical, but more heartbreaking ones that witnessed something that should’ve never been a part of their reality, he struggled to shut his brain off.
He’d like to think he was normally a pro at shoving away his feelings during working hours, but the occasional day like today made it hard to keep them locked away in his work locker.
While he was staring at mangled limbs and gunshot wounds that made even the strongest stomach turn, he was seeing your face. Those eyes, glinting at him instead of the paintings before you.
More than one PTMC staff member noticed his unusual lack of awareness. First, there were a few sideways glances from Langdon. He would deal with him and that later. Then, there were the smirks from the nurse’s station. Definitely not from Dana, but Princess and Perlah? He wouldn’t be surprised if bets had already been placed on why he was so distracted today.
Finally, Abbot took pity on him and cornered him after the two of them finished intubating a young woman caught in the crossfire of the incident. Robby’s eyes flicked to the heart rate monitor to assess her vitals as Abbot looked him up and down. Once the patient was wheeled away, he finally broke the silence.
“You going to tell anyone what your problem is? It’s not like you to be so out of it.”
Robby shrugged and threw his used gloves in the bin. He reached around Jack Abbot to grab some hand sanitizer and hopefully, sidestep the comment. Jack was having none of it.
“Is the silence code for something?”
Robby walked out of the room into the bustling hallway, still flanked by countless patients who were still waiting to be seen. He looked at the status board and internally groaned at the mountain looming behind them.
“Robby. Brother, are you good?”
He finally looked at Abbot. Seemingly in annoyance, but Jack knew better. “I’m fine.”
Abbot smirked. “You’re definitely not fine. But seriously,” He paused and reached out to grab the sleeve of Robby’s scrubs. “Are you okay? Do you need-”
“No. Jack…I’m good. It’s just…” He glanced up at the board again but caught Dana giving orders to the newer interns. He exhaled a brief breath of temporary respite, seeing her efforts to give him a moment to think.
Jack tilted his head to the side to motion for Robby to follow him. They walked to the quiet hallway housing the lockers. He widened his stance and used both hands to grab his stethoscope. “What’s up?”
His eyes were curious and assessing, but Robby saw zero judgment. That still didn’t stop him from running his hands over his face nervously. “Do you remember the woman who came in a few weeks ago after a car accident? She was a musician. Her bandmates came to visit.”
Jack nodded. “Her friends called us hot.”
Robby had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Of course you would remember that.”
Jack just shrugged and smirked in response.
“I ran into her not long after she was released. Went to that jazz bar on McKinley. Turns out she was performing that night. We talked. She gave me her number.” Robby’s cheeks were beginning to heat. He could feel the flush running down his neck. He rubbed the back of his neck to try to get the feeling to dissipate.
Jack stitched his eyebrows together and shook his head. “I’m struggling to understand what the problem is.”
Robby raised his eyebrows. “Jack…she’s-”
“She’s what, Robby? Younger? Who gives a shit? She’s an adult.”
Robby let his famous incredulous smile spread across his face as he looked at his friend and coworker. “It feels wrong.”
This made Jack frown. “Wrong. Is she not interested?”
“She is.”
“And you…what? Feel old? Like a creep?”
Robby nodded and crossed his arms. “Among many other things.” His friend chuckled.
“If you can’t get past that, you need to tell her.” Something in Robby’s eyes shifted at this. Jack saw his friend’s…what was it? Desperation? Sadness? “Robby…”
“I want her. But I shouldn’t.”
Jack looked at his friend for the first time in a while with disappointment. He looked down at the ground and shook his head. All he could do was slap a hand on his shoulder and step past him.
“Let me know how it goes.”
He left Robby alone standing by the lockers. Robby’s eyes scanned the room as he felt the weight of his phone in his pocket.
On your side of town, you’re riding the high of your date-not-date. The sidewalks seemed to hum as you made your way back to Roger’s apartment, where the gang was still hammering out notes for the new song.
When you reached the steps to his building, your phone buzzed. You pulled it out not-so-secretly, hoping it was a certain doctor, but you just saw a text from your mom about a storm system moving into the city.
Mom: Hey, this is really worrying me. Looks pretty bad. Please stay inside. NO DRIVING.
You chuckled to yourself. Your mom didn’t know you still hadn’t been able to even get inside a car since your accident, so you definitely wouldn’t be driving one.
You walked up to Roger’s apartment, shared your newfound notes with your friends, and hours later, you had another finished song and potentially the final setlist. After you walked back to your little corner of the city alone, still buzzing from the night.
Apart from communication from your friends about upcoming shows, worried texts and calls from your mom about the never-ending storm, you spent the majority of your time lonely in your apartment. You scribbled down a few songs, listened to some recordings from your students and tried to make sense of music composition assignments, all the while continuously checking your phone to see if there was any sort of bat signal from Robby.
By the fourth day of the endless pour and still no word from Robby, you braved the elements and made your way to the metro to catch a train. You rode it until you reached your favorite uptown neighborhood. The weather may be ass, but a coffee sit-down on Penn Avenue might cure your melancholia.
Within the hour, you were seated with your hands warming around a cappuccino and an untouched book in front of you. You stared off into space, your mental line of notes veering off unfinished songs, sidestepping to a certain pair of warm brown eyes and back to songs. You tried to shake the mental fog away, but it was no use.
It wasn’t until a cleared throat brought you out into the realm of the living. You looked up to see a woman staring at you with a quizzical, somewhat judgmental look on her face.
She looked vaguely familiar, with bright green eyes that stood out against her mixed features. Where did you know her from?
You tilted your head and looked at her in confusion. Her eyes pointedly looked down at your table. Still lost on where this interaction stemmed from, you pushed your bag and drink aside to make room. She nodded and sat next to you, making herself comfortable by leaning back on the cushioned bench you also occupied.
All you could do was stare at her in absolute incredulity as she closed her eyes and held her iced matcha close to her chest. After a beat of just you staring and her enjoying a power nap, she finally spoke.
“You need to text Robby. He’s driving us crazy.”
Robby?! “I’m sorry, Robby? Who…who are you?”
In a burst of movement, she sat up and offered her hand to shake, her face just a few inches from yours. You leaned back in astonishment and took her offered hand. “Trinity Santos. I’m R2 under Dr. Robby.”
You continued to stare at her, confused.
“Dr. Robby… At PTMC? Weren’t you the one who came in after a car crash? Blunt trauma to the chest? Broken arm? A jazz singer, right?”
Your eyes widened. “How…how did you? Isn’t this violating HIPAA or something? How do you know all this?”
She just smirked and crossed her legs. “I also know you went on a date with Robby.”
Somehow, your eyes got even wider. “How-”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows and matcha on her knees and shooting you a stern look. “Not important. What is important is that my attending is acting like a wet blanket right now and is somehow even crankier in his comatose state. All because he hasn’t talked to you.”
“Wait a second, I-”
“I’m not done.” This made your eyebrows raise to a dangerous degree. She continued. “He came in floating on fucking butterflies after your little date. However, hours later, he’s up everyone’s ass. This has only gotten worse throughout the week and I really need you to do a girl a solid and text him because he is making my life hell at work. I’m behind on my charts and I-”
You waved a hand to signal her to stop. “Woah, woah, woah. I’m sorry work has been stressful but…he didn’t text me. I’ve been waiting to hear from him.”
This girl actually rolled her eyes at you. “Girl, c’mon. I thought we as a society were past this archaic bullshit. Just text the guy. He desperately needs to get laid and get off my back.”
“Excuse me?!”
“Oh, I’m sorry! Okay? Serenade him with some of your jazz tunes or whatever and put him out of his misery.”
“Misery? I-”
“No.” She reached out and covered your mouth with her hand. You inhaled in shock as she leaned in. “Robby is…look, he’s a pain in my ass on a good day, but he’s my attending. He’s a good guy. He just gets stressed and I think…a little lonely. These couple of months have been…well, they’ve sucked absolutely ass. He needs some happiness.” She lowered her hand.
Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I tried. I thought we had a good time and he said he would call…”
“So call him. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll deal with it.”
“How do you know he’s in a mood because of me?”
Another eye roll. Your eyebrows shot up again, and she smirked at your reaction. She always liked a challenge. “Nurses talk.”
It took another fifteen minutes of coaxing, but she finally bullied you into opening your text thread with Robby.
You looked at her. “What’s your name again?”
“Trinity.”
You smirked right back at her. “So when this blows up in my face, I’ll know who to blame.”
A light laugh escaped her as she took a sip of matcha. “It won’t.” You wished you were as confident as she sounded.
You: Testing, testing…you still out there?
Robby felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket, and he pulled it out, shocked to see your name pop up on his screen. Langdon, who was presenting a case to him, peeked over to see who it was. Robby shot him an annoyed look and turned away so he could reach your text.
He stared for a second as Langdon tapped his foot next to him. “You going to answer?”
“Don’t you have some patients to see?” Robby didn’t even have to look up from his phone to see his smirking resident.
“Still waiting on some tests to come back and heading to Central 12 in a second.” He waited a beat. “You should answer her.”
Without waiting for a response, he stepped around Robby to head to his patient, leaving Robby alone to contemplate and text a response.
Back in the coffee shop with Santos, you chewed your nail nervously as you watched the three dots dance. She kept a curious eye on you but mainly sipped her matcha, enjoying a rare day off.
Dr. Robinavitch: I am. I’m sorry.
You stared at his response, your tiny glimmer of hope fading, until another text came through.
Dr. Robinavitch: Let me apologize in person. Please. I still owe you dinner.
He followed Langdon to Central 12 to distract himself while waiting for your response. He smiled as he entered the room when he felt a buzz in his pocket.
You: I’d love that.
Hours later, after Trinity practically shoved you out of the coffee shop, you stepped off the metro in a clacking pair of Mary Janes, taking the steps two at a time to the top of the station to see the man you’ve been fantasizing about. He still wore his work clothes, but you smiled at his tired appearance, which buzzed with nervous energy. You gripped the shoulder of your tote bag as you reached the last step. His eyes flitted over to you and briefly looked at you in awe before morphing into a warm gaze.
You blushed and bit your lip nervously. “Hi.”
He nodded in greeting and laughed.
You decided to break the awkwardness. “I feel like I’m sixteen years old again.” He smiled and nodded along, with a hint of blush on his cheeks. “I’m happy to see you.”
His eyes softened. “Me too. I’m sorry it took me so long to…” He shook his head and continued looking at you with those soft eyes that were seconds away from making you melt. “Are you hungry?”
You smirked and nodded, grabbing his hand before either of you could overthink it.
Somewhere in two separate corners of the city, a certain duo of doctors acknowledged that their not-so-subtle plan worked.
Langdon: Good job.
