constipated worm

clove. 22

[vividxpages]

the world cup starts today so I am thinking about reader sandwiched between Jack and Robby on the couch while watching a soccer game. ⚽️

being a bit bored at first because your old boyfriends are soo concentrated on the screen, but them quickly catching on that their baby is just in need of a little attention so there's lots of cuddles 💕

getting up so often at first to get bowls of chips and drinks for the three of you until Robby gently pulls you into his lap so you won't walk in front of the TV so often

your legs end up in Jack's lap and he's softly caresses your ankles for you, their calm conversation about the game slowly lulling you into a delicious, peaceful headspace

"who is this guy? he's hot."

"eh, this might be his last tournament. he's getting too old to play."

your side eye @ both of them speaks volumes

eventually nodding off between them <3 they're not loud watchers so there are no shouting celebrations for a goal or angry commentary when there's a foul. The outmost they do is discuss almost clinically when a player gets injured, what treatment he should get...

them carrying you to bed when the game is over and you're out like a light for them

[vividxpages]

new dad!Jack Abbot doing skin to skin with your newborn baby <3

It's quiet in the hospital room. Jack's been sitting by the window for a long time now, watching the snow fall and looking over to check on your sleeping form ever so often.

The last 24 hours have been a lot on you. You're sleeping, getting well-needed rest, your little puffs of air the only sound in the room. This and the little coos coming from the bundle in Jack's arms.

Jack smiles down at yours and his baby, his heart hurting with overflowing unconditional love for the little worm resting easy against him. His hand is so large against baby's head, it baffles him how something so loved can be so small.

It's a good thing he runs warm in general because the little worm seems to be very comfortable like this, snuggled against his naked chest and soaking all that loving attention up like a sponge. Baby coos once more and Jack hums, his knuckles brushing over the soft peachy cheek that isn't resting over his heart.

"Let's give mommy some more rest, okay, sweety? Cuddling with daddy is nice, isn't it? No need to make a fuzz, hm?"

Baby blinks at him, thinking about it for minute before seemingly agreeing and snuggling back into the warmth Jack provides.

God, his heart is so full.

His beautiful strong supergirl is finally sleeping and her and his baby is with him, all cozy.

Jack leans back and closes his eyes, letting the bliss wash over him. Baby's hair is whispy soft against his hand and your lips part peacefully in your sleep...

His heart is so, so full.

[llhowlett]

this is specific but pope cody being so supportive of his socially anxious, sensitive gf who’s trying to get a job :((

him sitting with you during phone calls, rubbing circles on your thighs cause he knows you hate taking them especially from unknown numbers, hearing back from jobs you’ve applied to. he tells you to put the speaker on and when you’re asked a question in which you’re unsure of how to answer, you’ll look at him like a deer in headlights, panic rising in your chest before he whispers to you what to say.

him holding you and comforting you whenever you cry after receiving another rejection. you know it’s cause of your lack of experience and basic communication skills. you hate it though. you didn’t ask to be like this. and how are you supposed to get experience if no one will hire you? you hiccup through your tears as he holds your hand, ‘i-i’m never gonna get a job, andrew!’ you’re aware of how pathetic you look. he shushes you gently, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. ‘course you will, baby.’

that same day after you tired yourself out into a nap, he goes to deran’s bar.

‘i can’t just hire her, man.’

‘why not?’ he grits out.

deran scoffs lightly, ‘does she have experience waitressing, making drinks?’

pope blinks. ‘no.’

deran looks at him pointedly at that, moving another stool to the floor. it was still afternoon, the bar not being open yet for another couple hours.

‘but she’ll learn, i know she will.’ pope insists.

deran sighs, a hand rubbing his forehead, ‘look, i can’t. i need things running smoothly here. i’m sorry.’

pope wasn’t having that, his mind flashing with you teary-eyed and hyperventilating from when he left you. he couldn’t stand seeing you upset and these job searches were bullshit. he told you you didn’t need to, that as long as you were him, you’d never have to worry for money. the sentiment touched your heart more than you could express but you told him it wasn’t about that. you just needed to do something to feel fulfilled. you knew you’d feel better about yourself as a person if you were earning your own money and actively contributing to society.

‘i’ll pay you.’ he tells deran.

deran looks at pope, trying to gauge if he was serious but when was he not?

‘you’re gonna pay me to pay your girlfriend?’

‘yes.’ he responds immediately.

(a/n: something short and sweet. what is my writing if not completely self indulgent?🫶 i’d rather get hit by a truck than answer another phone call)

[bamb1ed0ll]

Pope cody x fem!reader - clingy

Cw! Nothing, just a cute fluffy drabble cuz I rlly need to be held by this man...

"What are you doing?" Pope asked in a rather flat tone. "'M wanna be closer. Closest." Your reply came from under his hoodie, where you had currently slipped your head under, trying to crawl into the same piece of clothing he was wearing at the moment.

Whining like a child, you needed to come up for air, realizing the shared space did not leave much oxygen. You pulled away again, straightening your back as you settled back into your position of straddling his lap, with him laid back against his bedframe.

"What's that pout for? Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Andrew's voice sounded, again in that flat tone, blank stare, but with a higher pitch now, and you could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "'Cause its never enough. 'M never get close enough." Lips in a pout, you settled for fidgeting with the strings of his dark brown hoodie.

"You know, you're so pretty, Andy. 'S unfair." Andrew doesn't even try to fight the shy smile slowly gracing his features. A rosy pink flush creeping up the freckled skin of his neck and ears.

"Why unfair?"

"'Cause I don't wanna look away. Your face's so pretty. 'Love the way your bones 're aligned." You gently trace one of your index fingers from his forehead, over his nose, down to his chin as a sound best described as a snort leaves pope, genuine smile now on his face.

"My bone structure...?"

"Mhm. Your nose. Your Jaw. The way your upper lip's slightly more forward than your chin. Those pretty puppy eyes. Your teeth...'m love it sou much."

"O-okay" Andrew's grin softens, the shy, boyish charm leaking through again as he shifts his gaze to your hands that are back to mindlessly playing with the strings of his hoodie.

"You're pretty too. Prettiest. And sweet..." his voice suddenly speaks up, making your lips twitch into a shy, slightly teasing smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you, Andy." You say as you lean forward to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, as his hands massage the plush of where your hips meet your thighs.

"So beautiful." Andrew's now looking right at you as he whispers those two small words, more to himself than anyone else really. The look your boyfriend has while his gaze drifts over your features makes it hard to breathe for a second.

Adoration. Like you're the light in his otherwise rather dark world. Like you're something etheral he's scared to touch with his bloodied hands but too selfish not to.

Smile widening, you lean in again, this time to pepper kisses all over his features, his nose, cheeks, forehead and eyelids, all the way down to his chin and jawline. Each press of lips accompanied by an overexaggerated 'mwah' sound.

The obnoxious display has the flush spread to his cheeks, a genuine, wide smile spreading over his face.

Those puppy dog eyes fixed on you like you're all he sees, his whole world, basking in the affection you're willing to give to him and thanking whatever deity out there for letting him have this.

Swearing on everything he has, he'll do whatever it takes to protect it.

[blehbarbie]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐓 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖 ꣖ JACK ꣓ him randomly pausing in aisles to decide what he wants to grab. lowkey standing in ppls way, holding out a hand nd a smile w an apology, u giggling every time. his hand steepled on his chin, picking his snack of the week. he grabs one, pulling his readers from his pocket to get a closer look at the description. asking u “have u tried this before? are they any good?” rocking back nd forth on ur feet, playing w the buggy, humming to urself. ud never rush him. him finally making his decision after five minutes, placing it in the buggy with a raised eyebrow like hes still not sure abt his choice.

following closely behind u as u pitter over to the hygiene section. sniffing two body washes, holding them up for jack to pick. him just pointing at the ones that have cool colors on the packaging “that one looks interesting” furrowing a brow when u toss smth in the buggy he doesnt recognize. picking it up, skimming the description “whats this, baby? whats it do?” explaining s a body scrub, helps ur skin feel smooth. he nods tentatively, quietly murmuring “should i get one? feel like i might need that..” looking at options for himself, but he wimps out on buying it :c

he prefers u keep the list on ur phone bc hes hesitisnt hell forget something, trusts u to make sure u guys grab everything. asking u “where to now?” after u grab the next item. hes a big self check out fan, but doesnt let u help. u just organize the bags, making everything nice nd tidy! smiling big at the ppl at the door, biding them a farewell. he puts everything in the trunk while u hop in the passenger, turning on the air conditioning, picking a song on aux. he gets in the driver seat, asking what u want for dinner. u only think for a sec “ooh! we could order in!” jacks eyes going wide “baby, we just..?”

[somethingeh]

Obvious

pairing - michael “robby” robinavitch x reader

word count - 5.8k

summary - you think robby doesn’t like you. robby thinks you’re pretty.

cw - some derogatory language towards women

a/n - classes started again this week and i’m crying. i need more robby after episode 3 the other night. if robby dies, i die, so he’s not leaving cuz i KNOW they can’t let me leave. ffs wear a helmet you beautiful idiot >:( but this was super fun to write hope you like it! i'm thinking of writing a robby POV version too (p.s. can you tell i know nothing about pool?)

---

You kind of thought silly crushes were in the past for you. You were a grown up, with a grown up job, and grown up friends. You weren’t supposed to get butterflies when their hand brushed yours, or get excited just by them saying good morning. It was childish, and you didn’t have time for it.

That was until Michael Robinavitch entered the picture.

It wasn’t entirely the same; instead of the giddiness you felt in high school, you felt frustration whenever those butterflies flew. You were a little annoyed with yourself for letting a girlish adoration get the best of you. Adult relationships were simpler because you knew how to communicate better by that point. You saw someone, you thought they were cute, you asked them out.

Therein laid the issue. See, Robby was your coworker. You’re boss, kind of. You were a nurse, newly hired after moving to Pittsburgh, you had been working at Allegheny for just about eight months, and you were happy there. There were many reasons you could not ask Robby out. For one, you had just gotten out of a relationship a couple months prior, an almost decade long one, one you moved halfway across the country for, and you were still untangling that web. For another, you were sure HR would not be thrilled about romance between two ER workers.

And most importantly, you were 85% sure that he had absolutely zero interest in you. 

When you confided in Dana (somewhat drunkenly) about your feelings for Robby, and how unbelievably disinterested he was, she tried to console you, saying “he’s gruff with everybody!”

You knew he was. That was the problem. He didn’t seem to treat you any differently than Langdon, or Perlah. He liked you, sure. Thought you were a good nurse, admired your drive and skill, but that was the extent. Every once and a while you’d forget yourself, let a flirty line slip, and he’d chuckle, and joke back, but what else was he supposed to do?

You were glad it was Dana whom you confided in, and not one of the residents, or god forbid Princess or Perlah or Jesse, the gossips. Still, whenever she wiggled her eyebrows at you behind Robby’s back, you had your regrets.