Santos: Fuck off.
There was no denying it was a little awkward at first, but it was nothing a little small talk, gentle questions and shy smiles couldn’t fix. By the time the two of you arrived at Cafe Notte, you were leaning into each other more, and the stolen glances were becoming bolder by the minute.
The host set the two of you in a cozy corner, only lit by a few scarce wall sconces and a single candle on the wooden table. You let your eyes glaze over all of the warm, wooden tones of the dining room, but Robby couldn’t pull his eyes from your openly joyful expression. It was rare for him to see a smile so pure and unfettered by temporary relief after a horrible tragedy.
He ordered a bottle of Chianti for the table, and for the next twenty minutes, while you sipped and waited for your meal, he let his hand inch ever so close to yours. You finally took pity on the man’s rusty dating skills and let your hand slip into his. His cheeks warmed again, and you ate every second of it up.
“You know, you can grab my hand whenever you want.”
He rubbed his thumb across the inside of your palm, and you felt all the breath leave you. “Sorry if I’m a little…” You bit your lip, waiting for him to continue, and he chuckled. “I’m surprised at how nervous I am.”
You scooched closer to him. “So tell me something good. Let’s ignore the first date flutters and just talk.”
He blushed again. “You first.”
And so you did. You smiled and leaned your head on one hand while still using the other to hold him, talking about the million and one setlist changes your band has made and how you’re still so nervous to take the stage over and over again, but it feels like something you’re meant to do.
He listened intently, almost as if he was watching a star streak across the sky and didn't want to miss a second of its trajectory. The conversation was broken up by the two of you moving closer and a shared plate of carbonara. Eventually, when your heads were bent together with the unspoken promised tease of a kiss, he finally took over the conversation and told you about his first years as an intern and resident.
You smiled, hearing about the antics of a young and awkward Dr. Robinavitch. After his third story from way back when, you begged to see a photo, and he pulled out his phone to show you a grainy photo of a photo of a tall, gangly doctor smiling ear to ear with his attending after his white coat ceremony.
“Who is this?”
“Dr. Adamson. He was a hard ass sometimes, but he taught me a lot.” He swiped on his phone and you saw a slightly older version of him smiling next to a new face. His voice grew thick and he straighted, putting more space between the two of you. “I worked with him at PTMC for many years before he…” He cleared his throat and shoved his phone back in his jacket pocket. “I’ve been lucky enough to work with many incredible doctors.”
Your hand now covered his, your thumb moving in soothing, soft circles. “And you’re an incredible doctor because of them.”
His shoulders inched toward his ears as if he was physically trying to clam up. Noticing this shift in his demeanor, you changed tactics just in time for the waiter to drop off the bill. Without even glancing at it, he dropped his card and cleared his throat. “So, tell me Robby, are you a sweet tooth kind of guy?”
He forced a smile as the waiter picked up the bill. “That depends. If we’re talking ice cream, I can be persuaded.”
You squeezed his hand, attempting to bring him back to the moment. “And a walk by the water?” When he didn’t look at you, you dropped his hand and tried to swallow away the tension.
It was silent for a beat as he signed the check that the waiter had already dropped back off. When he looked at you again, his soft gaze was back. “I know a great spot where there’s usually a busker or two.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Well then, I hope you’ll ask me to dance.”
You hadn’t noticed that the two of you were back with your heads bent together. “If you’ll have me.”
You practically squealed as he led you out of the booth and into the version of Pittsburgh painted by a soft dusk. You looped your arm through his as he led the way down the street and to the river.
Before you saw it, your ears pricked from light tones coming from a brass instrument. You smiled and looked up to see him softly gazing at you. You quickened your step until you saw a man of about sixty with golden, brown skin playing a saxophone like he was serenading the very air circling around you.
You stood in awe, watching his fingers dance over the keys. Your fingers tapped against your leg in beat with his song, but every couple of notes, you were off by half a beat as he switched up the rhythm, staying true to the warm tone of jazz.
Robby watched you, enamored, as you lost yourself in the music. Eventually, he broke the spell and gently grabbed your hand. In his honey-dipped voice, he said, “I believe a dance was proposed.”
You smiled and let him bring you closer to the small gathering of people swaying in time. You felt the familiar rush of butterflies that usually comes with seemingly monumental moments, like your first homecoming dance or the first time someone says, "I love you."
You awkwardly placed your hands on his shoulders, and he let a small smirk paint his face as he pulled you closer. It took a few tense sways before you melted into his arms and let your head rest on his chest. He hummed softly, not knowing you could hear it, and you smiled to yourself.
It felt like one of those magical movie moments that you either roll your eyes at or secretly wish would happen to you. You’d previously had both reactions, but this time, it felt different. It felt golden and sweet and a little scary and safe. His hands rested on your lower back, anchoring you to him, and you swayed side to side for a few songs.
You had to admit, the man had a little rhythm, and the thought made your cheeks warm. After the current song ended, you broke your little bubble.
“I’m nervous for this upcoming tour.” You felt his hands tighten against you.
His whispered voice finally responded. “Nerves are our body’s way of being cautious. They show we care. And it’s obvious that you care a lot about your music. This tour…it’s going to be incredible.”
You didn’t respond, just nuzzled your face against his chest. He lifted a hand to curl around your hair as the saxophone player began a new tune.
“You’re going to be fantastic. I just know it.”
Again, you smiled at his blind faith in you, letting it wash over you. You needed this comfort; this bolstering from someone outside your little world of music, because inside you were a mess of nerves.
But ever so briefly, a tall doctor with warm brown eyes made you forget as he swayed with you to jazz music by the river.
Summary: Robby meets you at a downtown art museum for an impromptu date.
|| angst, Dr. Robby x Reader, Dr. Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Abbot x reader, Dr. Jack Abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: Baby’s first “date!” Enjoy <3
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit copying of my work without my permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
You looked down at your Apple Watch and saw it was just past 6:20. You stood in front of Banks of the Seine by Monet for about ten minutes, worried about continuing through the museum and making it harder for Robby to find you. Your nail dug into the side of your finger and kept time with the seconds that ticked by. Maybe he got caught up at the hospital.
Maybe he wasn’t coming.
You did your best to take a fortifying breath and walked past the Monet and further into the gallery. Little did you know, there was a certain ED attending watching you from the back of the room. He’d slipped into the museum a few minutes ago and, after weaving through exhibits trying to find you, his eye caught on your form, clad in an ethereal white skirt and blue sweater as you stood in front of the impressionist painting. It offered the perfect background for your baby-blue figure, and he felt himself unable to look away.
He stood out a little, still wearing his scrubs, hoodie and cargo pants, amongst the crowds of art lovers dressed in their uniforms of colors, Mary Janes and ribbons. He felt utilitarian in comparison. He zipped up his hoodie to hide the scrubs.
When you walked into the adjoining room where the Degas paintings lived, he followed and let himself get close enough to you that you could hear him when he whispered, “Sorry I’m late.”
You jumped a little but turned around with a small smile on your face. “Hi.”
He matched your smile, and the two of you stood in an awkward silence. You broke it by pointing into the gallery. Your voice was a soft whisper. “Have you been here before?”
He shook his head and crossed his arms as he trailed behind you, his eyes focusing on the willowy fabric of your skirt as your movements created a small breeze. “Unfortunately, no. I tend to get out of dodge when I have some time off.”
You raised your eyebrows as you approached a Lancret. “A fan of side quests?”
His face twisted in amusement. “You could say that. My job-” He stepped closer to you to let someone pass, and he caught a whiff of your amber scent. His eyes briefly closed at the warm smell. “It makes me a little stir crazy sometimes. I go north to hike, walk, bike...”
It took everything in you not to shiver at the sound of his voice so close to you. “Bicycle or motorcycle?”
You couldn’t see his smirk. “Both.”
This made you twist to look at him rather than the painting in front of you. “Oh really?” You looked back at the painting as he moved to stand next to you. You were fighting a smile that begged to bloom across your face. He crossed his arms and smiled at you.
“What?” He was holding back a laugh now. “What’s so funny about that?”
You shrugged. “Not funny. Surprising. Dangerous.” He nodded along with your reasons. Your whispered voice dropped even lower. “Maybe a little hot.” Now he was blushing. And his brain was short-circuiting.
You smirked, which turned into a full-on coy smile. “If that’s okay for me to say, of course.”
You stepped to the side to move on to the next painting before he could even respond. You missed his whisper. “More than okay.”
The next painting was a landscape by Hetzel—a break between trees by a rocky river. Your head tilted as you assessed all the details in the painting. Robby watched your eyes trail across the painting more than he paid attention to its two-hundred-year-old colors and strokes. He loved watching the dance of your eyes as you took in each new facet.
“Did you study art in school?”
You smiled and shook your head. “No. English actually.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise. “I figured you would’ve studied music.”
The two of you exited the gallery, and you gathered your skirt in one hand as you descended a small set of steps. He placed a hand on your back to steady you. A whole colony of butterflies erupted in your stomach.
The next room featured a large window, and you squinted at the unexpected onslaught of natural light. “Didn’t think I was good enough. Dawn and Roger were in my program, and we met Jesse and Timmy through friends. They studied music. Together, something magical happened, I guess.”
“Definitely.” You chewed your lip in nerves.
“Art has always just been something I loved. I don’t always understand it but it steadies me, I guess. Quiets the mind.”
You faced each other in front of the next painting—a Lamaire. Robby’s eyes studied you, with a trace of thoughts he was choosing to keep to himself. You wanted to know them all.
“I could use more of that.”
Your eyes sparkled in answer. A few more moments passed, and you realized you were looking at each other rather than the painting in front of you. You licked your lips and bit the bottom one as you smiled at the doctor standing before you.
“Want to walk through a few more galleries and maybe grab some dinner? If you want?”
He glanced at the painting before you. The woman in pink, brought to life by bold swipes of oil paint, almost smirked at him.
“I did promise to tell you what I thought about your show.”
Your cheeks bloomed into a cherry color. You reached back to scratch your neck, causing your sweater to rise with the movement and Robby’s eyes to drift to that newly exposed strip of skin.
“Yeah, you keep bringing that up. The suspense is killing me, Dr. Robby.” Your head tilted as you watched a warm red creep up his neck. You watched his chain shift as he turned his head to the side to look anywhere but at you.
You swallowed the desire down and looked at your beat-up Adidas.
He cleared his throat, and you smiled to cover up his awkwardness. “A few more paintings, then.”
The pair of you meandered through the galleries, letting your eyes trail over the myriads of color and light and trading thoughts like little treats. About an hour later, you both descended back on the streets of the Point Breeze neighborhood, the evening light now dousing the streets in a soft orange glow.
You peeled off your visitor’s sticker and leaned over to toss it in a nearby bin when a beeping noise punctuated the air. You looked around for the source of the noise and found it came from Robby.
He dug his hand into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled a pager. Did those still exist?
He looked down at the tiny screen lighting up in a syncopated beat and muttered under his breath. “Shit.” His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down at the beeping screen.
“Everything okay?” You gripped the handle of your tote bag nervously.
His brown eyes locked with yours. “No. There was a shooting and the hospital is getting flooded with casualties. I need to go back-”
His pager went off again. You tensed at the sound.
“Fuck.” A little shiver went down your spine, and you internally chastised yourself. Not the time. “I really need to go. Did you drive here?”
You shook your head and closed your eyes. “No, no. I’m not…I took the train.”
His eyes softened. No doubt remembering the very reason the two of you met. “Right, yes. I’ll walk you to the nearest station.”
“No, Robby, please. Go. I’ll be fine. It’s just a five minute walk.”
He shook his head. “Exactly. It’s just a five-minute walk. I need to take the train, anyway.
You nodded, and he put a hand on your back to direct you to the sidewalk. The walk was quick, tense, and quiet. His mind seemed miles away, and you kept glancing at him, not knowing what to say to someone who was about to descend into a world of pain and hurt.
When the sign for the PRT station appeared on the horizon, you took a deep breath and said, “Thank you for coming today. I’m sorry you’re having to go back for…for something so...god, for something so fucking terrible.”
He nodded and grabbed your hand as he crossed the street, making you follow, and your heart stopped.
He didn’t let go of your hand as you took the stairs down into the station two at a time. Without a second thought, he swiped his card and gently pushed you toward the turnstile. You looked back at him in surprise, and he shrugged, “What can I say, I’m a gentleman.”
You laughed as he swiped himself through.
“I may cut dates short for work, but I always pay the light rail fee.” You laughed again.
“Hey, some guys don’t even do that.”
He paused before you, glancing at the arrivals board. “What direction are you going?”
“Uptown.”
He grimaced. “I’m going downtown.” His brown eyes scanned your face. “I’m sorry for this.”
You shrugged and smiled. “Don’t apologize. You’re just doing your job. Plus, there’s probably a stack of sheet music I need to grade anyway.”
An intercom voice announced his train was arriving in two minutes.
His head snapped to the arrivals board again and then back at you. This time with a confused crease in his brow. He shook his head in confusion. “Grade?”
He turned toward the hallway leading to his platform. You followed without question. “I teach entry-level music classes at Duquesne. I have a comp 101 class right now.”
A surprised smile shifted his face, and yet another blush formed on your cheeks. “I’m impressed. Any more surprises you’re hiding?”
You giggled. You actually giggled. “A slow release, Dr. Robby. You’ll have to wait and see.” The wind picked up in the tunnel, and you looked at the tracks to see his train roll up. He didn’t look away from you.
You wanted to ask him to text or call you. You didn’t want this night to end. And then you felt guilty for even wanting that. You looked back at the handsome doctor whose eyes still haven’t left your face.
“Be safe. Please.”
His eyes softened, and he nodded as his voice dropped to a soft cadence. “I will.”
The doors to the subway cars opened, and a small smattering of people began to pour out.
He stepped into the car and leaned against the support bar as he looked back at you. He raised his voice over the chatter of the riders. “I’ll call you.”
Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, and you gave him a soft smile. “I look forward to it, Ponyboy.”
He smiled at you. “See you soon, Cherry.”
As the door closed, the two of you couldn’t stop smiling or looking at one another. It felt wrong, knowing what he was walking into, but those first-date flutters wouldn’t quit. Did this actually count as a first date? You hoped so.
By the time his train pulled away, you almost forgot to run after your own ride home. Musical notes followed your feet as they pounded the worn-out tile of the station to your waiting uptown train.
A little trill mixed with down-tempo beats and a flutter of guitar. A rock-steady collection of quarter notes and eighths.
You think you finally found the swell Jesse was searching for. And you had Dr. Robby and his soft brown eyes to thank.
Summary: Both you and Robby toy with the idea of actually going out. Dana puts her two cents in to try and nudge a certain anxious ED attending…
|| angst, Dr. Robby x Reader, Dr. Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Michael Robinavitch x reader, Dr. Abbot x reader, Dr. Jack Abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: Catching up with chapters, so please enjoy. <3 Let me know if you wanna see any certain PTMC characters in future chapters…
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit copying of my work without my permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
You want to say that the next time you saw Dr. Robby was not long after your nerves-addled encounter in the hospital cafeteria, but unfortunately, more silence passed between the two of you. In your little corner of Pittsburgh, you were still buried in sheet music and the never-ending puzzle of setlist changes. And in Robby’s, he was still wrestling with the all-encompassing reality that he was really going to do this. He was really going to go on a date with a woman much younger than him. Who was also a patient of his.
Of course, during his younger years as a resident, Robby’s weeks were strange if they weren’t peppered with encounters with young nurses and patients during the quiet hours of the night. Still, as he got older and more jaded in his profession and with life in general, he learned to keep things to a minimum.
Did he still hook up with coworkers? Yes. And each time, no matter how wonderful the encounter or relationship was, he regretted it. He and Dr. Collins still couldn’t look each other in the eye for more than a few seconds following their fizzle, and he was more than a little grateful when she decided not to return as an attending to PTMC.
Any time he let himself fall into bed with someone, it was just for the night. And if someone kept pulling him back, it was only a few weeks. By week five or six, his skin began to feel tight, and he found himself checking over his shoulder for a way out.
He was used to being alone, used to navigating this hellscape of a profession and life alone.
So, why was he dragging you into his never-ending cycle of noncommittal bullshit?
Any time his thoughts crept to this caliber of insanity, he squashed them. You were a twenty-something woman who had her entire life ahead of her. For all he knew, all you wanted was a little fling. That he could handle. That he could wrap his mind around whenever he began to spiral.
So, what was a couple of drinks?
You’d flirt and talk. Maybe do more than talk. And then, what? Was he really going to take that next step with you?
And so the spiral began again and again and again. He didn’t want to be some cliched older man with an eye on a younger woman.
It was just drinks. Just drinks. He’d draw a clear line, and this wouldn’t happen again.
Dana must have sensed his unease over the entire thing over several shifts because she finally snapped one day during a lull and looked at him with an eyebrow raised so high, he felt his back stiffen in anticipation.
“Are you going to tell me what has you all twisted up inside?”
He tried to shrug nonchalantly, but he knew he didn’t fool her in the slightest. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure about that?”
He leaned against the raised top of the nurse’s station and glanced at the status board above their heads. “Yep.”
“You’d think after working together all these years, you’d get better at hiding when you’re in a mood. But I know you too well. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Dana, I’m fine. Update me on the status of our OD patient in Central Nine.”
“Still waiting on labs. I’ve got Santos checking in on them.” She cocked her hip at him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Dana.”
The eyebrow rose higher. “Robby.”
He pushed off the desk and rolled his shoulders. She could tell he was nervous. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, nothing sure has you in a tizzy.”
He nodded and looked at his shoes. Fine, she was going to have to pull it out of him.
“Is it that girl?”
“What girl?”
“The one you met in the cafeteria. The singer. Came in from a car crash.”
“How did you…?”
“Robby, if you think I don’t know everything going on in this hospital by now, you’re more clueless than I thought.”
“Psychic and mean. Jesus, you’re on a roll.” This made her smirk.
“Tell me what the problem is. Maybe I can help.”
He stepped closer to her and took a deep, slow breath, attempting to suck in the courage needed to open up about this. His therapist would be so fucking proud.
“She’s young. And I’m not. And…we talked about getting drinks but I just feel…it feels like crossing a line to go through with it.”
“Does she seem uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Does she seem interested?”
He nodded and tried to bite back the smile forming on his face. “She does.”
“Well, then, go for it. Yeah, you’re a little wrinkled around the edges, but so what? She’s an adult, and you aren’t some creep. The second she wants out, you respect it. Capiche?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But it is, Robby. For Christ’s sake, let yourself be happy for once. Just go for drinks. If you can’t handle it, end it. You’re putting too much behind this. Go have fun for once in your life.”
He scoffed in response, but she waved it off and already began to walk away before he could argue further. He inhaled deeply again and let his eyes scan over his emergency department. Fuck.
Without letting his mind dive further into the questions and unknowns and self-doubts, he pulled his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message and hit send. There, it’s done.
When he saw Langdon and Mel sprinting toward an oncoming trauma in the ambulance bay, he turned off the side of his brain that worried about beautiful jazz singers and ran to catch up to them.
On your side of the city, you reclined in a decades-beaten leather recliner that called Roger’s apartment home. The cracked planes of the cushions cracked around your ears each time you resettled into the seat. Your fingers tapped against your tucked-in legs to the beat of Jesse’s new proposed riff. Her bass plunked out a line of notes that were making your chest buzz. Dum, dum…dum, dum, dum…dum…
You were all considering debuting a new song at your first show, but there were still a few kinks to work out. The song needed some swell, but it was evading every single one of you. Your eye caught Dawn pacing in a corner of Roger’s kitchen, and Timmy’s eye was following her.
You tried to dial in to the notes Jesse was playing, but then your phone buzzed.
Dr. Robinavitch: I know a little Italian place by the water if you’re free later today?
You stared at the message, at first in shock, but then in pure giddiness. Dawn immediately caught your change in demeanor and scrambled over to you, nearly knocking Jesse over in the process.
“Hey, watch the bass, PLEASE!” Dawn lazily kicked her as she passed by.
“Is that the hot doctor?!” You flipped your phone around so she could see, whilst biting your lip. Her eyes widened, and a very un-Dawn-like squeal escaped her mouth. You flinched but laughed at her happiness for you.
“Oh god, what do I say?!”
She flicked your forehead, and you scowled, rubbing the red spot. “Don’t ask me dumb questions. Of course you’re saying yes.”
You nodded, still chewing on your lip as you typed out a response.
You: I can make myself available…
Dawn glanced at the message you sent and nodded in approval. “Playing coy. I like it. Okay, we are going back to your place and you are changing because this,” She gestured to your being as a whole and twisted her mouth in disappointment. “Not good enough.”
“Hey, I just went for comfy since we had rehearsal and-”
“No. Not good enough. Let’s go.”
This made Jesse and Timmy both stand up. “Woah, woah, woah. We still have to figure this song out!”
Dawn twisted to face them, and whatever expression painted her face cut the end of their sentence clean off.
“Nothing says you can’t keep tinkering. I’ll be back, but she,” Her severe finger rose to point at you. “She is taking a day off. God forbid.”