Like now. You had just finished up a trauma, MVA victim with multiple fractures and internal damage. He was talking one minute, crashed the next, and it had taken you and the doctors a while to solve his hemorrhaging.

But in the end he was stabilised and sent up to surgery, which you were all too happy to tell his husband, who hadn’t been in the car with him, but was waiting outside the room for almost an hour on tenterhooks.

When you finished up there, you mozied over to the nurse’s station to get started on your charting while you had a second. You never knew how long a second would last in the pitt. Robby was drinking some coffee by the breakroom, but he made his way over to lean on the counter next to your desk while he sipped. As you logged in you could feel his eyes on you, but you kept your neck straight forward, determined not to meet his gaze. It was those devastating brown eyes that hit you the hardest, and you already felt weak that day.

“Nice catch on the DIC,” he said gruffly.

“Thanks,” you said carefully, smiling but keeping your eyes on the screen. “It was a pretty straightforward case.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “For some of the med students in there, that was their first time seeing it. I didn’t think to check his platelets.”

Your chest swelled with pride, mixed with exasperation and embarrassment.

“You would have gotten there eventually,” you teased.

Which was true. Whether they realized it ahead of time or not, the shockingly low level would have stood out when his labs got back. But maybe you should give yourself some credit, you were running on little sleep, hour nine of your shift.

Robby chuckled, warm and raspy. You needed to get away from him.

You clicked out of your account, chart half finished, and stood.

“I’m gonna go check on Mr. Wallace,” you said breezily.

As you leaned over the formica to grab a tablet, Dana caught your eye with a smirk. You cleared your throat and looked away, glowering slightly. Robby straightened up. 

“Need any help?”

“Nope, all good,” you said, hoping you sounded less stiff than you felt. “Just some simple sutures. And a reminder to not stop taking his propranolol just because his blood pressure gets better.”

You snuck a quick peak at his face, which was a mistake. His warm eyes crinkled in a small smile, salt and pepper beard tugged upward. And those damn glasses. You swivelled on your heel and stalked off to North 3, clutching the ipad tightly to your chest.

Get it together, you told yourself harshly.

By hour eleven, you were very ready to go home. Your back ached, your bra was itchy, and you were having a little trouble focusing your eyes on the screen. You had just cleared a patient’s discharge paperwork when out of the corner of your eye you saw a cup placed on the table in front of you. Your eyes trailed up to the hand that placed it and saw Robby’s face. It wasn’t particularly happy or sad, just blank.

“Thank you,” you stuttered. “But I don’t drink —”

“It’s tea,” he cut you off.

You were taken aback. You didn’t realize anyone else was even aware of the tea bags that sat forgotten at the back of a cupboard in the staff room. You were pretty sure you were the only one that ever used them. He probably bullied a poor intern into making it for you. Still, you were a little touched. As you gazed into his eyes, speechless, he spoke again.

“You’ve still got an hour left on your shift and you look exhausted,” he said. “Keep going strong, we need you. It’s still a zoo out there.”

He grabbed a chart and left to see a patient. Your unconscious smile fell back to a frown. Well, there went that. You slapped your cheeks and sipped your tea. It was piping hot, and just how you liked it. Plain with just a bit of honey.

That time, you didn’t see Dana’s knowing glance from across the room. 

***

You were back again the next day, third back-to-back shift of three, and you were not happy to be out in the rain. At seven in the morning, no less.

To avoid spending your whole day soggy, you commuted in some sweats, planning to change in the bathroom. As you walked in through the front doors, late, tips of your toes and cuffs of your pants soaked, you almost ran head first into Robby. You had been too busy cursing yourself for not owning any rainboots. He steadied you with his large strong hands, and you tried to pretend your daze was due to being jostled around rather than the burning where he was touching you.

“There you are,” he said, and he let you go. “What happened?”

His gaze was moving steadily down your body, taking in your lazy pants and toothpaste stained college hoodie, eyebrows slightly raised. 

You huffed and took a few steps back. Each one squelched with rain, and you grimaced, tugging self consciously at your rain jacket, hoping your baby hairs weren’t frizzing up too much.

“I still haven’t gotten around to getting a new car,” you sighed. “Had to take the bus.”

“What happened to your car?”

“Technically I shared it with Nick,” you said, avoiding his eyes. “I got the apartment, he got the car.”

His mouth straightened into a tense line, and, afraid of pitying remarks, you continued on quickly, crossing your arms.

“Any chance you have an extra pair of socks?”

“Uh” — he took one more hefty glance at your attire — “I bet Dana does.”

With a stiff nod, you started towards her desks. After a few more loud steps, you gave up, toed your sneakers off, picked them up and continued in your damp socks. Your face was burning by the time you reached the nurse’s station, but Dana either didn’t notice or was nice enough not to comment.

“Anyone got any dry socks?”

Her, Princess, and Donny’s eyes snapped to your hunched figure, filling almost at once with mirth.

“Jesus, kid,” said Dana, taking off her glasses while Donny snickered. “What, you swim here?”

Your hands moved to your hips. You were starting to create a puddle, which you didn’t want Esme to have to clean up.

“Socks?”

“You have got to just suck it up and get a car,” said Princess, as Dana pulled a fresh pair from her mom-bag of mysteries. “You’ve been broken up for almost three months!”

“Thanks,” you muttered, snatching the socks. “I appreciate the life advice.”

The three of them were still laughing as you shuffled off to the bathroom. When you emerged in dry clothes, you once again found Robby’s path intersecting with yours. This time, you both made sure to stop before you collided.

“Dr. Robby,” you nodded.

“You look… dry,” he said.

“Um, thanks,” you said, tugging your sleeves.

You automatically fell into work, walking towards the ambulance bay while Robby filled you in on the incoming trauma, tree collapsed on a family's house. Luckily, none of the kids were in range of falling plaster and wood, but the dad had some pretty gnarly looking bruises and a head injury. When you reached the double doors, he stopped you from splitting off with the touch of a hand to your elbow. You whipped back around fast enough to be embarrassing.

“Next time it rains, just call me, and I’ll pick you up,” he said, grabbing some gloves.

Your heart stuttered.

“Oh, that’s okay,” you wave off awkwardly. “You don’t need to drive me.”

“You were almost twenty minutes late,” he said bluntly, and he walked off, leaving you with a furrowed brow and sinking disappointment.

With a sigh, you turned and stomped off to prep Trauma 2.

The dad ended up being fine, a couple broken ribs and a mild concussion. You smiled so hard as you watched the mom and all three children crowd around Robby and give him grateful hugs, you had to excuse yourself. Dana grabbed you quickly, asking you to check up on a Mr. Weil who found himself with multiple staples in his hand.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m sort of foisting him off on you,” she muttered, handing you the tablet with his info. “He’s given me kind of a hard time so far. Not so happy to be here.”

“Who is?” you half-joked. “I got him, Dana, don’t worry about it.”

“Not so happy to be here” was an understatement on Dana’s part. Mr. Weil was a clean shaven, gelled haired, calf-implanted nightmare. Did you know his suit was Armani? It probably cost more than your apartment, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. It was clear he had no intention of settling down.

“It's about time someone paid attention to me!” he complained as you prepared lidocaine. “You know I’ve been waiting out there for four hours?!”

“Yes, sir, you mentioned,” you said, trying not to show any emotion on your face. “Unfortunately we have limited staff, and we see people based on urgency.”

He scoffed.

“I have good insurance,” he said. “I make more than all those patients combined! I could pay your salary, sweetie!”

You were perhaps a little less gentle than you could have been upon injecting his hand. It didn’t particularly upset you to see him wince.

“Ow, watch it!” he yelled. “Are you sure there aren’t any doctors available?”

“Positive,” you gritted out. “Hold still.”

“Well, I want plastic surgery down here to consult,” he commanded.

It took everything in you not to roll your eyes.

“That definitely won’t be necessary, sir,” you said. “You won’t even need stitches.”

“No stitches? What are you gonna do, let me bleed out?”

“You won’t bleed out from your hand,” you said, monotone. “Due to the depth of the wounds, stitching them closed could only trap bacteria under your skin. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

He sucked his teeth in displeasure.

“I want a doctor’s opinion,” he said.

“I guarantee you it would be the same as mine,” you said, prodding the area around the staples. “Do you feel that?”

“No,” he said, whiny like a child. “Won’t leaving it open make it more likely to scar?”

You grabbed your pliers.

“You are free to pursue whatever medical care you want on your own time,” you said. “It looks like the staples are folded on some of them, so I’m just gonna cut them in half. How’d you end up with them anyways?”

He huffed, watching you cut the middle of the staples.

“My bitch assistant found out about my girlfriend.”

“Wow,” you said, glaring at his hand. “She must have been pissed, these are pretty deep.”

“Yeah, she’s crazy,” he chuckled meanly. “You better believe she’s getting sued for more than she’s worth.”

“I do believe,” you muttered darkly, beginning to pull the metal bits out of the skin.

It would have been almost calming, if it weren’t for whose hand it was. He hadn’t hesitated a second to tell you he was cheating on his girlfriend, didn’t seem the least bit ashamed. You often wondered if that was what had prompted Nick’s leaving. He never admitted anything, but during the last few weeks, there was hardly a night he didn’t spend working late. Or so he said.

Once all the staples were out you flushed the punctures with saline. He wiggled his fingers.

“This better not mess with my grip,” he complained. “I have a 110 mile per hour swing.”

Yeah right.

“You play?” he asked as you applied neosporin. “I’m sure you’ve got tons of doctors to take you out, but I promise you’ve never seen someone play like me. I could teach you a thing or two.”

You looked up incredulously and he winked. The nerve of this man.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like that,” you said, trying to keep your eyes on the task at hand. “Or your assistant.”

“They don’t have to know a thing,” he said in a low voice, leaning closer. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

He smelled like he’d bathed in expensive cologne. It stung your eyes, and you leaned back, rolling your chair away from his bed.

“I’m good,” you said, as politely as you could. Which wasn’t the most polite.

His eyes hardened. You grabbed some Kerlix.

“You think you’re too good for me?” he seethed. “You’re just a nurse. And a shit one, too.”

His voice was rising steadily, and there were only curtains separating you from other patients and workers. You tried to keep going but he snatched his hand away when you reached for it.

“I bet you’re good a dick sucking, because you sure as hell aren’t good at anything else! Who’d you blow to get this job?”

You sighed wearily.

“Just let me finish wrapping up your hand,” you said.

“No way am I letting you fucking touch me!” he yelled, jumping to his feet. “I want a doctor, or I’m suing! You hear me? I’ll sue everyone in this goddamn second grade hospital, you ugly bitch!”

“Hey!”

The curtain snapped back and Robby stood there, eyebrows set in a heavy line, breathing a little heavier than usual. He didn’t glance at you as he stepped into the space, his eyes locked on to Mr. Weil. Mr. Weil seemed unsure of what to do, sizing Robby up as he approached. Robby was definitely taller, and the look on his face was dark enough to strike fear into much braver men.