As Timmy and Jesse stood stunned, Roger smirked and nodded from his place on the floor, leaning against your recliner. He spent most rehearsals in silence, so this was quite the reaction from him. He ran a hand through his messy black curls and stood, stretching and now towering over all of you.
Another buzz from your phone. You swiped the message open without thinking and read it aloud.
Dr. Robinavitch: You’re sure you aren’t too busy? I know it’s last-minute.
“You should say you’re going to that art museum on Reynolds you’re obsessed with. See if he wants to go. Wear that white maxi skirt.”
Dawn jumped up and held her hands in a touchdown position. “YES!”
Now, Timmy felt compelled to cut in. “What if he doesn’t want to go? Can we get back to rehearsal?”
“That’s strike two, Timmy boy.” Dawn didn’t break a beat with her response.
Timmy muttered a fuck under his breath and walked to the kitchen to rifle around in the fridge.
You: I was actually going to The Frick later on. If you wanted to join…we could get drinks after?
Dawn read your message. “Good. We can work on that, but it's not terrible.”
You rolled your eyes and stretched over the recliner to grab your bag and pile of sheet music next to it. Dawn grabbed your phone to look through your messages with Robby as she grabbed her own pile of things. You thought about chiding her for going through your things, but you knew it was a losing battle.
By the time the two of you made it to the door with a soundtrack of grumbles from Jesse and Roger behind you, your phone buzzed again. Dawn read the message aloud.
Dr. Robinavitch: I can try to be there by 6.
“This man has impeccable punctuation in his texts.” You slapped her arm playfully.
“Must be a boomer thing.”
“That is strike THREE, Timmy!”
You pushed Dawn out the door before the verbal rise of an argument turned to the two of them throwing pillows and capos at each other.
She gave your phone back to you as the two of you walked quickly to the nearest train station. As you squeezed into an open spot next to her, you opened your conversation with Robby on your phone and stared at his last message.
This was really happening. Okay.
You smiled and hearted the message, then looked at Dawn, who was giving you a funny look.
“What?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You just look happy, kid.”
Summary: You make the plunge and finally text Robby back as your two-week check-up appointment looms on the horizon. Maybe you’ll get to see the hot, older doctor when you return to the hospital.
|| angst, dr. robby x reader, dr. robinavitch x reader, dr. michael robinavitch x reader, dr. abbot x reader, dr. jack abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: As we see season 2 progress, let’s just say this takes place during season 1. I’m still deciding if we’re going to introduce some of our new cast of characters later on…
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property, and aside from reblogs and shares, I do not permit for my work to be shared or copied without my consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
Two weeks later, you managed to throw yourself into a hectic rhythm of swells and dips between rehearsals, setlist changes and test shows. In tiny moments when you remember to be a regular human and shed the stressed shell of a performer persona, you send Dr. Robinavitch song recommendations. At first, you didn’t respond to his first text for a few days, scared that if you did, your phone would self-combust. Or you would.
One night, emboldened by a glass of wine and a strongly suggestive nudge from Dawn, you sent him a response.
Probably my favorite I’ve ever written. However, it doesn’t even come close to this.
Below the message was a link to a song that never fails to melt you on the inside in the best way each time you listen to it. Give you Blue by Allen Stone. It was embarrassing how many times that song showed up in your Spotify Wrapped over the last three or four years.
Your text thread became this syncopated back-and-forth exchange of your favorite songs and thoughts on each selection. Neither of you was brave enough to go past the topic of music, and despite the lack of variety in the conversation, your cheeks warmed every time he responded.
You’d even created a playlist with all of the songs you shared, and it became your go-to soundtrack when getting ready for the day. His favorite songs were the backtrack to your life, while you brewed coffee, searched for missing shoes and sheet music, and cooked breakfast.
On the day of your first follow-up appointment, you decided to break your streak of shared tunes. You were returning to the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for the first time in two weeks for new X-rays and, hopefully, to have your cast removed.
As you sat sipping your cup of Colombian roast with a splash of cream at your tiny kitchen table, listening to his latest send (Laredo by Leon Bridges), you tucked your knee against you to rest your chin on and looked at your conversation with him, scrolling back through the songs you sent each other. You’d been toying with the idea of actually asking to see him again for days.
Stop being a chicken shit. If he says no, he says no. You don’t even have to see him.
You looked at the queued message for another beat. Another deep breath and send.
Not sure if you’re around today, but I’ll be at PTMC around 1:30 for a follow-up at 2. Think you can sneak away for a coffee on me? Still need to say thank you properly.
You didn’t hear a response for several hours. Your brain went back and forth between its logical side of remembering that he was probably running from patient to patient, and its less logical, insecure side that said, “Girl, he was your doctor. Leave him alone.”
Unfortunately, the insecure side won the battle, and you threw your phone in your tote bag to avoid sending it into the stratosphere.
You drank the dregs of your coffee, put the empty cup in the sink, slipped into leggings and a sweatshirt, then stepped into your potato clogs on your way out the door.
Still not entirely ready to get behind the wheel again, you decided to leave the rental car your insurance covered parked on the street and instead took brisk steps towards the nearest PRT station. You absentmindedly swiped into the station and took the stairs two at a time until you were standing on the platform in the brisk morning air, waiting for your train.
You had no way of knowing since your phone was buried deep in your bag, but Robby was having his own battle of nerves as his fingers typed and retyped a response. The three dots continued their dance in your chat for several minutes as he hid out in the break room.
It was a rare, slow day in the ED, and while he fought this silent battle, Dana watched him from her spot at the hub with a Grinch-like smirk on her face. He told her he ducked inside for a coffee refill, but she knew better. For five minutes, she redirected intern and resident requests to other doctors while Robby fought his internal battle.
When you stepped onto your train, he finally hit send. Your phone buzzed, but you didn’t feel the sensation thanks to your latest read. The thick tome absorbed the shocks and barely made a sound between the rattles of the train. You didn’t let yourself think about the device until you realized you should probably make sure you were still good on time to make your appointment.
After digging it out from the bottom of your bag, you saw the little message icon next to his name. Dr. Robinavitch. 1 new message.
I can sneak away for a coffee.
What you didn’t see were the thirty-one-and-a-half drafts of him saying no, he’s too busy, fuck yes, and what the fuck was he doing.
While you stared at the message on the train, Robby watched the clock between cases. He watched Dana sneak outside for a smoke break, and when she returned at 1:08 p.m., he checked his phone and saw a message from you.
Just got off the train. Should be there in 10. Cafeteria?
His heartbeat increased tenfold. God, he was too fucking old for this. Why was he nervous?!
It was just a patient saying thank you and following up. This has happened hundreds, if not thousands, of times throughout his career. He could feel his inner turmoil boiling over, calling his attraction to you a midlife crisis.
But you weren’t that young, were you? You definitely weren’t that old, like him.
Robby’s shaking leg marked the next ten minutes, several quick exchanges between cases, and glances at the status board. More than one resident noticed the change in his demeanor, and it didn’t take long for Dr. Langdon to whisper something snarky to Dana about his nervousness.
She hushed him and told him to mind his business as Robby passed by to say he was stepping out for a quick second and to page him if anything went awry. The second that his back was turned, she cut a look at all the doctors and nurses nearby and mouthed, “Not a peep.”
You stepped into PTMC as the sky opened up with an oncoming storm and just barely missed a downpour. You navigated the confusing, unknown upper level of the hospital until you finally saw a sign that said “cafeteria.”
Your chest fluttered with the nerves of something similar to a first date, but you kept telling yourself it was no such thing. You were saying thank you. You just texted your hot, older doctor to say thank you. God, you needed to take a beat.
The two of you stepped into the cafeteria at the same time. He saw you before you saw him, thanks in part to the siren promise of coffee and also because your nerves placed a severe tunnel over your vision as you entered the busy cafeteria.
Robby’s cheeks reddened as he approached, but when he did, you heard his gravely, warm voice and felt pinpricks dance up your spine.
“How’s the arm feeling?”
Your cheeks blushed to match his own as you smiled up at him. “A little achy, but I think coffee will dull the pain.”
A small smile upturned his lips as he wordlessly gestured to your arm, seemingly asking to take a look. You rolled up the sleeve of your sweatshirt and offered your injured arm so he could prod around the cast. You tried your best not to squirm under his touch or draw his eye to the dumb messages your bandmates scrawled in Sharpie. You also tried to ignore the warm feeling blooming in your belly from his attention.
Briefly, he paused and saw Timmy’s contribution. Least it wasn’t ur face, good lookn.♥️ Timmy. He tried not to laugh as he continued his assessment. Now, occasionally glancing at your face. He did agree; it was pretty stunning.
You kept your eyes trained on his shoulder, as you did your best to avoid breathing in his clean scent. The hot doctor was touching you. The hot doctor was touching you. Be cool for fuck’s sake.
Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and gestured to the line of people that shortened during his examination. You fixed the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
“I can’t promise it actually qualifies as coffee.” He shrugged. “But it gets the job done.”
“Are you sure? I want to buy you a good coffee.” You looked at the coffee pot gurgling over the counter manned by amazing but tired-looking baristas and cafeteria staff. “I would feel really bad if I poisoned the man who helped save me.”
This got a laugh out of him. “I promise I wouldn’t have agreed if the coffee was actually lethal. It’s only semi-lethal at best.”
You smirked. “Just a stomach covered up by the shakes?”
“Exactly.” He smiled down at you, and you froze under his gaze, your smirk fading.
A cleared throat signaled that it was your turn to order. After requesting two regular coffees from the young barista, the two of you stepped to the side to wait for the coffees.
You squinted at the hospital’s fluorescent lighting and looked around at the busy space. Each table was crowded with faces ranging from nervous and tentatively happy to distraught. It caused a jumble of nerves to begin a dance in your belly, and you shifted slightly.
Robby noted the path of your gaze and nudged you slightly. You looked up at him and tried to cover your concern with a pale smile.
“It takes getting used to. All the emotions that come through here. It can be heavy.”
You nodded. “I feel like I can barely carry my own emotions, let alone imagine what you see day after day.”
He doesn’t say anything, just plastered on a polite mask that said, “Yes, each day is hell, but I can’t dump that on you, so I’ll just say thank you.”
You imagine it’s a well-practiced look.
After a few rapid blinks and a tense moment, he tried to say something, but the barista called your name. You stepped forward to retrieve the piping-hot paper cups and handed one to Robby.
You both took a sip, and both in turn grimaced. His reaction was, of course, practiced, as he was used to this particular brand of liquid death. You couldn’t do much more than sputter and try to paste a nice smile on your face that hopefully communicated to the barista, “No, of course this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” in case they happened to look over.
You felt his hand gently pat your back as you muffled your coughs with your good elbow. He leaned forward with a smirk as he whispered, “I tried to warn you.” Your cough morphed into a laugh.