“This is a hospital,” said Robby, eerily quiet. “And there are other patients getting care here. Do you understand that?”

When Mr. Weil spoke again, it was in a remarkably lower tone, though still tense.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do when I’ve been waiting four fucking hours for a fucking nurse to poke around my wounds like an idiot! I deserve a doctor!”

Robby crossed his arms.

“That nurse is incredibly skilled and seasoned. I have no doubts in her ability to treat your minor wounds.”

“Minor —?”

“And if you speak that way again, I’ll have to insist you leave this hospital and seek care elsewhere.”

Mr. Weil gawped. Clearly his supposedly large bank account had gained him great favor in the past, but not with Robby. Without another word, he grabbed the Kerlix from your hand, ushered you out of your seat, and took your place. You watched as he began bandaging the man’s hand, who sat at once, seemingly out of words. A whole mess of emotions was rushing through you, but frustration was one of them.

“Robby, I’m fine, I can finish the —”

“Go take a break,” he said gruffly. “I’ll finish up here. To avoid any further disturbances.”

You couldn’t tell if he was mad at you. The back of his head wasn’t giving you much. Rather than argue to stay with Mr. Weil, you exited the room somewhat angrily, pulling the curtain shut harshly behind you. 

“What was that all about?” asked Donnie almost immediately, falling into step alongside you.

“Just some asshole unable to take rejection,” you murmured, discarding your soiled gloves. “The usual. Need help with anything?”

You were setting up an IV for elderly little Mrs. Diaz, probable UTI case, when Robby found you again. He knocked on the glass and gestured for you. You excused yourself and stepped past the door.

“How’s it going in there?” he asked.

“Good, got a urine sample sent off for culture,” you said, crossing your arms. “Smell definitely says infection.”

“Right,” he said. “Well, I sent Mr. Weil home.”

“Oh,” you said awkwardly. “Um, good.”

Robby nodded.

“He, uh, he didn’t lay his hands on you, or anything, did he?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, just yelling.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

There was a moment of silence.

“So, did you need something?”

“No, just wanted to keep you updated,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

And he walked away. You let out a breath. Did he not think you could handle patients on your own? It wasn’t the first time one had yelled at you, the entire team had been yelled at more times than you could count, not to mention the violent interactions. But something felt different, the way he had completely taken over for you. Surely he didn’t blame you for Mr. Weil’s reaction. You didn’t think he even knew the whole story.

No, you decided eventually, he just didn’t want a repeat of that explosive event. 

By the time your shift was winding down, night shifters appearing and demanding locker space, the rain had stopped and you had seen almost thirty patients. Luckily, none were nearly as terrible as Greasy McGolfer, and you didn’t feel entirely dead as you packed up your stuff. You were the last to leave, or so you thought, until Robby appeared at your elbow while you shoved your still damp sweatshirt into your bag.

“Hey,” he said casually.

“Oh, hi,” you said with a smile. “You headed home?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a beer?”

You paused, veins thrumming as they always did when Robby was near. You were planning on getting takeout and watching Legally Blonde for the millionth time until you passed out, but suddenly you felt wide awake. Sometimes everyone sat and drank in the park after a hard shift. The others must have already been waiting there.

“Okay!” you said. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t see Robby’s wide smile as you zipped up your jacket.

You loved the way the city smelled after a rain storm. Fresh, and clean, and familiar. Robby held out a hand to help you jump over some puddles, which you took, as your shoes still weren’t entirely dry and you weren’t interested in worsening the situation. You let go of his arm quickly, so as not to lean into him too much.

Luckily, the rain had forced Robby to drive to work, rather than take his death bike. You had expressed your displeasure of his motorcycle many times. He had said “I’m not taking advice from a nurse who watches Grey’s Anatomy,” and you had said “judge all you want, but if anyone ever comes in with a bomb in their chest, I’ll be ready.” That was the first time you’d gotten a true, deep belly laugh out of him, and the first time you’d thought crap, he’s gorgeous.

To your surprise, he drove you not to the park, but right past it. You didn’t question him as he drove you downtown, to a little irish pub, a real bar. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was certainly a step up from a cooler of Budlights on a wet bench.

Even more surprising was that you didn’t see anyone from work there. You didn’t mention it, as he steered you to a booth in the back and took your coat. He greeted the bartender like he was an old friend and planted you down in a comfortable, cushy red rounded bench.

“Drink?”

“Please,” you said. “Do they have Sapporo?”

“Honey, I wouldn’t take you out to a place that didn’t have Sapporo.”

Your face flushed. You had never heard him call anyone honey before. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until you reached up to feel your burning cheek. You glanced around. You had never been to the bar before, but you were unsurprised Robby had. It was classic, with shelves of liqueur behind the counter, and a real beer tap, and pool in the corner. You doubted any college students were sneaking in.

Robby announced his return by placing a bottle of beer in front of you. He himself had a beer, what looked like an amber ale in a glass. You took a swig. Even in the dim lighting he looked good. Soft eyes, slightly tired, sleeves rolled up and one elbow leaning against the table.

Since the booth was a semi circle, it was hard to be on one side or the other. You could feel his warmth, even with a few feet in between you. 

“You come here often, huh?” you said, thinking of the bartender’s greeting.

“Oh yeah, have for years,” he said. “Since I was a med student myself.”

“Wow,” you said. “Has it changed much?”

“Not a bit,” he said fondly. “I’m pretty sure I’m in one of the pictures on the wall, from when we won the Stanley cup in ‘09.”

You breathed a laugh.

“And where were you the other four times?”

“Working, of course,” he said.

You hummed in understanding.

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” you said, putting on a mock-serious expression. “But I’m a Bruins fan.”

He smiled around the rim of his glass.

“Ooh, yeah,” he sighed. “That might be a problem. See, the Penguins are objectively a better team.”

You scoffed.

“They literally aren’t!” you said. “Last time I counted, we had more cups than you.”

“One more,” he mumbled, eyes alight with humor.

You laughed, giddily. Looking down, you realized that you had subconsciously angled your body inward to face him, and he was doing the same. The two of you were looking awfully isolated in that back booth. You wished someone else would show up, because you were pretty sure that you were about to say something stupid. Something about his eyes, or his laugh. You needed a buffer.

“Hey!” you said suddenly, grabbing his arm. “You any good at pool?”

He scrunched his nose.

“Ish,” he said. “Most of the time I just lose to Abbot.”

“Well today’s your lucky day,” you said, pulling him to his feet. “I’ve never played. Get ready to win by a million.”

He chuckled as you pulled him over to a free table. You picked up a cue and handed one to him, placing your beer down on a side table. He removed a triangle border from around the balls. 

“Alright,” he said. “How much do you know?”

“I hit the white ball, and the white ball knocks the other balls into the holes,” you said.

“More or less,” he said. “I’ll break, and you just watch what I do.”

You did watch. You watched his hands grip the cue, and his ass as he leaned down over the table. The actual shot, you just caught a glimpse of it. The balls clacked against each other as they rolled in every direction. He straightened up and grabbed his beer.

“See?” he said, stepping back. “I mean, that wasn’t good, but that’s the basic mechanism. You try.”

You stepped over to where the white ball was, carefully raising your cue so as to not hit the wrong kind of balls. You leaned over and thought that maybe pool was a horrible idea, as your ass bumped his hip. But when he reached an arm around your shoulders to correct your grip, you thought maybe it was the best idea you’d ever had.

Robby ended up winning, which didn’t surprise you. Not only was it your first time playing, but your attention was decidedly elsewhere during the game. Even so, your ribs hurt from laughing and you were using your pool cue for support. You had never seen the fun side of Robby before, the free side, without Gloria or patient satisfaction scores looming over his head. If you thought his smile looked good under the fluorescent lighting of the ER, it was nothing compared to the easy, relaxed version on the outside.

Somehow, almost two hours had passed by the time you sat back down in your booth. You had forgotten all about the others. You were having a great time, alone with Robby, just barely buzzed, and didn’t really care much about what had happened to the rest of the group. Robby had slid a little further into the seat this time, only inches between your thigh and his, and his arm resting on the edge of the booth above your shoulders.

“They have pretty good pizza here,” he said, leaning perhaps a little unnecessarily close. “Want a slice?”

“Mm, oh my god, yes,” you moaned, snacking on pretzels from the bowl on the table. “I’m starving.”

He smiled, and laid a warm hand over yours for a second, then parted, with an, “I’ll be right back.”

You watched him go happily. As you finished off the dregs of your beer, a middle-aged, tattooed waitress appeared to take the bottle. She smiled kindly at you as she did, showing off dimples and a nose ring.

“Can I get you a refill, hon?”

“I’m all set, thanks,” you smiled back.

“You’re his nurse, right?” she said, eyes twinkling.

You blinked owlishly up at her.

“What?”

“Well, he’s told us about you, of course!” she laughed. “You are even cuter than I pictured! ’Bout time he —”

“Thank you, Selene,” said Robby, interjecting quickly, with two plates of cheese pizza in one hand, the other guiding the waitress away from your table.

She waved cheerfully at you as Robby sat down, and you waved back. He slid your pizza to you and you took it, looking at him skeptically.

“You’ve told them about me?” you asked.

“Sure, I mean,” he took a bite of pizza. “I talk about work, and people at work.”

Your lungs constricted. You picked up your slice.

“Good things, I hope?”

“Only the best,” he said cheekily.

You bit into your pizza.

Robby was funny. He cracked jokes at work, but they always came under an air of great stress. You could tell he was relaxed with you because he made you laugh until you cried. And interesting too, smart, and well read. Not a surprise, but even on matters outside of medicine, like politics, and history. He listened to the things you said. You could talk, and he would listen.

The more time you spent with Robby, the more you compared him to your ex, and the more desirable he became. It was when you started picturing more moments alone with Robby that you forced yourself to end the night and asked him to take you home.

You both waved goodbye to the bartender, and Selene, who winked, and the conversation never broke in the car. When he pulled up to your apartment, he opened the door for you and helped you out. You chatted as he walked you to your door.

“I’m one hundred percent serious,” you said. “I heard it from my own ears! At least half the med students have raging crushes on Abbot. I can hear them gushing in the mornings by the lockers.”

Robby chuckled.

“So, he’s like — the McDreamy?”

You stopped dead with one foot on the cement step. You were smiling from ear to ear.

“You watched Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I only made it through about half a season.”

You tried and failed to straighten your face.

“I can’t believe you watched it,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “You hate medical dramas.”

His lips pulled into a smile so tender, you didn’t want to ever look away. He was backlit unfortunately by the sconce above your foyer door, but you could see every line of his face perfectly. Maybe because you spent so much time memorizing it over charts and med orders.

Then he kissed you.

At first just a soft peck, but he lingered. His lips were as soft as you imagined them. Softer, even. You leaned your head back, allowing him to deepen it. Your hands slipped up, one in his hair, one on his cheek, while he snaked his around your waist. He pulled you closer until your bodies were borderline flush with each other.