You turned to him and whispered in response, “How is that legal to serve?” He laughed again, and you both realized how close your faces were.
You blushed, and he coughed, taking a step back. Another awkward moment passed, and this time, he chose to cover it up with another sip of Satan’s blend of coffee. You couldn’t subject yourself to that again.
“Look, I promised you a cup of coffee, and this doesn’t qualify at all.” You absentmindedly chewed on your lip as his eyes met yours.
He nodded succinctly and looked down at his paper cup. “Nah, don’t worry about it. This will get me through the rest of my shift and prevent my inevitable crash once I get home.”
Feeling the pillow-padded rejection to your soft attempt at asking him out again, you nodded.
“Well, I should go upstairs and check in for my appointment to hopefully get this monstrosity off.” You raised your plastered arm in a half-assed goodbye to account for your other hand holding the coffee. “It was good seeing you again, Dr. Robinavitch. And thank you again.”
He looked back down at his coffee, so you took that as your cue to leave. Hot, horrible coffee in hand and a hot, older doctor in the rearview, you turned on your heel to exit the cafeteria when you heard his voice again.
“You know, I never got to tell you what I thought of your performance.” This brought an immediate smile to your face that you did your best to hide as you turned to look over your shoulder at him. “And I think more drinks were mentioned if I recall correctly.”
Your smile grew. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Dr. Robby?”
He laughed lightly and shrugged his shoulders. “Mildly buzzed. I am a gentleman after all.” He pressed his hand to his heart, and it was hard not to smile at that point.
“Send the signal when you’re free, Ponyboy.”
He bit his lip as you turned back toward the exit.
The entire way upstairs to the orthopedic wing, your smile grew and grew. You had a date with the hot doctor.
Back in the pitt, Dr. Robby was actually smiling. For more than five seconds, for once. And cracking more jokes than usual. Dana watched, flabbergasted, with a proud grin on her face.
Out of sight from the rest of the day shift under the ledge of the nurse’s station, Perlah and Princess each passed her five dollars.
How could they have known she had insider information when she bet Robby would come back in a much better mood than he was in before?
She was going to treat herself to a nice iced latte on the way to work tomorrow. She might even bring one in for one Michael Robinavitch to keep this good mood going.
Summary: You and Robby part ways for what seems like forever, but a long day and jazz bar place the two of you back in the same spot.
|| angst, dr. robby x reader, dr. robinavitch x reader, dr. michael robinavitch x reader, dr. abbot x reader, dr. jack abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: And we are on a roll, folks! Thank you to everyone who has decided to stick with this story. It truly feels like a hug to write it. I pretty much have the entire story outline built out but if your heart is craving a particular trope/moment/scene, feel free to send it my way and I’ll work it in. <3
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
Upon seeing the dog-eared pages of the clearly loved book, a smile immediately blossomed on your cheeks. You attempted to reach across the dauntingly vast expanse of the hospital bed. The distance between where your arm rested and your feet seemed so large, it was laughable. You could not believe you had to game-plan a way to reach the book.
At first, you flat-out attempted to bend in a way your body was normally accustomed to. Surely, you could just reach across your legs to grab the small paperback. Surely. However, your body screamed the second you attempted such a ridiculous action. Big mistake. The breaks and the bruises screamed at you, reminding you that they did in fact exist.
Short, sharp breaths stopped your actions and alerted the nurse in the room to your sneaky plan. The unfamiliar woman turned to give you a disapproving look and walked towards you. “What’s this?”
Her voice bordered on shrill, and you found yourself missing the gentle voices of the emergency department. And maybe the comforting voices of a particular doctor there as well.
“A friend dropped it off. I’m having a little trouble reaching it.”
The petite woman with a crown of black curls frowned at you again slightly before easily grasping the book and placing it gently on your lap. When she looked at you again, you noticed her eyes were creased with many years of frowns, smiles and no doubt, an abundance of scoldings.
You made a mental note to stay on her good side for the rest of your brief stay.
You smiled gratefully at her and immediately opened the cover. “Thank you, nurse…?”
“Shelly. And don’t worry about it.” She mirrored your smile with a wink and returned to charting your vitals. You took that as your opportunity to finally glance down at the book.
It had easily been over a decade since you read or even thought about this story. But you do remember begging your mom to bring you to the bookstore to buy your very own copy after reading it chapter by chapter with your seventh-grade literature class.
Never in your life had a story been so all-consuming.
And so you spent the next two hours. Consumed between the pages of the familiar story of a ragtime group of teens in 1960s Tulsa, in a similar way your twelve-year-old self did many years ago. You read the comforting words on the page, remembering the thrill of discovering the next plot twist.
As you were poked and prodded during nurse check-ups, you read. You even grasped the small paperback one-handed as they placed a cast on your broken arm.
You had decision fatigue when Shelly asked which color you preferred, so she chose purple. You smiled, remembering how that color was a favorite of many special people in your life.
A back corner of your mind reminded you of the still pinging phone, but that same corner held little capacity for such things in the present. You would once again be reminded of the way this morning turned your world briefly upside down. For now, you wanted to read. And so you did.
By the time Shelly came back to process your discharge, you were reading the final page. Stay gold. You smiled and sighed, letting that feeling of finishing a book take over your quiet brain. Now, real life began yet again.
You waited patiently for her to finish filling out your paperwork before asking for a pen. She once again looked at you quizzically but fished one out of the front pocket of her scrubs. You whispered a thank you and scribbled a quick note to Robby.
Thanks for saving my life and mind, Ponyboy. I’ll forever be grateful to you.
“If you have the time, would you mind giving this to Dr. Robinavitch? I think he was the one who dropped off the book, and I just want to make sure he gets it back.”
This time, that quizzical look transformed into the standard smirk that everyone in this hospital seemed to have in their arsenal the second you mentioned Dr. Robinavitch or he was in the room with you. And once again, it caused your cheeks to turn rosy. You looked down sheepishly as she took the small book and deposited it and her pen in the same front pocket.
“I’ll make sure he gets it, sweetie.”
A few minutes and a dozen signed documents later, Shelly helped you into a wheelchair and began your slow crawl to the hospital’s exit. This time, Timmy and Dawn waited to help you get home. Dawn’s dramatic blonde bob and her angular face were a total antithesis to the frown softening her face. Timmy stood to her right, his usual sunny, freckled face solemn and nervous.
You reached your arms out to your bandmates as you got closer. The duo who grew with you, along with Roger and Jesse, from your college days into your twenties, grasped your hands in a vice. Dawn slid her hand to your shoulder and squeezed while Timmy looked down at you with a sheen in his eyes. That look was too sad an accessory for the buzzcut he was convinced made him look more vogue. You twisted your mouth playfully.
“Timmy, my love. It is just a few bruises and a broken arm. I am fine. I’m sorry for freaking you guys out.” Your voice softened at the end. The reality of the morning slowly began to seep in.
Timmy nodded and cleared his throat to cover up the onslaught of tears that was no doubt in the pipeline. You playfully reached out with your good hand and pinched his hand. “You’re still stuck with me I fear.”
This got you an eyeroll from both Dawn and Timmy. Shelly smiled at the interaction and gestured for them to follow her to the exit doors. As they bombarded her with aftercare questions, you hummed quietly to yourself and briefly wondered if the route to the hospital exit in any way veered near the ER.
Such luck was not in your cards today as your quartet reached the sidewalk in the grey sunshine that followed the morning’s storm. You squinted up at Shelly and thanked her again for everything. She patted your shoulder and gestured to the pile of paperwork in your lap.
“Make sure you read those documents and take care of yourself. I’ll see you in two weeks to check on that arm. Please be in one piece when I see you next!”
You laughed lightly and nodded as Timmy held out a hand to help you stand. Once you were firmly planted on both feet, Shelly returned with the wheelchair in tow, back inside.
It didn’t take long for your bandmates to bring you back into the fabric of reality. The next day, you wandered around your apartment, trying to contain the messy piles of your life with mouthfuls of Chinese takeout from your favorite spot up the block. The owner, Jason, even threw in a free cup of egg drop soup to help you recoup once he saw your compromised arm. It was a small addition to the gargantuan order you placed meant for a family of four, but in times of trouble, greasy takeout was the first step to healing.
After about seven helpings of noodles and rice with the occasional vegetable, you finally scheduled a few rehearsals to get back on track for your upcoming tour. The small regional commitment was a big leap for your band, which, aside from your TikTok success, was only known in a few regional jazz bars.
Well, the ones for the fifty-and-over crowd that could stomach a young ragtime team trying a new sound.
The ever-present pit in your stomach returned when you thought about the reality of performing in front of growing crowds, but the hopeful faces of your quartet of friends spurred you on. The next day brought your re-entry into a life of rehearsals, setlist jigsaw puzzles, and reassuring yourself that this was what you wanted.
This is what people made music for anyway. Right?
Exactly a week later, your first test performance started in less than an hour, and a certain ER attending physician was lazily walking the pavement post-shift to avoid returning to his apartment that held just enough space and life’s unavoidable knick-knacks for one.
After walking the same set of streets for fifteen minutes, his eyes landed on a blue neon sign poking out of a cellar entrance. Con Alma. He paused and looked in the opposite direction toward home, contemplating whether he really wanted to sit anonymously in a bar nursing an over-priced drink and listening to a drone of jazz standards.
Well, it beats sitting in your apartment nursing a cheap beer or three listening to the drone of your thoughts.
A drone is a drone. Better it be a distracted one than a spiraling one.
He stretched his neck and shouldered his backpack before walking toward the bar and down its steep set of steps. He pushed open the door and immediately blinked to adjust his eyes to the practically non-existent lighting of Con Alma. It was a stark contrast to the emergency department’s sterile white lights. Within moments, his nose was hit with strong notes of tequila, lime, and lemon-scented cleaner, and his ears caught the quiet notes of a band warming up.
He beelined for the bar and one of the two remaining seats. He glanced around the room again and noticed the small space was fairly packed with a wide range of attendees. He noticed the silver-haired, middle-aged and freshly twenty-something crowd in equal parts.
A few plucks of a guitar string, a testing note on a keyboard, the tap tap of a drum stick and a familiar voice rang out over the microphone. The voice was warm and shaky and oh so familiar.
“Welcome…everyone. Thank you so much for being here tonight! My friends and I have been working on a few songs, and tonight, we need your help figuring out what works, what doesn’t.”
He flagged down the server and ordered whatever IPA was on tap.
A nervous clearing of the throat. “So, uh, boo us if you feel called to. Cheer. Clap. Dance. The whole shebang. If we suck, please let us know. You, unfortunately, are our test audience.”
A guitar lick rang out, mimicking the dun dun dun sting of a horror film backtrack.
The entire room erupted into a chorus of syncopated catcalls and cheers. He looked around and noticed he was the only one actually facing the bartender, who also had his eyes settled on the stage as he absentmindedly poured the IPA.
“And please forgive my one-armed renditions of the next few songs. Found myself in a little accident last week and have yet to grow a new, functioning arm.” This earned a few laughs from the people at the bar top.
This little detail had him quirking his head to the side. That voice. A broken arm. The bartender set the sloshing drink in front of him and went back to watching the band on stage.
He shook his head and reached for a cocktail napkin from a stack to his right and cleaned his hands and glass before turning to face the stage fully.
And there you were.
Fresh cast, wildly brilliant hair and a flowing white dress that left his throat dry. He took a sip of his beer to cover up the building cough. You looked like a fucking ethereal. He told himself it was the measly sip of IPA that let his thoughts stray so far. Yeah fucking right.
The lights briefly dimmed before shining down on a single spot on you. He watched completely enraptured as the first few words of the song escaped your lips in a soft, whispery timbre, accompanied by a soft saxophone accompaniment. Your eyes were closed and you gripped the mic stand like it was a life raft and the stage was a tumultuous ocean.
By the second song, which was a much livelier tune and the third, an unreleased track about unknown missed connections, your smile grew. Each song loosened you up, and by the fourth, you danced across the small stage, grasping the mic in your uninjured hand.
Your hair bounced and floated as you swayed to the beat set by your four bandmates. He vaguely remembered seeing two of the three men at the hospital, but the blonde leaning over the bass, as if in a trance, and the guy behind the drums were new faces.
As the lights dimmed preluding the next song, you turned toward the bar and seemed to pause briefly. You gestured to someone in the sound booth at the back of the bar and the house lights came on.
You smiled nervously at the packed crowd. Before speaking, you looked down at your feet clad in sharp, blue kitten heels. A mismatched group of catcalls and cheers echoed across the sea of faces.
You laughed softly, and the sound went straight to his stomach. “Thank you, thank you… So. This incredible establishment is run by an incredibly dashing man named Danny. Earlier, Danny informed me that I get one singular drink for free as a performer's bonus. Is that correct, Danny my love?”
A tinny, disembodied voice rang out across the crowd. “Yes, yes! Only one drink.”
Well, that seemed a bit fucking cheap.
You nodded and twisted your mouth playfully, peering at whatever spot Danny was standing in. “Are we absolutely certain it is just one drink?”
The crowd laughed, and Danny’s unmiked voice rang out again, "Yes, one drink."
You nodded again dramatically and gave a playful eyeroll as you walked toward the corner of the stage that faced the bar. You held the mic in your good hand for a moment before continuing, almost staring him down as if there was no one else in the crowded building. His throat felt dry again, but he told himself you would truly see him if he moved to take another sip.
Somehow, he thought you missed the man who saved your life.
“Well, that is unfortunate for me because I have spotted someone very special in the crowd tonight, and I’ve already used up my free drink. A little pre-show tequila for the nerves.” More chuckles rang out across the space.
“You see folks, when this little mishap…happened,” You gestured to your cast-covered arm, which he now noticed had scribbles all over it, with the microphone. “When I was brought into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, a truly phenomenal team led by Dr. Michael Robinavitch took great care of me.”
Robby froze and looked around him before hiding behind another sip of his drink. This IPA had somehow become an anchor for him, but your eyes were about to knock him off his axis.
You pointed your microphone toward the bar, fully outing his location. The crowd turned to face Robby one by one. “So Danny, please direct a drink to Dr. Robby and throw it on my tab. I need to say thank you to this incredible man who stumbled into the same bar with the very same stage I am making a fool of myself on.”
Again, the crowd laughed as you raised your glass to cheer him. He lifted his and smiled to himself.
There was no way he could spot it, but you blushed before continuing. “Now onto a bit of a snazzy number.” You faced Timmy, who sat behind the drum kit, smirking like a little devil. “Count me in, Timmy boy?” Your voice shook a little.
Seven songs later, you and Robby were both respectfully on the verge of a heart attack. The closer you got to the end of your set, the realization that you had to talk to him again hit you like a ton of bricks. One by one. Song by song.
What does one say to the hot, older doctor that saved your life?
Over by the bar, Robby was nursing the same beer, practicing what he was going to say to you in his head if you decided to say hi. Should he stick around for that? He had to, right? Was he being creepy and ridiculous hoping that you would?
You tried to distract yourself by pouring every single ounce of energy into the songs, dancing and twirling, and by the end, the bar’s small crowd was on their feet cheering your little group on. Your eyes scanned across the droves of smiling faces and you brought your hand to your chest in gratitude, briefly forgetting the social anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.
After introducing your band members and thanking the crowd, the house lights came back on and you stood on your marker taking deep breaths as Timmy, Dawn, Roger, and Jesse began break down.
After three slow intakes, you spun to face Roger who was carefully looping a cable from his shoulder and arm by your feet. He looked up at you with a mischievous spark in his eye but didn’t say anything. He just motioned toward Robby with a tilt of his head. You looked and saw Robby still sat at the bar, his back now to the stage.
You briefly shook your head and as if she could hear the motion, Dawn turned to glare at you from her spot by the drum kit. Timmy peeked his head over the cymbal and contributed a twin glare.
Jesse was acting oblivious as he packed up his guitar and saxophone so you groaned and threw your hands up. “This is going to be embarrassing.”
Dawn crossed her arms. “If you don’t give your number to the hot doctor, I will happily march over there, give him my number and let him crack my-”
“OKAY I’M GOING!”
You took another slow breath to steady yourself before bounding down the stage steps and directly to the man who had yet to turn away from the bar. You bit your lip in sympathy as you noticed his tensed back and looked back at your friends, who were all watching from the stage. Fuck.
You met Dawn’s eyes and she emphatically mouthed, “Bitch go.”
Fuckity fuck fuck. You slid between Robby and the occupied stool next to him and motioned to the bartender. “Can I get a glass of malbec, please?”
You saw him stiffen further out of the corner of your eye and mentally readied yourself to grab the wine, pay, and walk back to your friends without another word when he spoke in a low voice.
“You were really incredible up there. You’re…your band is really amazing.” His voice sounded as if it was punched through with holes and you felt your mouth quirk up at the familiar, scratchy sound.
You fingered a scratch on the bar top and glanced at him, noting his rosy cheeks. In a quiet voice you thanked him.
The bartender returned with a glass and Robby told him to put it on his tab before he could walk away.
“No, no, please. You don’t have to do that.”
He shook his head, now smiling. “My drink for yours. I can play this game all night.” Or maybe he was smirking.
You turned toward him fully and took a slow sip of your wine, locking eyes with him.
“Well, if you’re game.” That earned you a small laugh and you grinned. “I actually need to help my band pack up our equipment but, if you want, we can buy each other drinks some other time.” He tensed again and you were ready to backtrack and somehow get yourself out of this waking nightmare when he cut off your thoughts.
“I’d really like that.”
You didn’t realize your gaze had traveled to your glass of wine until your eyes snapped up and met his. Your rosy cheeks now mirrored his own, but your shocked gaze was the polar opposite of his warm eyes.
“Yeah?”
He smiled and nodded.
Your smile bloomed and you couldn’t stop grinning as you grabbed a cocktail napkin. He handed you a pen from his jacket pocket and you scribbled your name and number across it. You slid the napkin and pen back to him and he looked down at the two as if in surprise.
You grabbed your glass and stepped back, giving the two of you air to breathe after that heady interaction. You hardly needed to keep drinking your wine at this rate. The buzz that talking to this man gave you had your body at risk of spinning right off the ground.
“Well, thank you for the glass of red. I look forward to hearing from you, Ponyboy.” Another golden laugh from Dr. Robby.
He turned to watch you walk away and you noticed his smile held a note of sadness. And as you put more space between you, walking back to your bandmates that were still on stage, he looked down at the napkin, and you couldn’t help but notice the smile was nearly gone.
After a few days of no word from the good doctor, you told yourself it was for the best. The man easily had fifteen years on you and his structured life as a doctor was hardly the best fit for whatever chaos you managed to thread together as daily life.
It was for the best. That, of course, didn’t quell the growing seed in your gut that told you that you should’ve left the poor man alone with his drink and saved him the trouble of coming up with an excuse to soften the rejection.
You were being ghosted by the hot doctor that saved your life. Life was really fucking knocking you down lately.
On day four, you received a text from an unknown number. It was a screenshot of one of your older songs, We Could Be So Good.
The song was one of your early releases dreamt up from the dregs of a daydream of the perfect morning with your person. You’d always pictured windows left open, stacks of bent paperbacks and shared cups of coffee cuddled between the sheets. The song continued that golden thread and wove it between the hours of a whole perfect day.
We could be so good. If you would only show your face to me. We could be so good. If you were here.
Summary: Your life comes to a complete halt when you're involved in an accident going to rehearsal. You end up at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center...
Tropes: Slow Burn, Age Gap, Miscommunication, 20+ Age Gap, Messy, (Potential Pregnancy but TBD)
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Summary: You’re stuck in at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center with two attendings paying special attention to you and the rest of the ER watching with curious eyes.
|| angst, dr. robby x reader, dr. robinavitch x reader, dr. michael robinavitch x reader, dr. abbot x reader, dr. jack abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: Slowly coming back! Life is still a pickle, but this is the one thing getting me through. Thank you for being here and reading <3
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
Previous Chapter.
The next hour or two was filled with groggy intervals of needles poking through skin, kind nurses checking vitals and the frequent visits of Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot. The first few times the men popped their heads in for an update from whatever intern or nurse happened to be in the room, it seemed perfunctory enough.
Of course, these visits brought great amusement to Roger and Jesse, who were still marveling at the ratio of good looks in this ER, but by the fifth or sixth time, a nervous seed planted itself in your belly. If it weren’t for the painfully obvious smirks directed your way from the entire ER staff, you would think they found a mysterious fatal flaw in your chart that was the beginning of your demise.
So, were you secretly dying, or was there another reason the doctors kept visiting you? You chastised yourself internally. They are literally just doing their jobs.
After another hour, your bandmates had to go to the rehearsal space to reschedule a few dates and meet with your management. You were honestly grateful to the confines of your hospital bed for sparing you from that particular joy, but your stomach sank all the same when you were truly alone and felt the implications of that loneliness. You forced yourself to close your eyes and mentally crawl through each song on your tentative show setlist to calm your nerves, and after a while, you settled into a soft snooze. However, they snapped open quickly when Dr. Robinavitch once again poked his head in.