You could feel his pulse thrumming fast against your wrist, and his beard was scratching your palm. Maybe it was this, or the feeling of his breath against your cheek as he sighed, that shocked you back into reality.

You pulled away quick, breathing heavily, hands on his shoulders. When you finally looked into his eyes, his pupils were quite dilated.

“Wait,” you breathed. “Wait — what just happened?”

He cleared his throat.

“We kissed,” he said slowly.

You pulled away completely, out of his arms. He took a step back too, now looking confused. You were struggling to find words. Perhaps sensing this, he spoke first.

“I’m, um, sorry if I moved too fast,” he said earnestly. “I thought — I had a really good time on the date, and —”

“Date?” you interrupted, still feeling a bit hazy from the kiss. “That was a date?!”

Now you were both speechless, staring at each other in confusion, air still charged. Robby shoved his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and took another step back. There was a hint of pain in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Or, I guess I thought it was. I guess not, though, if you had no idea.”

He sounded tired. You were struggling to comprehend. Robby had asked you out? Robby? The stoic, stern, obsessed with work Robby? And you missed it?!

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought… I had been flirting for a while, I thought you knew how I felt. I thought I made it obvious.”

A little squeak escaped you.

“Obvious?” you all but whispered.

You chuckled despite yourself. Robby opened his mouth but you cut him off. All of a sudden, you had too many words.

“Please explain to me how anything you’ve ever done or said was obvious,” you said, turning and pacing back and forth in front of your door. “How it was supposed to convey anything other than professional appreciation. Seriously, I would like to know!”

He looked taken aback.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? Nothing has to change, we’re still coworkers. I thought I had waited an appropriate amount of time. That’s what Jack said.”

“An appropriate amount of time for what?” you said frantically. 

“After your break up!” he said, hands in the air. “And look, that’s on me, I shouldn’t have listened to Abbot. He hasn’t been on a date in twenty years.”

You started laughing again, but this time, out of joy. Realization was beginning to dawn on you, warm and fuzzy: Michael Robinavitch asked you out. Michael Robinavitch liked you. Liked you enough to discuss it with Abbot. And he had been trying to show it for weeks.

Before Robby could force out another apology, you flung yourself at him, smashing your lips to his. He caught you somewhat awkwardly, but found his footing. This kiss was different. It was desperate, and messy, and giggly, and heated. A tug on his hair caused him to sigh contentedly. His hands wrapped back around you like they’d been itching to since you pulled away. They left a trail of buzzing in their wake, an excitement you hadn’t felt in years, revitalizing you instantly. 

You broke apart but stayed close, forehead to sweaty forehead, sharing air.

“You are terrible at flirting,” you said with a giddy smile.

He huffed a laugh.

“I’m much more smooth when I’m not around you,” he said. “You make it kinda hard to focus.”

Your hands suddenly jumped to your face.

“Oh my god,” you hissed. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe you let me go out on our first date like this!” you said, smoothing down baby hairs that had surely popped up. “I’m in my scrubs, I’m exhausted, I’m not even wearing any makeup —”

He started laughing, and squeezed your sides. You shrieked, hands going over his.

“You’re adorable,” he said fondly. “You’re always adorable.”

You sighed, letting your head fall to his chest.

“You only think that because you’ve never seen me dressed up,” you said. “Just wait.”

“I’m very excited,” he said, tucking your head under his chin. “But I’m fairly certain my opinion won’t change.”

You nuzzled further into his neck. You didn’t want him to leave. And he didn’t have to.

“Michael,” you said dreamily. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He pulled back with a grin.

“Both of us?”

“Definitely.”

You pulled out your keys and unlocked the main door.

“You’re not working tomorrow, right?” you asked.

“No,” he said, hands never leaving your waist. “But my car —”

“I have a parking spot,” you waved away. “It’ll still be there tomorrow. You have more important things to worry about.”

You pulled him inside and shut the door.

You couldn’t wait to tell Dana.

[ivybucky]

Stoppp it this is so cute

[honeycoyotes]

mmm I am literally obsessed with how you write arthur—perfection. if you don't mind, I'd love some HCs and general ideas around what it would be like being in an established relationship with our favourite cowpoke in the gang? (pref female insert). any nsfw points very much welcome too 😋

(recently re-started the game and am very much enjoying just staying on chapter 2 forever as he deserves)

Love with Arthur while he's in the gang would be hard-earned like a callous.

He wouldn't lie to you or inflate your expectations with promises of sweet domesticity he couldn't hope to keep. There would be no pies cooling on the windowsill or scratchy kisses on your cheek to greet you at the cusp of day. He might care for you fiercely in his own, quiet way, but if Dutch bids him to ride out at dusk, he will - and you won't see him for several more dawns after that, fear persistent as a sickness the way it gnaws at the back of your mind until he rides into camp again.

He has an unassailable competence the others take for granted, take advantage of, that you cannot. You're the one to clean his shirts, to make the creek run red with the gore of other men.

Time alone is a rare, coveted thing. Quick, panting intimacy in the tree line just beyond the scouts' patrols. He was never a man for stillness to begin with but there's always work to be done, deer to fell for dinner, wood to chop, fires to tend and fires to douse. "Hey, Arthur!"; "Morgan, come help with this, will ya?"; "Arthur, there's a job, you want in?" He shoulders the burdens of fifty men of which you are just one more. He cannot, will not, set all of them down just for you. This is part of why you love him.

Dutch doesn't like you. He may incline his head and smile in greeting in a way that never reaches his eyes. But you'll overhear him speaking to Arthur in hushed tones, his jeweled hand grasping the back of the other man's sun-beaten neck in a gesture of fatherly dominance: "I'm concerned, son."; "We can't afford you getting distracted, Arthur, not now."; "Remember what matters: the gang."

There's an apology in his eyes when he's pulled from your side, but never one spoken. He knows he, this, isn't good for you. You must know it too. Why you bother staying, he has no idea. He tries to tell himself he'd even feel relieved if you smartened up one day and left him, if you got yourself out of this mess before it's too late. But sometimes, you'll wake up to a handful of dried lavender at your bedside, and you'll pack extra rations wrapped in embroidered cloth in his saddle bag - chain links of quiet care to hold onto while the world ends.

[lovebugism]

CASUAL ─── michael robinavitch

summary: robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend. (5k)

characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos, dennis whitaker, mel king

contents: established relationship, friends with benefits, jealousy, mutual pining, angst, possessive!robby, allusions to smut

FIC #5 / 20 FOR 20

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

You and Robby were not together. Not officially, and definitely not publicly. You were hardly together privately, if you were being real honest with yourself — aside from a few stolen nights after particularly draining shifts, where he’d show up at your place with takeout and exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes and promises of distracting you from the hard day; where he’d then wake up before sunrise and leave before you had the chance to miss him.

Casual. That was the point. Because he was an attending, and you were his resident, and Robby had already made the mistake of blurring those lines once before. “It gets messy, sweetheart,” he murmured against your bare shoulder one night, voice heavy with sex and sleep alike. “And when it ends, it… It really fuckin’ ends, you know?”

You didn’t know what he meant by that, actually. You figured he was saying that dating within the hierarchy tends to crash and burn in some way or another, but you didn’t press him on the issue then. Though now you think that maybe you should’ve.

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

[paigepie213]

Self Care Blurb - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - not officially a request but l've just been thinking about finally getting comfy enough in your relationship with Robby to sneak self care rituals into his routines...starting small with upgrading his sleep habits and getting a good moisturizer for his ultra-dry-from-constant-sanitizing hands...then slowly working up to you massaging his hands, getting him a heating pad for his back, maybe even convincing him that those baths you take are nice and calming and he should try it too?? knowing you can't jump in too quickly because he won't be on board, but even if he won't admit it, he likes it

this was cute, thanks for the request 🫶

Masterlist

********************************************************

The Pillow

The first time you realized Robby was sleeping on a crime against humanity disguised as a pillow, you were halfway through making his bed while he showered after a particularly ugly shift.

You stopped. Stared. Picked it up. Then immediately dropped it again.

“What the hell is this?”

Robby’s voice drifted from the bathroom. “What?”

You held the pillow up like evidence in a criminal investigation.

“This.”

A pause.

“My pillow.”

“You call this a pillow?”

“It is a pillow.”

“It has the structural integrity of a tortilla.”

The shower shut off. A few moments later Robby appeared in the doorway with a towel slung around his neck, damp hair sticking up in every direction. He looked exhausted. Beautiful. And entirely too pleased with himself.

“You have strong feelings about my pillow.”

“Robby.”

“It works.”

“It is flat.”

“It supports my head.”

“It is literally folded in half permanently.”

He shrugged.

“It knows my neck.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Then he smiled. That tiny smile he only gave you. The one that made arguing significantly more difficult. Unfortunately for him, not impossible.

Two days later a new pillow appeared on his bed. One that actually resembled a pillow. He walked into his bedroom after work, stopped short, and immediately knew who was responsible.

“No.”

You looked up from the book in your lap.

“No what?”

“No.”

“Excellent communication skills.”

“I’m not using that.”

“You haven’t even touched it.”

“I know what it is.”

“You know it’s a pillow.”

“I know it’s replacing my pillow.”

“Your pillow belongs in a museum.”

“My pillow is fine.”

“You have chronic neck pain.”

“I work in an emergency department.”

“You sleep on drywall.”

Robby pointed at you.

“You are not winning this.”

You smiled sweetly.

“You say that now.”

Three weeks later you arrived at his apartment after work and found him changing the sheets. The old pillow was nowhere in sight. Instead, the replacement sat squarely in the center of the bed.

You raised an eyebrow. Robby froze. You smiled. His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to do.”

“Looks like somebody likes his pillow.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it aggressively.”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell over. Robby grabbed your waist before you could. His hands settled on your hips. His forehead dropped against yours. And though he was pretending to be annoyed, you caught the faintest hint of a smile. A smile that grew when you whispered,

“Told you.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.”

His hands squeezed your hips.

“You keep showing up.”

The pillow stayed. Neither of you mentioned it again. Except for the fact that several months later when Robby spent the night at your apartment, he showed up carrying it. Like it was completely normal. Like you wouldn’t notice. Like you wouldn’t immediately burst out laughing. You loved him so much.

******

The Hand Cream

You noticed Robby’s hands long before he did. Not because he was oblivious. Because he simply did not care. There was a difference.

The man spent twelve hours a day washing, sanitizing, gloving, scrubbing, and repeating the process until most normal people’s skin would have surrendered entirely. By the end of a shift his knuckles were dry enough to crack, the skin along the backs of his hands rough and irritated from constant exposure to sanitizer.

When you first brought it up, he looked down at his hands. Then looked back up at you.

“They’re hands.”

“That’s your medical opinion?”

“They function.”

You stared. He stared back. Then took another bite of takeout. Conversation apparently over. You waited. You knew better than to push.

Robby was a lot like a stray cat someone had accidentally put through medical school. Move too quickly and he’d bolt. So instead you filed the information away. And waited.

The opportunity came two weeks later. You were sprawled across his couch with your legs draped over his lap while he finished charting. His laptop balanced precariously on one knee. Reading glasses perched on his nose. One hand moving across the keyboard. The other absentmindedly resting against your calf.

You watched him rub his thumb over one knuckle. Then wince. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But noticeable. You reached over and grabbed his hand.

“What?”

You turned it over. The skin around his knuckles had split. Tiny angry cracks. Red. Tender. Painful.

You looked up. Robby immediately looked guilty. Which told you everything.

“You knew.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“It happens.”

“Robby.”

He sighed. The sigh of a man who knew he was losing.

“It’s winter.”

“You work indoors.”

“The sanitizer.”

“There it is.”

His shoulders slumped. You smiled.

“Aha.”

“I don’t like that face.”

“You should.”

“I really don’t.”

The next day you showed up carrying a small paper bag. Robby saw it and immediately looked suspicious. Which honestly should have offended you.

“What’s that?”

“A gift.”

“No.”

You laughed.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I know it’s trouble.”

You sat beside him and pulled out a bottle of hand cream. The look he gave you could only be described as betrayed.

“Absolutely not.”

You nearly choked.

“Absolutely not?”

“No.”

“It’s moisturizer.”

“It’s lotion.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t use lotion.”

“You should.”

“I’m not starting now.”

You held up the bottle. Robby looked at it like it contained live explosives. Then looked at you. Then back at the bottle.

“No.”

You set it on his coffee table.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You aren’t arguing.”

“You already know my position.”

“You have a position on lotion.”

“I have a position on your hands splitting open.”

“They’re fine.”

You leaned forward and kissed one cracked knuckle. Robby froze. Completely froze. Every muscle in his body locking up. You kissed another. Then another. The tension in his expression melted almost immediately.

“You fight dirty.”

You smiled.

“I know.”

The lotion remained untouched on the coffee table for nearly a week. Or so he claimed. Then one night you arrived at his apartment after a late shift. Robby was asleep on the couch. Television still on. Reading glasses crooked. Blanket half fallen onto the floor. And beside him sat the bottle.

Cap off. You smiled. Carefully lifted one of his hands. The skin already looked better. Not perfect. Better.

The stubborn man had clearly been using it. Regularly. Probably in secret. Because heaven forbid anyone know he participated in self-preservation.

You were still smiling when Robby’s eyes cracked open. His voice rough with sleep.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding your hand.”

“Why?”

“Checking something.”

His eyes dropped to where you were examining his knuckles. Then immediately away. Like he’d been caught. You bit back a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You’ve been using it.”

“No.”

“Robby.”

A pause. Then another.

“A little.”

Your grin widened.

“A little?”

“It was there.”

“It was there.”

“My hands hurt.”

The admission came so quietly you almost missed it. Your smile softened instantly. Because that was really the thing about Robby. He wasn’t stubborn because he thought he was invincible. He was stubborn because somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself discomfort wasn’t worth mentioning. That taking care of himself wasn’t important enough to bother with.

You squeezed his hand. The one that already felt softer. Healthier. Warmer. And watched his eyes drift closed again. Half asleep. Half gone. Still holding your hand. Still letting you hold his. And before he fully drifted off, you heard him mumble something into the couch cushion.

“What was that?”

One eye opened. A look of resignation crossing his face.

“The lotion works.”

You laughed so hard he groaned. And pulled you down onto the couch beside him. As if that would somehow stop you from being unbearably pleased with yourself.

******

The Water Bottle

The problem with dating Robby was that he was simultaneously one of the smartest people you had ever met and one of the dumbest when it came to his own body. Not patients. Never patients. Robby could spot dehydration, exhaustion, stress, and burnout in another human being from twenty feet away.

Himself? Hopeless.

You discovered this one Tuesday afternoon when you stopped by the emergency department during a slower stretch and found him standing at the physician station with a coffee in one hand and another coffee sitting beside him. You stared. Then stared harder. Robby noticed. Immediately regretted noticing.

“What.”

You pointed.

“Is that your second coffee?”

“No.”

You looked at the coffee. Then looked back at him. Then looked at the coffee again.

“It’s not my second coffee.”

“Okay.”

“It’s my third.”

You closed your eyes. Behind you, you heard somebody choke. Probably Collins. Maybe Javadi. Definitely somebody enjoying this entirely too much.

When you opened your eyes again, Robby was watching you cautiously. Like a man observing an approaching storm.

“How much water have you had today?”

“No.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is an answer.”

“It isn’t.”

“It answered the question.”

“It absolutely did not.”

Robby sighed. Long. Suffering. Dramatic. The sigh of a man burdened by unreasonable expectations.

“You are exhausting.”

“You’ve had three coffees.”

“They’re small.”

“They’re not.”

“They feel small.”

You pointed at him.

“That sentence alone should disqualify you from making medical decisions.”

The residents immediately disappeared. Cowards. All of them. Leaving Robby to fend for himself. Which was exactly where you wanted him.

That evening, you arrived at his apartment carrying a box. Robby saw it. Groaned. Actually groaned.

“What now?”

“Present.”

“No.”

You laughed.

“Why are you like this?”

“Because every time you say that, my life changes.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“The pillow.”

“Improved your life.”

“The lotion.”

“Improved your life.”

“The fancy tea.”

“You sleep better.”

His expression darkened. Which was confirmation. You shoved the box into his chest. He opened it reluctantly. Then frowned.

“A water bottle?”

“It keeps drinks cold.”

“I have cups.”

“You have forgotten cups.”

“I know where my cups are.”

“You left one in your car for six days.”

Robby looked offended.

“You don’t know that.”

“I found it.”

“…”

“It had become sentient.”

His head dropped back against the couch. You laughed so hard you nearly cried. For several weeks the bottle became a recurring battle. Every morning you filled it. Every evening you checked it. Every evening Robby claimed he had been drinking water. Every evening the evidence suggested otherwise.

One night you held the bottle up. Still nearly full.

“Explain.”

“I was busy.”

“You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget.”

“You forgot.”

“I remembered it existed.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It counts.”

“No.”

“It should.”

“No.”

He pointed toward the kitchen.

“You want dinner?”

“Nice try.”

“It usually works.”

You narrowed your eyes. The bastard smiled. Because it usually did work. Months passed. The arguments continued. The bottle became a permanent fixture. On his desk. In his car. At the hospital. By his bed. Everywhere.

Until eventually you stopped mentioning it. Not because you gave up. Because you noticed something. One particularly awful night you got called in unexpectedly. The emergency department was overflowing. Everyone looked tired. Everyone looked stressed. And in the middle of the chaos sat Robby.

Hair a mess. Sleeves rolled up. Charting furiously. You approached quietly. Planning to steal a kiss. Maybe convince him to take a break. Instead you stopped.

Because without even looking up from his computer, Robby reached for something. Unscrewed a lid. And took a long drink. Water. Not coffee. Not energy drinks.

Water.

You smiled. He looked up immediately. Caught. The bottle halfway to his mouth. Your eyes met. Robby froze. Then visibly realized what had happened.

“Oh don’t.”

You couldn’t help it. The grin spread anyway.

“Don’t what?”

“I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The look.”

“The one where I’m right?”

“The incredibly annoying one.”

You laughed. Robby pointed the water bottle at you. Threateningly. Or at least as threateningly as someone could point a giant insulated floral-colored water bottle you had specifically chosen because it annoyed him.

“You are impossible.”

“And hydrated.”

He groaned. Actually groaned. Then took another drink. Just to spite you. Which unfortunately only proved your point. And later that night, after the shift finally ended and the department quieted down, you found him sitting alone at the station. Exhausted. Spent. Running on fumes.

His water bottle beside him. Nearly empty. You slid into the chair next to him. His shoulder immediately bumped yours.

“You okay?”

Robby nodded. Then reached for your hand beneath the desk. Holding it tightly. The way he did when he was tired enough to stop pretending he didn’t need things. You squeezed back. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Then he glanced at the bottle. And muttered something so quietly you almost missed it.

“What?”

His eyes closed briefly. Like he hated himself for what came next.

“I think I get fewer headaches.”

You stared. Robby stared at the desk. Clearly hoping death might arrive before this conversation continued. Your heart nearly burst. Because there it was.

The thing underneath all the arguing. The thing underneath all the teasing. Trust.

Not in the bottle. Not in the water. In you. And as much as Robby would complain about every change you brought into his life, he kept accepting them for one simple reason. You had never once tried to change who he was.

You just wanted him around long enough to enjoy being him. His fingers tightened around yours.

“You don’t get to be smug.”

Too late. You were already smiling.

******

The Heating Pad

You discovered Robby’s back pain entirely by accident. Not because he told you. Of course he didn’t tell you. Robby could be actively falling apart and still insist he was “fine.” No, you discovered it because one Saturday morning you woke up in his apartment before he did.

Which was rare. The man was usually awake before sunrise, operating on some bizarre internal clock developed through decades of emergency medicine and poor life choices.

But this morning he was still asleep. Face buried in his pillow. One arm thrown across your waist. Breathing slow and even. You smiled. Then you felt it.

The way he shifted in his sleep. The tiny grimace that crossed his face. The way his hand instinctively moved toward his lower back. Even unconscious. Even asleep. Something hurt.

You filed that information away immediately. And waited. Because experience had taught you that confronting Robby directly was rarely effective. You needed evidence. Unfortunately for him, evidence arrived that very afternoon.

You were both grocery shopping. A perfectly normal activity. Until Robby bent down to grab something from a lower shelf. Then froze. Only for a second. Most people would have missed it. You didn’t. His jaw tightened. One hand immediately pressed against his lower back.

Then he straightened. And pretended nothing happened. You stared. Robby stared at the cereal boxes. Neither of you spoke.

“How long?”

His eyes closed.

“How long what?”

“The back pain.”

“I don’t have back pain.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. A nearby shopper looked alarmed. Reasonable.

“You literally just winced.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You touched your back.”

“I was stretching.”

“You made a face.”

“I have a face.”

“Oh my God.”

Robby immediately started pushing the cart away. Coward. You caught up beside him.

“Robby.”

“It’s fine.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The phrase.”

“What phrase?”

“The one that means something is absolutely not fine.”

He sighed. Then kept walking. Which was all the confirmation you needed.

Three days later a package arrived at his apartment. Robby called you immediately.

“No.”

You grinned.

“What?”

“I know this was you.”

“What was me?”

“The heating pad.”

“Oh.”

“The heating pad.”

“You got it.”

“You bought me a heating pad.”

You leaned back on your couch. Completely unrepentant.

“I did.”

“I’m not eighty.”

“No.”

“I’m not using a heating pad.”

“Okay.”

His silence immediately told you he’d expected more resistance. Interesting. Very interesting.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“You aren’t arguing?”

“Nope.”

Another pause.

“Why not?”

You smiled. Because now he was curious.