You tried to sit up in your bed but winced from the sore muscular reminders of your accident earlier that morning. Muscle stretched over a battered body, and it momentarily took your breath away. Dr. Robinvatich quickly walked over to you and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder to stop you.
“Please. Try to stay as comfortable as you can. We’re still waiting on a few tests to come back.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with a kindness that didn’t reach his mouth. You nodded and leaned back against the overly stiff pillows.
“Your friends leave for the day?” You nodded and tried to clear your throat. Anticipating your parched throat, he handed you a paper cup of water without glancing your way as he restarted the computer by your bedside to check the status of something or other. You accepted the cup with a mumbled thanks and watched his muscular back as he clicked through a few pages. Did doctors always look this attractive?
“Dr. Robinavitch?”
“Hmm?” He turned to look at you over his shoulder, and your eyes shot to your lap where your hands twisted together.
“I’m not dying, am I?”
His eyebrows stitched together. The lines in his face told you he did this a lot. “Dying? No.” A short laugh. “The tests we’re waiting on are just a few routine ones to make sure we didn’t miss anything. You should be out of here in just a few hours.”
He slid the stethoscope from around his neck and placed it against your chest. “Has your breathing improved at all?” You took two shaky deep inhales and winced at the stretch of your ribs.
“Still feels like my lungs are filled with water, but nothing out of the ordinary after an attack.” He nodded and stepped back.
Feeling the words leaking out of your pores, you started to ramble against your normally sort-of sound judgment. “I know it’s probably routine but between your visits and Dr. Abbot’s, my anxiety just kind of spiked.”
He fully turned to look at you now, leaning against the standing computer.
“Dr. Abbot was in here?” This time, it was your eyebrows that crinkled together, and you nodded.
“Is that…is that a bad thing?” There goes that pit of nausea again.
He shook his head quickly, to dispel your anxieties or maybe his own. “No, no. Dr. Abbot is a fantastic doctor.” He cleared his throat and turned back to the computer. “We try to touch each case that comes in here to make sure our interns and residents are doing everything they should.”
At your silent confusion, he continued, perhaps rambling himself, and shot a small smile over his shoulder. “We’re a teaching hospital.” A quieter mumble to himself. “Clearly, Dr. Abbot is very interested in this case.”
The corner of your mouth turned up a little. “Hope I wasn’t too hard to figure out.”
He smiled and tilted his head to the side, twisting back to face you. “Luckily, just a few patch-ups for you. You got lucky this morning.”
A burst of laughter escaped you. “Tell that to my bandmates. I got a whole lecture about being on-time and how if I was, I wouldn’t have been in that accident. A good point, but I blame my boots and sheet music and their constant prerogative for running away from me.”
This elicited a genuine laugh from the older man. “You’re a musician?”
Your cheeks blossomed into a rosy sheen. “Yes. We’re a jazz group. Sort of pop-adjacent. I don’t know. All I really know is I love horns and dancing and soul. I was actually on my way to practice for our show in Pittsburgh next month.”
You didn’t realize the way your hands began shifting until Dr. Robinavitch’s eyes zeroed in on them and softened at the nervous tic.
Robby turned back to the computer and your chart. He softly said your name and looked at you again with upturned cheeks. “I’ll have to look you up.”
Your hands flew up to your face. “Oh god, please don’t.” You peeked through your fingers. “I know I’m supposed to love sharing my music but it just-” You shivered. “It’s like walking around naked.”
He crossed his arms and took a step toward you. “So, why do it?”
You paused for a beat and looked at him. “I can’t not. Sure, I can say no to the shows and releasing it on platforms but…the music would still get made. Truly, it’s my bandmates that convinced me to actually release anything. They set up the YouTube channel and the TikTok account. I just show up and do the thing.”
“And the live shows?”
“So they can get paid for the work they put in. They bust their asses and even if I am painfully terrible at facing a crowd, I want them to reap the rewards of the little success we’re having. And even I can admit the feeling is incredible when I settle into the nerves during a show.”
“Yeah? What does it feel like?”
You took another sip of water. “Like flying. And falling. And spinning. It’s electric, as cheesy as that sounds.” Your words were quiet with a soft layer of reverence. He nodded, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and smiling down at his shoes. “One day, every show will feel like that if I get lucky enough to get used to it.”
“Well, from what I’m hearing whispered amongst my staff, you’re more than a little successful.”
You blushed again, and he let out a laugh that sounded dry from disuse. A little airy, a little gravely. A resulting little shiver ran through you.
As your cheeks grew red with Dr. Robinavitch dawdling in your room, the interns, attendings, and even Charge Nurse Dana placed bets on whether Dr. Robby was harboring a little inappropriate crush.
In Dana’s eyes, all she saw was Robby smiling in a way he hadn’t in a really long time. She’d grown used to his surly moods and biting wit to hide the sadness he felt. But now…he briefly and in such a quick fashion seemed different. Hell, the man even seemed on the verge of flirting with you.
And that was something she would never stand in the way of, even if Gloria would have his head if she found out he was spending a little too much time with a singular patient. But Dana wouldn’t let that happen in a million years if Robby just kept smiling like that. And if Gloria did find out, she would spout some bullshit about patient satisfaction scores to appease the meddling woman.
It took another hour or two for a bed to open up in General Surgery, and when Dana updated Robby that you were ready for a transfer, she watched with a mischievous smirk as he beelined for your room, handing a case of Ringworm to poor Dr. Whitacre.
She leaned against the main desk, now flanked by Dr. Mohan and Dr. McKay, to watch as he stepped into your room. In no time, you turned to him with a questioning smile.
She smiled and turned to the two women. “Well, I’ll be damned. He’s a living, breathing man after all.”
Once again, you tried to sit up and winced. He sat down in the rolling examination chair and slid closer to you.
“I have some good news. A room opened up in General Surgery and if we leave now, I can guarantee a lunch of some pretty mediocre penne courtesy of the hospital cafeteria.”
You groaned happily and let your head fall back against the pillow. “That actually sounds like heaven.”
“Let’s get you settled and I’ll grab some lunch for you.”
You raised your eyebrows as he pulled up the guards on your bed and handed your paper chart to the nurse who stepped into the room. This was the kind one, the one wearing the hijab, who had been in and out of your room all morning. She had the pretty name. Perlah.
“Oh, are you delivering meals now, Dr. Robby?” Her voice was smooth as honey; the total opposite of the cutting smirk she sent his way.
You missed the way Dr. Robinavitch’s cheeks reddened as he turned to your monitor to set it up for transfer.
Within minutes, he and Perlah were wheeling you past the busy hive that was Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to an elevator that led to the General Surgery floor. After Perlah settled you into your new room, the promised penne was hand-delivered by Dr. Robinavitch himself as she slipped out the door to return down to the ER.
He moved a little rolling table closer to you and deposited the tray as you slowly sat up. You finally learned the limitations of your injury and took it as slowly as molasses. “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch. I’m seriously grateful for everything you and your team have done.”
He shrugged and made sure you could easily reach the food. “Call me Robby, and I promise it’s no problem.”
A little chuckle escaped you. “Is that your first name? Dr. Robby Robinavitch?”
He looked down at the ground with a soft smile, painting his face. “It’s Michael, but everyone calls me Robby.”
You smiled too and peeled open the food, letting a little tendril of steam escape. “Well okay then, Robby.” His name felt sweet on your tongue. You took a small bite of the pasta to cover up the taste.
Similarly affected by your verbalizing his name, he scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat. Bringing two hands together, he gestured toward you. Presumably, to step back into the professional box the two of you knowingly edged a toe out of. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Your gut reaction was to immediately say no and leave him to go back to his work, but a question prickled in your mind. Plus, a potential possibility to see him again. “Any chance there’s a lost and found box with a book I could borrow? I’m going a little stir crazy. Not used to sitting still like this.”
He stepped toward the door and palmed the handle while looking back at you. “I’ll see what I can scrounge up.”
You smiled as he exited, telling yourself it was the carbs entering your bloodstream that made you feel at ease.
With a full belly and an even quieter room, you drifted off to sleep within the hour. When you awoke sometime later, you blearily spotted a nurse updating your chart, your shattered phone screen lighting up with calls and messages and by your blanket-clad feet, a beat-up copy of The Outsiders.
Summary: Your life comes to a complete halt when you're involved in an accident going to rehearsal. You end up at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center...
|| angst, dr. robby x reader, dr. robinavitch x reader, dr. michael robinavitch x reader, dr. abbot x reader, dr. jack abbot x reader, blood, hospital scenes, car accident scenes, depression, mentions of drugs, anxiety, reader is afab||
Notes: It's been A WHILE. Safe to say, life has not been kind but my way of coping with pretty much anything is writing SO here is a new story. All previous stories will be wrapped up I promise, but I kept being drawn to this universe with the new season on the horizon! Hope you enjoy. <3
The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and the The Pitt franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.
18+. Read at your own risk. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Minors DO NOT ENGAGE.
It was a beautifully rainy day in Pittsburgh, and you couldn’t feel more at peace as you searched through your apartment for your last few pieces of sheet music and your favorite pair of knock-off Doc Martens.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you pull it out to see that your friend and bass player, Roger, was reminding you that rehearsal was in thirty minutes and you needed to leave five minutes ago. You groaned to yourself and quickened your search for your boots or any form of shoe to protect yourself against the torrential downpour outside.
Mental reminder to never share your location with any other band members who knew your proclivity to be late. For many things. On many days.
You ran into your living room and scanned the beloved, cluttered space.
Stacks of sheet music sat on your coffee table that you still needed to grade from your Music Composition 101 class, which you taught on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Your newest hard drive, on which you stored your raw tracks from last month’s songwriting session. A pile of vinyls you hadn’t re-sleeved and put back in their rightful order in your cube storage case after a night of red wine and spins. Everything but your boots.
You groaned and again let your eyes sweep over the room until you finally saw them in a dark corner by your kitchen. You exclaimed and ran toward the corner to retrieve…just the right shoe.
After another groan and another sweep of your eyes, you finally spotted the left one by your electric keyboard, which sat by the big window in your apartment. In what logical sense did the right end up by the kitchen and the left by the window? Did you conveniently forget a hopping excursion from door to window?
Another buzz from your phone.
Roger: Are you leaving sometime this century? Timmy and Dawn are already here.
You shoved your foot into the boot, hopped over your couch to grab your tote bag hanging on your bedroom door and beelined for the door. A hop and a skip down the stairs, and you were instantly soaked head to foot while unlocking the door to your car. Why were you leaving the apartment again?
Insistent buzzing from your phone. Someone was calling you. Oh, that’s right. Rehearsal.
“Shit!” You wrenched open the door, threw your bag onto the passenger seat, and ran around to the other side of the car.