“Use it.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Then don’t.”

The call ended. You gave it forty-eight hours. The heating pad survived twenty-six.

You arrived at his apartment after work and let yourself in. The television was on.nThe lamp beside the couch glowed softly.nThe apartment was quiet.nSuspiciously quiet.nThen you rounded the corner.nAnd nearly burst out laughing.

There sat Robby. Fast asleep.nHead tilted back. Reading glasses halfway down his nose.nHeating pad stretched across his lower back.nThe remote dangling loosely from one hand.

You actually had to bite your lip. Because if he woke up and caught you laughing, he’d never forgive you. You carefully sat beside him. Trying not to wake him.

Unfortunately, Robby possessed the survival instincts of a feral animal. His eyes opened immediately.nThen narrowed.

“Oh no.”

You smiled.

“Oh yes.”

“No.”

“You’re using it.”

He glanced down. Realized exactly what he looked like. And immediately looked annoyed.

“It’s temporary.”

“Mhm.”

“My back hurt.”

“Mhm.”

“I was trying it.”

“Mhm.”

His eyes narrowed further.

“You are insufferable.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“The word you’re looking for is right.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is.”

The heating pad remained. Of course it did. Just like the pillow. Just like the lotion. Just like every other thing he’d initially rejected with great enthusiasm.

Soon it became part of the routine. Something he would never admit. But something you noticed anyway. Especially after difficult shifts. The bad ones. The ones that left him exhausted. The ones where he came home carrying too much.

One particularly brutal night you found him standing in the kitchen staring blankly at the counter. Still wearing his scrubs. Still wearing his badge. Barely moving. Your heart squeezed immediately.

“You okay?”

Robby nodded. Too quickly. Which meant no. You crossed the room. Wrapped your arms around his waist. Rested your cheek against his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you felt him exhale. The kind of exhale that came from somewhere deep. The kind people only gave when they felt safe. Your hands rubbed gently along his back.

“You don’t have to talk.”

Another breath. Another moment.

“It was rough.”

You nodded.

“I know.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. A few minutes later you disappeared into the living room. Returned carrying something. Robby immediately rolled his eyes.

“No.”

You laughed.

“Come sit down.”

“I don’t need—”

“Robby.”

That did it. The tone. The one he secretly liked. The one that meant someone was taking care of him whether he wanted it or not. Grumbling under his breath, he sat.

You plugged in the heating pad. Draped it carefully across his back. Then settled beside him. Your hand finding his automatically. For several minutes neither of you spoke. The apartment quiet around you. The television forgotten. The day slowly draining away. Eventually Robby’s shoulders relaxed. Then relaxed again. The tension easing little by little. Until his head finally tipped sideways onto your shoulder.

You smiled softly. Because there it was. The real victory. Not getting him to use the heating pad. Not proving yourself right. Not winning.nIt was watching someone who spent his life carrying everyone else finally allow a little of the weight to be carried for him.

Even if it came wrapped in fabric and plugged into a wall. And after another few minutes of silence, you felt his fingers tighten around yours.

“Thank you.”

The words were so quiet you almost missed them. But they were there. And somehow that tiny whisper meant more than every argument that had come before it.

******

The Hand Massage

The first time Robby let you massage his hands, it happened entirely by accident. At least that was what he would claim later. You knew better. Because by then you had learned something important about Robby. If he truly didn’t want something, it didn’t happen. There was no convincing him.

No sweet-talking him. No negotiating. The man possessed the stubbornness of a mountain. Which meant every little allowance he gave you was exactly that. An allowance. A choice. A quiet act of trust.

The evening started innocently enough. Chinese takeout. A movie neither of you were actually watching. Robby stretched out across your couch while you sat tucked against his side beneath a blanket.

Domestic in a way that still occasionally caught both of you off guard. The honeymoon phase had long since settled into something deeper. Something steadier. The kind of love that lived in grocery lists and spare toothbrushes and knowing exactly how someone took their coffee.

You were halfway through stealing dumplings from his plate when you noticed him flexing one hand. Then the other. Slowly. Repeatedly. The movement immediately caught your attention.

“What are you doing?”

His eyes remained on the television.

“Nothing.”

“You are absolutely doing something.”

A sigh.

“My hands hurt.”

The admission came casually. Like it wasn’t important. Like it wasn’t worth mentioning. Which meant it probably had been bothering him for days. You sat up slightly.

“Let me see.”

“They’re fine.”

“Robby.”

“They’re attached.”

“Robby.”

“They function.”

You held out your hand. The universal signal. After a moment of dramatic suffering, he finally surrendered one of his hands.

You turned it over carefully. The skin looked much better these days. The lotion had helped. The cracks were mostly gone. But the muscles looked tight. Tired. Overworked.

Which made sense. Thousands of procedures. Thousands of charts. Thousands of tiny repetitive movements. Year after year after year.

Without a word, you placed his hand in your lap. Then started pressing your thumbs gently into his palm. Robby immediately looked up. Suspicious.

“What are you doing?”

“Massaging your hand.”

“No.”

You smiled.

“There it is.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even given it a chance.”

“I don’t need a hand massage.”

“You literally just said your hands hurt.”

“They’re tired.”

“Exactly.”

“They’ll recover.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or.”

“No.”

You continued anyway. Because by now you knew the difference between a real no and a Robby no. A Robby no was usually followed by him staying exactly where he was.

Which was precisely what happened. You worked quietly. Pressing into the muscles of his palm. Working your thumb along the base of his fingers. Massaging the tension you could actually feel sitting there.

At first he watched suspiciously. Then cautiously. Then not at all. Because somewhere around minute three, his shoulders started relaxing. Minute five, his head tipped back against the couch. Minute seven, his eyes closed.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Trying very hard not to smile. The man looked downright offended by relaxation. Which only made it funnier. When you switched to the other hand, he didn’t even argue. Just automatically handed it over. Eyes still closed. Trusting you. Your chest tightened. Because this felt different.

Smaller than some of the other things. But somehow more intimate. There was no joke. No teasing. No distraction. Just your hands holding his. Taking care of him. For no reason other than wanting to.

Eventually you felt his fingers twitch. Then relax again. His voice came quietly. Eyes still closed.

“That feels nice.”

You froze. Robby’s eyes immediately opened. Realization hitting him instantly. The mistake. The confession. The evidence. His expression shifted to horror. Yours shifted to delight.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“You admitted it.”

“Don’t.”

“You admitted it felt nice.”

“It slipped out.”

You laughed so hard tears formed. Robby groaned. Then grabbed your wrist. Pulling you across the couch and into his lap. Mostly to stop your laughing. Possibly to punish you. Definitely to kiss you.

His mouth found yours immediately. You smiled against his lips. Which only made him grumble.

“I mean it.”

“You mean what?”

“You are never bringing this up again.”

You kissed him once.

“Okay.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You are lying.”

You kissed him again.

“Probably.”

He sighed. Then wrapped both arms around your waist. Pulling you closer. Holding you there. The movie forgotten entirely. The takeout growing cold. Neither of you caring.

After a while his chin settled on your shoulder. Your fingers absentmindedly threading through his hair. The apartment quiet around you. And just before drifting toward sleep, Robby’s voice appeared again. Soft enough that you almost didn’t hear it.

“You know.”

“Hm?”

His arms tightened slightly.

“My hands really did feel better.”

You smiled into his shoulder. Because there it was again. Not surrender. Not defeat.

Trust.

The kind that only appeared when the lights were low and the world was quiet. The kind that said I know you’ll be gentle with the parts of me that hurt. And for Robby, that might have been the most intimate thing of all.

******

The Bath

The bath conversation started exactly how you expected it would. In fact, it started with Robby standing in your bathroom doorway looking genuinely concerned about your life choices.

You were buried beneath a mountain of bubbles. A book rested in your hands. A candle flickered on the counter. Soft music drifted through the apartment. The entire scene looked like the physical embodiment of relaxation. Robby looked at it like he’d discovered a cult meeting.

“What are you doing?”

You looked up from your book.

“Taking a bath.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

He crossed his arms.

“You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes.”

You blinked.

“Have you been timing me?”

“No.”

“Robby.”

A pause.

“Maybe.”

You laughed. The man looked genuinely baffled. Like he could not comprehend voluntarily sitting in water for an extended period of time.

“Don’t you get bored?”

“No.”

“How?”

You held up your book.

“I’m reading.”

“You could read on the couch.”

“I could.”

“You could read in bed.”

“I could.”

“You could read literally anywhere else.”

You smiled.

“I like baths.”

Robby shook his head. Still unconvinced.

“You sit in hot water.”

“Yes.”

“For fun.”

“Yes.”

His expression suggested he was witnessing civilization collapse in real time. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your book.

For the next several weeks, the subject became recurring entertainment. Every time you took a bath, Robby had questions. Questions that somehow always sounded accusatory.

“You’re taking another one?”

“Yes.”

“You took one three days ago.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“You already took one.”

“It’s not a vaccine.”

The look on his face nearly killed you.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I genuinely don’t.”

Then came the worst shift of the month. The kind that seemed determined to squeeze every ounce of energy from a person. You knew it had been bad the moment Robby walked through your front door.

His shoulders sagged. His eyes looked tired. Not sleepy. Tired. The deeper kind. The kind that settled into your bones. He barely made it through saying hello before collapsing onto your couch. You sat beside him immediately. One hand brushing through his hair.

“Rough?”

He nodded. You waited. He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t ask. After a few minutes you stood. Robby glanced up.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later he heard running water. Then more running water. Then suspicious silence. A few moments later he appeared in the doorway. And immediately frowned.

“What are you doing?”

You smiled. The bathtub behind you was full. Steam curled through the room.

“You know exactly what I’m doing.”

“No.”

“Yes you do.”

“No.”

“Robby.”

His eyes narrowed. Then widened. Then narrowed again. Absolutely horrified.

“No.”

You laughed.

“Oh come on.”

“No.”

“It’ll help.”

“No.”

“You’ve had a terrible day.”

“I don’t need a bath.”

“You’ve never tried one.”

“I know enough.”

“You really don’t.”

He pointed dramatically at the tub.

“People sit where they wash.”

You stared. Then laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter. Robby looked deeply offended.

“That’s a valid concern.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.”

“It could be.”

You couldn’t breathe. The man was impossible. Eventually he retreated. Victorious. Or so he thought.

The next week brought another difficult shift. And another. And another. Until one evening you found him sitting at your kitchen table rubbing both hands over his face. Exhausted. Worn thin. Barely functioning.

You approached quietly. Placed a mug of tea beside him. Then kissed the top of his head.

“Bath.”

“No.”

“Bath.”

“No.”

“Bath.”

Robby sighed dramatically. Then looked up at you. Too tired to argue properly. Which was your opening.

“Twenty minutes.”

“No.”

“Ten.”

“No.”

“Five.”

His eyes closed. You could practically see the internal battle happening.

“Five.”

You immediately pointed.

“Aha.”

His eyes opened. Realization hit. Too late. The agreement had been made. The trap had closed.

“You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I question it regularly.”

You kissed his forehead.

“You absolutely do not.”

Twenty minutes later you found him in the bathroom. Still in the bathtub. Still soaking. Still alive despite his earlier concerns. You leaned against the doorway quietly. Watching. Robby’s head rested against the edge. Eyes closed. Shoulders relaxed.

The tension that usually lived between them noticeably reduced. For once he looked peaceful. Not physician peaceful. Not pretending peaceful. Actually peaceful. You smiled softly.

“Five minutes?”

His eyes opened. Then immediately narrowed.

“You said you weren’t keeping track.”

“You’ve been in there twenty minutes.”

A pause.

“The water’s still warm.”

You nearly burst into laughter.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“It absolutely is.”

Robby looked away. And for a moment he actually looked embarrassed. Which was somehow adorable. You crossed the room. Knelt beside the tub. Brushed damp hair away from his forehead.

His eyes softened immediately. The way they always did with you.

“You okay?”

For a moment he simply looked at you. The exhaustion. The affection. The trust.nEverything sitting quietly in his expression. Then he nodded.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“I kind of get it.”

Your smile grew.

“Kind of?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

You laughed. Robby reached out immediately. Water dripping from his hand.nCatching your wrist before you could pull away.nThen bringing your knuckles to his lips. A quiet kiss.nThe kind people only gave when they felt completely safe. And as ridiculous as it was, as much as you’d tease him forever about becoming a bath person, that wasn’t the moment that stuck with you.

It was the fact that for the first time since you’d met him, Robby wasn’t trying to recover from a hard day by simply enduring it. He was actually allowing himself comfort. Allowing himself rest. Allowing himself care. Even if he’d complain about it tomorrow. Even if he’d deny enjoying it. Even if he’d swear the entire thing was a one-time occurrence. Because the next week, when you arrived at his apartment unexpectedly and found a brand-new bottle of bath soak sitting beside his bathtub…

Well. That was evidence enough.

*******

The Night Routine

The realization hit Robby on a random Thursday night. Which was fitting. Because most of the important things in life seemed to happen to him when he wasn’t paying attention. The two of you had been together long enough now that routines existed. Not consciously. Not intentionally. They had simply formed. Like roots growing underground. And somewhere along the way, you had apparently infiltrated every single one of his.

The discovery happened after a particularly long shift. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing dramatic. Just twelve straight hours of emergency medicine. Twelve hours of people needing things from him. Twelve hours of making decisions. Twelve hours of carrying responsibility. The kind of day that left him feeling stretched thin.

Robby walked into his apartment. Dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. Kicked off his shoes. Then immediately froze. Because without thinking, he’d started doing things. One after another.

His hand reached for the water bottle sitting beside the sink. He finished half of it before even realizing what he was doing. Then he refilled it. Set it beside the coffee maker for the morning.

Robby stared at it. Suspicious. Then walked into the bedroom. Changed clothes. Reached for the heating pad. Plugged it in. Placed it on the couch.

Automatic. Again.

His eyes narrowed. Something was happening here. Something concerning. Something deeply suspicious.

Twenty minutes later you arrived carrying takeout. The moment you opened the door, you found him sitting on the couch staring into space. Heating pad across his back. Water bottle beside him. Looking like a man experiencing an existential crisis. You immediately started laughing.

“What?”

Robby pointed at himself.

“I have concerns.”

“Oh no.”

“I think you’ve done something to me.”

You dropped onto the couch beside him.

“This should be good.”

He pointed toward the kitchen.

“I refilled the water bottle.”

“Wonderful.”

“I didn’t even think about it.”

“Oh no.”

“The heating pad was already plugged in before I realized I grabbed it.”

You covered your mouth. Trying and failing to hide your smile. Robby looked genuinely disturbed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You’ve altered my behavior.”

You laughed. Hard. The kind that made tears form. The kind that made Robby look even more offended.

“I am serious.”

“You sound like you’ve been brainwashed.”

“I have.”

“You bought lotion voluntarily last week.”

His expression immediately darkened.

“Don’t.”

“You did.”

“I was out.”

“You bought more.”

“I needed more.”

You collapsed against his shoulder. Absolutely losing the battle.

“This is incredible.”

Robby groaned. Then pointed at you. As if pointing somehow strengthened his argument.

“You are not taking this seriously.”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“It isn’t ridiculous.”

“It kind of is.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he crossed his arms. The posture immediately reminded you of a stubborn toddler. Which unfortunately made you laugh even harder. Robby looked personally betrayed.

“I used bath salts.”

You stopped. Then looked at him.

“What?”

His expression suggested he’d just confessed to a felony.

“I used bath salts.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You bought bath salts.”

A pause.

“They were on sale.”

You lost it. The laughter echoed through the apartment. Robby closed his eyes. Clearly regretting every decision that had led him here.

Eventually you managed to compose yourself enough to wipe tears from your eyes. Then you leaned over. Rested your chin on his shoulder. And smiled.

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you like being taken care of.”

The words settled between you. Robby didn’t answer immediately. The joking disappeared. The teasing faded. His eyes dropped toward his hands. You waited, watching him. Because sometimes the most important things with Robby happened in the silence.

“I think…”

He stopped. Started again.

“I think nobody ever really paid attention before.”

Your heart squeezed. Because there it was. The thing underneath all of it. The reason this mattered. The reason every pillow and heating pad and bottle of lotion had become something bigger.

You reached for his hand immediately. Threading your fingers through his. Robby squeezed back. Looking at your joined hands. Not at you. As if the honesty was easier that way.

“My exes used to tell me to slow down.”

You listened quietly.

“Friends have told me.”

Another pause.

“My family…what’s left of them…has told me.”

His thumb brushed across your knuckles.

“But you’re the first person who actually noticed when I didn’t.”

The emotion hit you unexpectedly. Because that was exactly it. You hadn’t set out to fix him. You couldn’t. Nobody could. Robby would always be Robby.

Stubborn. Self-sacrificing. Terrible at asking for help. Beautifully, frustratingly himself.

You just noticed things. The headaches. The exhaustion. The sore back. The cracked hands. The moments he needed someone. Even when he didn’t know how to say it.

You leaned forward and kissed his temple. Then rested your forehead against his.

“Well.”

His eyes finally met yours. So full of affection it nearly hurt.

“Well what?”

You smiled.

“I noticed.”

For a moment neither of you moved. The apartment quiet around you. The television forgotten. The food growing cold. Neither of you caring.

Then Robby looked around his living room. At the water bottle. The heating pad. The lotion on the side table. The throw blanket you’d bought because his old one felt like sandpaper. The tea in his cabinet. The better pillows. The bath salts. All the tiny pieces of you scattered throughout his life. And a slow smile appeared. A small one. Only for you.

“You know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

His fingers tightened around yours. That smile growing just a little.

“I can’t tell where my habits end and you begin anymore.”

Your heart absolutely melted.nAnd judging by the way Robby immediately pulled you into his lap before you could get emotional about it…

He knew exactly what he’d done.

******

The Payoff

The thing about taking care of Robby was that eventually it stopped feeling like taking care of him. It just became loving him. The routines no longer felt deliberate. They simply existed. A thousand tiny things woven into the fabric of your lives together.

The water bottle. The lotion. The heating pad. The tea. The baths. The better sleep habits. The pillows. The blankets.

All those little acts of care that had started as gentle nudges had somehow become part of the architecture of his life. And because of that, the moment that finally broke your heart happened on an entirely ordinary night. A terrible shift. But ordinary. The kind that left everyone exhausted. You had your own shift that day and didn’t get to see him until almost midnight.

By the time you unlocked the door to his apartment, the place was dark. Quiet. You frowned. Normally there would at least be a lamp on. The television. Something. Instead there was only silence. For a brief moment concern flared.

Then you stepped farther inside. And immediately stopped. Because there he was. Curled up on the couch. Asleep. The heating pad stretched across his lower back. The blanket you’d bought draped over his legs. The water bottle sitting on the coffee table. Half empty. Hand cream beside it. A mug of tea abandoned nearby.

The lamp casting a warm golden glow across the room. You stared. Your chest tightening unexpectedly. Because every single one of those things had once been an argument. Every single one. And now he reached for them without thinking. Not because you’d forced him. Because he’d learned they helped. Because somewhere along the way he’d decided he deserved comfort.

You stood there for a long moment just looking at him. At the man you loved. The man who spent every day pouring himself into everyone around him. The man who still occasionally forgot he was worthy of the same kindness he offered strangers.

Then quietly, you crossed the room. Robby woke almost immediately. Of course he did. Years in emergency medicine had turned him into the lightest sleeper on Earth.

His eyes opened. Found you. And instantly softened.

“There you are.”

The words came rough with sleep. Your heart melted immediately.

“Hi.”

He reached for you automatically. Still half asleep. Still waking up. Still wanting you close. You smiled and slipped onto the couch beside him.

The moment you did, his arm wrapped around your waist. Pulling you against his side. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d been missing a piece.

You settled against his chest. Listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His chin resting on top of your head. Neither of you speaking for several moments. Neither of you needing to. Finally you glanced around. At all the evidence surrounding him. Your smile grew. Robby immediately noticed.

“No.”

You laughed.

“Oh yes.”

“No.”

“You used all of them.”

His groan vibrated through his chest.

“I was tired.”

“You used every single thing.”

“It was a bad day.”

“Every single thing.”

Robby buried his face against your hair. Apparently hoping he could hide from this conversation. You found this adorable.

“I mean look at you.”

“Don’t.”

“You practically created a self-care checklist.”

“I hate that phrase.”

“You absolutely do not.”

His fingers pinched your side. You yelped. Then laughed. Then cuddled closer. The warmth between you settling into something comfortable.

After a while the teasing faded. The room growing quieter. You felt Robby’s hand sliding lazily up and down your back. The absent-minded touch of someone who loved having you near. Eventually his voice broke the silence.

“Today sucked.”

The honesty surprised you. Not because he never talked. Because he usually filtered things first. Protected people from the weight of them. Including you.

Tonight he sounded too tired for that. You turned slightly. Looking up at him. His eyes looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that lived deeper than sleep. You brushed your fingers along his jaw.

“What happened?”

Robby sighed. Then told you. Not everything. But enough. The difficult patient. The loss. The family. The impossible choices. The endless pressure.

You listened quietly. Your hand never leaving his face. Never interrupting. Never trying to fix it. Just listening.

When he finished, the room fell silent again. His forehead dropped against yours. Eyes closing. You could feel how tired he was. How worn down. How much he carried.

“I hate days like that.”

“I know.”

A pause. Then another.

“You know what was weird?”

“What?”

His eyes opened. Looking directly at you.

“I got home.”

You waited.

“And without even thinking about it…” A faint smile appeared. “I started doing all the stuff.”

You laughed softly.

“The stuff?”

“The stuff.”

“Very specific.”

“You know what I mean.”