After you were securely fastened and shifting gears into drive, you were off down the rain-soaked streets of Allegheny West. Your eyes scanned the brownstone exteriors of your neighbor’s homes as you cruised down the streets.
Your car approached a red light, and as you slowed down to an idling stop, you kept your eyes glued to the intersection as you blindly pawed through your rehearsal bag, hoping your fingers would find the sheet music folio you suspected was still sitting on your kitchen counter.
The cars sped across your vision as traffic somehow ran quickly through the downpour that seemed to thicken in its cadence. As the opposite flow of traffic’s light turned yellow, you successfully grasped your folio and exclaimed in relief.
The light turned green. You placed your searching hand back on the wheel as your foot let off the brake, and you began to ease through the intersection.
And then a crash. Which didn’t make a lot of sense. But then another bang. Your airbag. You felt like you’d been shot in the chest. Your head whipped to the left. Your window was gone, and somehow your passenger door was touching your arm. The world was spinning.
You hissed in pain as your seatbelt sliced your arm. Wait, why was the street eye level? You looked down, and your hand was at a weird angle. What was happening?
You tried to inhale, but it felt like sharp needles prickling your lungs. In a panic, you tried to touch your chest, but a deflated airbag and an arm sitting at the wrong angle prevented you from moving much.
Suddenly, the broken glass and the wrong angle of the world clicked into place. You were in an accident. And you were alive.
The next few moments or hours of your life came to you in distorted bursts: screaming voices, gloved hands cutting your seatbelt and pulling you out of the car, a gurney, and a full, clear view of the sky, which was still falling.
Straps over your body, and now you were in an ambulance. Kind eyes communicated you were going to be okay, but their moving mouths didn’t seem to make a sound. You tried to move your head, but felt plastic blocking your movement. You winced when you again tried to take a deep breath.
A mask was placed over your nose. Was this supposed to help? You tried breathing again, but the pain only dulled by minuscule degrees, and the edges of your world began to blur and blacken. You blinked away the inky bleed but couldn’t grasp the simple facts of your situation as more and more color slipped away.
When your eyes blinked open again, it was thanks to the rough jolt of your gurney hitting the ground as you were rushed through double doors. You did a mental sweep of your senses.
Touch: a mask over your nose.
Sight: a hand squeezing a bag of oxygen. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release.
Smell: damp and antiseptic.
Taste: blood.
Sound: nothing.
And then, all at once, several voices asked about your condition and who you were and assured you it was going to be okay and…and... nothing would slide into focus.
You tried to swallow, but the mechanics didn’t seem to slide into place as they normally would. Your eyes widened in a panic as you saw the faces of your paramedics joined by another doctor, and then two more.
The new face had glasses and a braid. “Can you tell us your name?”
Your eyebrows stitched together, and again, you swept your surroundings with your eyes and tried to take a deep breath. Nothing was working the way it should.
You managed to croak out your name, and she offered you a small smile as thanks.
“Do you know what happened?”
You tried to shake your head and, feeling the plastic collar, went to grip the contraption to give you more movement. A hand you couldn’t see held your wrist down. Your eyes watered from the overwhelming lack of autonomy and understanding.
A deeper voice from a body you couldn’t fully make out. “You’re at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. You were in a car accident. We need to keep you stable until we can assess your injuries.” It was curt, to the point, but still assuring and gentle.
You did your best to nod, and that, too, was a small, barely perceptible movement. The speaker popped up to reveal a gray-haired curly head and severe eyes that looked at you like a puzzle.
“Shears.”
You barely had a chance to process the word or its attached intent before the doctor with the braid handed the gray-headed one the scissors. The dull blade sliced through your mother’s Donna Summer’s Bad Girls t-shirt, exposing your chest and stomach to the bright white lights of the hospital.
No moment for modesty or embarrassment. There wasn’t a brief second between the cut and hands pawing at your skin with their latex-gloved hands. A cold wand was pressed into your belly, and your skin prickled at the contact.
Again, you tried to breathe, but it was like sipping a thick milkshake through a thin straw. Nothing was coming in.
The gray-haired doctor kept glancing at you, letting his soft eyes meet yours in some sort of reassurance. Was everything going to be okay? Was it somehow not as bad as it seemed? The blonde, younger doctor smiled at you.
She turned to the other doctor, and they exchanged a string of words. Blunt force trauma to the chest. Bruising. Fracture.
Another attempt at breathing or swallowing. Nothing. Again. A raspy exhale, and then the wheezing began.
All hands paused. You blinked. Another doctor. This time, kind eyes and brunette hair. He listened to the reports from the two doctors and then stepped closer until only his face filled your vision.
“I’m Dr. Robinavitch. You have a few nasty bruises and what looks like a broken arm, but we’re going to take good care of you, okay?”
You offered him your pathetic nod, and he forced a smile that said things were not perfect, but they would get better. He was going to take care of it.
You tried to take another breath, and the ugly wheeze repeated itself. “I have…I have…”
You don’t know how the words tumbled out of your lips without a full breath, but it was enough for Dr. Robinavitch to register your panic.
“Are you having trouble breathing?”
You locked eyes with him and tried to nod. His eyebrows scrunched, and he visually assessed your body again. Did he understand?
Another wheeze escaped you as you tried to say, “Asthma.” He nodded succinctly before his orders began.
You weren’t sure half of what he was saying was modern English and felt a hopelessness continue to build in your chest before he completely filled your vision again and held an inhaler.
“I need you to take two breaths. As deep as you can.”
Your eyes welled with gratitude, and you waited for the familiar plastic shape to touch your lips. The sour taste of the medicine filled your mouth, and you expended all the energy you had left to inhale.
The needles in your lungs dulled. Slightly.
Finally, you were able to say, “Thank you.”
He gave you another nod of acknowledgment and continued ordering the doctors to poke and check you. As he’s slipping his hands into a pair of blue gloves, he says, “I need you to take slow, deep breaths.”
When your eyes flutter closed from the lightheaded side effects of the medicine, he says your name a decibel higher. Your eyes flew open, and he was leaning over you again.
“You’re going to feel a pinch.” It was way more than a pinch.
But it was exactly what you needed to blink away the overwhelming white light of the moment and slip into the darkness where the pain was dulled and the noise was quiet.
When you came to some time later, the blonde female doctor was glancing at the screen of your monitor and taking notes. She didn’t notice you were awake, so you took the opportunity to look around the room.
Was Dr. Robinavitch here? Or that doctor from earlier with the curt attitude but kind eyes?
“I think she’s that jazz artist. You know the one on TikTok? She had that song called…lavender…lavender something…”
Your eyes blinked and tried to focus on the two female doctors standing in the doorway of your room. Both had varying degrees of rich brown skin and inky black hair tied in severe knots. You couldn’t get the outline of their figures to fully form, so you looked back at the doctor closest to you.
She was already looking at you and giving you a small smile. “Lavender Skies.”
You nodded your head, and before you could ask, she handed you a small cup of water. You gratefully took the paper cup to wet your lips and make the gritty feeling in your throat disappear. After a small smile, you were able to ask, “Where am I?”
She turned to the two doctors in the doorway and asked in a voice that was padded in soft intentions, “Would you mind getting Dr. Robby?” Who was Dr. Robby?
She turned back to you with that same small smile. “I’m Dr. King. Do you remember what happened to you?”
Broken glass. The world at the wrong angle. White lights. Kind, brown eyes.
You nodded again. “Car accident.”
One of the other doctors came back in. You could see now that her curly black hair was twisted into a claw clip, and her smiling brown eyes took you in. “Luckily, your injuries were pretty minor considering. I’m Dr. Mohan.”
You tried to smile in response, but you winced in pain. She nodded, clocking the movement and asked, “Do you know where you are?”
Dr. Robinavitch’s face flashed in your mind again. “Pittsburgh Trauma?”
Dr. Mohan smiled and gently touched your arm. Dr. King handed her a plastic clipboard, and after glancing over whatever information was on that page, she asked you to confirm your name.
Once you did, a sparkle of wonder flashed in her eyes. Your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. You didn’t have enough time to process her reaction before Dr. Robinavitch walked back into the room with a smile on his face.
He repeated your name and reached a hand out for the clipboard with your chart. After a cursory glance, he turned those warm eyes on you. “Good to see you’re awake. I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Do you remember anything from this morning?”
You nodded and repeated that you remembered you were in a car accident. “I remember you saying I was in a car wreck. I remember it was raining.” You hated how your voice sounded as if holes were punched between each syllable. You tried to swallow again. Dr. King extended another cup of cool water. You shot her a grateful glance.
Dr. Robinavitch nodded. “The airbag in your car hit your chest and caused significant bruising. You also suffered a broken arm, a head laceration and a concussion.”
Once he finished listing your ailments, you nodded and fluttered your eyes in confusion until a dreadful conclusion filled your mind. In a quiet voice, you whispered, “Was it my fault?”
A new weight separate from your injuries caused your chest to burn. Dr. Robinavitch tilted his head in sympathy as another doctor walked in. He turned to the new arrival and passed the infamous clipboard.
“No.” Your eyes widened in surprise. “The officers said someone ran the light and hit your passenger door.” His voice was gentle as he delivered the news.
A small exhale escaped you in relief. You let your head rest back against the bed and tried to take a deep breath, but you ended up wincing at the continued tightness in your chest.
The new doctor, the gray-haired one from earlier, introduced himself as Dr. Abbot. He stepped forward with his stethoscope and placed the cold, metal circle on your chest to listen to your breath. After a beat, he leaned back and looked at Dr. Robinavitch.
“The bruising is causing discomfort but your lungs sound clear.”
Your eyes watered. “Thank you. I couldn’t say it earlier, but seriously, thank you. Everyone.” He and Dr. Robinavitch looked at you in surprise for a brief moment before continuing to check your chart and monitors.
The silence doesn’t continue for very long. In a quick burst of frenetic movement, the doors to your room barreled open, and Roger and your bass player, Jesse, filled the doorway. It must’ve still been raining because Roger’s black curls were pasted to his forehead, and Jesse’s forearms had a watery sheen to them that made her look even more iridescent than her normal setting.
They both wore varying shades and textures of black in their continued efforts to look unbothered and cool, which, of course, they were naturally. Also in uniform, both of their eyes widened in surprise.
“What, did they assign only the hot doctors to you?” You wished you could cover the aggressive splotches that now colored your cheeks.
You closed your eyes as the laughs of both Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot filled the room.
if i opened up fic requests…would y’all be interested at all? and if yes, would you want a list to pick from OR just open requests? i’m thinking anything pedro/pedro adjacent!
never done this so any tips would be appreciated! love you thank you! 🫶🏼💛
please please comment and let me know because silence will probably steer me to exclusively write long-form fics for the time being!