You did. Of course you did. The little routines. The tiny acts of care. The things he’d once resisted. The things he’d once rolled his eyes at. The things he’d once insisted were unnecessary. His thumb brushed across your cheek.

Then his expression softened. Until there was nothing guarded left. Nothing hidden. Just Robby. Just the man you loved.

“You know what the worst part is?”

You smiled.

“I thought we already covered the worst part.”

“No.”

His hand cupped your face.

“I have a new one.”

“Oh?”

He studied you for a moment. Like he was trying to memorize something. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then he smiled.

That rare smile. The one that belonged only to you.

“The worst part is now I miss you when you’re not there to nag me about it.”

You laughed. A genuine laugh. Bright and happy. Robby’s eyes immediately lit up at the sound. Like they always did.

“I do not nag.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I lovingly encourage.”

“You nag.”

“I encourage.”

“You nag.”

You leaned forward and kissed him. Ending the argument. The way you usually did. His hand slid into your hair immediately. Holding you there. Not demanding. Not urgent. Just wanting. Just savoring.

When you finally pulled back, he followed. Forehead against yours. Nose brushing yours. His eyes never leaving yours. And for a moment the entire world seemed to disappear.

No hospital. No stress. No responsibilities. Just this.

Just you. Just him.

Then his voice came quietly. So quietly you almost missed it.

“Nobody’s ever taken care of me before.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’d said all night. Because he wasn’t talking about the lotion. Or the pillow. Or the heating pad.

He was talking about being seen. About someone paying attention. About someone noticing when he was hurting before he had to say it out loud. Your throat tightened. You reached up. Brushed your hand through his hair.

“Well.”

His eyes closed briefly beneath your touch. The smallest smile appearing.

“Well what?”

You leaned forward. Kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth.

“I plan on doing it for a very long time.”

For a moment he simply looked at you. The emotion in his eyes almost overwhelming. Then he pulled you into his lap. Wrapped both arms around you. And held you there.

Like something he’d never willingly let go. The heating pad eventually shut itself off. The tea went cold. The apartment grew quiet. But neither of you moved. Because sometimes love wasn’t grand gestures. Sometimes it was a stubborn emergency physician finally letting himself be cared for. And the woman who loved him choosing, every single day, to keep showing up and doing exactly that.

[richeeduvie]

Getting your baby ready for bedtime is its own procedure for Jack. She must have her bath, her lotion, and her overly expensive sound machine. And once he's checked that the baby monitor is still working (it always is), you get a front-row seat to his utmost patience as he waits for Chubby to pick a board book to read.

You're assuming Jack's so patient because, one day, she'll have careful enough hands for regular paper books. No need to think about that heartaching future now, but you can't help it!

"Chubs...did you or Mommy pick this book?"

You're sitting on the nursery rug, folding Chubby's tiny clothes into a dresser that is already too full with pretty things you just had to buy. Chubby ends up in Jack's lap in the glider, all clean from her bath.

She smacks the book that "she" picked out.

'Daddy Hugs and Loves!'

Jack's glaring at you. You grin.

"She picked it out with the other two, Dad. She took advantage of her options."

Jack's avoided Daddy Hugs and Loves! since you bought it at Target. He's read a book about a truck, then a grumpy cow who learns to treat others with respect and kindness. He had to argue your joke that the book copied his likeness.

...But you managed to sneak in Daddy Hugs when he wasn't looking.

He groans. You know he feels ridiculous before he even opens it. But it's a book about a talking bear and his baby girl cub. Nothing in it should hurt him, unless he's insane about having to confront the representation of fathers and daughters in the media.

...Okay. You wouldn't put it past Jackie.

"You okay, Jack?"

Jack shrugs, shifting Chubby in his lap. It’s a children’s book---"

"Da...beeee."

She smacks the book again. His hands grip its spine.

Da can mean any of a number of things. It's usually reserved for Jack, but it's an interchangeable demand, really. She uses da when she wants something opened or given to her. But if you know your daughter as well as you think you do, you're sure it's her demand for Jack to read the damn book right now.

"Alright, alright. I'm picking up the pace. Here we go."

Jack opens the book. The first page is the paper bear standing in a nursery, holding his arms out to his cub.

"Daddy’s arms are big and strong."

His voice comes out low and steady, a little raspy from the long day and the way Chubby keeps curling her toes against his forearm. But that's just your guess.

"They hold me when the day feels long."

You slow in your folding when Jack clears his throat and turns the page quickly. The next picture is worse for him.

The dad bear is carrying the cub through a storm, holding an umbrella over her. She's smiling, and her papa is looking down like the only thing that matters is that she's dry.

Jack stares at it.

Well. Fuck the bear.

Chubby whines, impatient. "Mmmm."

"I’m getting there. Be patient. See? When the thunder rolls and the skies turn gray..."

Jack swallows.

"Daddy keeps the fear away."

...He needs to check the thermostat again. It's too hot in here. He'd open the window if it wasn't a safety risk. He'll just have to be warm while getting jumped by a ten-dollar book from Target.

Daddy keeps the fear away. Ha. What a stupid fucking lie to put in a baby book.

He doesn't keep the fear away. He installs too many cameras and gets mad that there are still blind spots. There shouldn't be. But Dad doesn't keep the fear away. He's full of it, just like he's full of his own shit.

"Jack, keep going."

"I'm letting her process the material."

Jack's chubby excuse shifts in his lap, rubbing her cheek against his shirt. Her hand finds his thumb as she fusses, cause she has processed nothing but the fact that his voice has stopped.

Jack turns the page. It's a bedtime scene of the bear and cub in a rocking chair, not unlike him and Chubby in the glider right now.

This is so fucking cruel. You're cruel. He reads the line in his head.

Daddy’s voice is low and deep. It sings me safely into sleep.

No. No, that’s not—

Jack sighs heavy. Chubby tips her head back against his chest, her eyes just as heavy with sleep.

"Daddy's voice is..."

...He can't.

"Daddy's voice is low and deep. It..."

The rest doesn't come. He hates this book. He hates the stupid papa bear. He hates that his breathing turns shallows enough that you stop what you're doing.

"Hey, you don't have to finish it."

"I can read a damn book for infants. It's just..."

"I know you can, doc."

God. He'd rather have kiddo argue. Your faith in him is more murderous than the little doubt you have.

He looks down at the daughter you've given him again. She blinks slower. He forces his voice back into place.

“It...it sings me…”

No. His voice is all the worst parts of him trying for protection, but it's been cruel, and it's snapped. It's made you flinch. His voice is the thing she'll copy, if he isn’t careful.

You cross the nursery and put warmth on his shoulder by settling your hand there.

"Let me?"

There's no point in not letting you, is there? He hands you the book, his movement is stiff.

You sit on the arm of the glider, one hand coming to rest on the back of Chubby's head. She blinks up at you. You smile. Jack tries to disappear into the chair while still holding the weight of your little girl.

"Mommy's got you. Daddy’s voice is low and deep. It sings me safely into sleep."

Your voice is soft and pretty, and that's why neither of you understands why her little face trembles into a whine, the one that always comes before her wail. Jack, for a moment, thinks she's just tired.

Yeah, me too.

"Oh, sweetheart--"

But Chubby turns in Jack's lap towards him, twisting clumsily as she grabs at his shirt.

"Daaaaaa!"

Your and Jack's eyes meet when she fusses harder.

"Daaaaaa! Da...BEE-DA!"

"...I think she wants Dada, right now, Jackie."

Apparently. Not the softer, perfect voice. She wants awkward pauses and his stupid-as-hell commentary? Why?

Because she knows you're perfect and wants you sometimes as much as she knows Jack as himself and wants him all the same?

Why?

Jack takes the book back, and his hands are not steady when he does. You slide off the arm of the glider, kneeling beside it instead, resting your cheek against his knee.

Chubby settles the second the book is back in his hand, though she keeps one fist locked in his shirt to make sure he doesn’t attempt book abandonment again.

...Two girls he doesn't deserve, loving him anyway. What else is he supposed to do but do whatever they want? Least he can do.

Jack clears his throat.

"Alright, I’ve got it. It sings me safely into sleep."

Chubby relaxes, just like that. He stares down at the top of her head before turning the page.

It shows the papa bear kissing the cub's forehead with a moon in the window. It's too sentimental, aggressively so. And no, he's not just thinking that cause looking at it makes him feel like his organs out falling out through his sternum.

"Daddy’s hug is where I stay…"

His voice catches again. You kiss his shin.

"In dreams until the morning day."

He almost gets through it in a way where he's confident enough to make a promise. I'll be here forever. But..he knows better. He's seen too many parents leave without meaning to. How many families have been ruined by a heart suddenly stopping or a car running a red light? He can't promise anything.

He presses his lips to her head.

"I'll be here for as long as I can be. That'll be enough mornings."

Enough practice to make it all the way through this stupid ass book without stopping. Almost.

[puppiegracie]

"ugh who tf wants to watch a five season mental health journey about Robby 🤢" MEEE MEEEE I DOOO I WANNA WATCH IT I WANNA SEE HIM HEAL ‼️‼️🗣️‼️🗣️‼️🗣️‼️🗣️‼️🗣️🔥🔥🔥

[ofstarsandvibranium]

“What the fuck is that?” You look up from the cat on your lap to see Titus looking confused as ever.

You chuckle, “A cat.”

“Yeah and why the fuck is it here?” He crosses his arms over his chest, staring down at the animal.

“I wanted a pet and a dog was too much work, so I got a cat instead. This is Titus,” you smile at the grey tabby cat.

The human Titus cocks a brow at you, “You named it after me?”

You shrug, “The animal shelter said he hates everyone but when I met with him, he was all cuddles. Reminded me of you,” you look back up at your human Titus with a smirk.

He scowls, “I am not like that,” he murmurs as he nears you.

Titus the Cat immediately hisses at his namesake.

“I hate it.”

You can’t help but cackle, “Well tough shit, because he’s mine and you’re not getting rid of him! He’s my baby!” You nuzzle the tabby cat and he purrs at the affection.

“We could’ve just made a real baby instead. That’s more fun…” Titus murmurs as he exits the room, slightly dejected.

[langdonsbracelets]

Summary: The Pitt's quietest nurse is pregnant, and no one can figure out who the baby's father is. Fluffy and short.

A/N: I wrote this half awake at 3 in the morning. Maybe a little ooc for everyone considering I know the Pitt gossip goes crazy and this would have been figured out in two seconds, but my tired brain was going wild thinking of this so here it is.

Paternity

You were a fairly private person. 

You never really spoke about your life outside of the hospital. You were friends with your fellow nurses, certainly, but you had that ability to have conversations without revealing too much about yourself that infuriated your colleagues, (Princess and Perlah especially) and that was how you liked it. You didn’t need everyone to know your business. 

So when you revealed your pregnancy, whispers flew around the hospital. Who was the father? Were you even seeing someone? Was this a one night stand situation? 

When Princess finally asked the question on everyone’s lips, tentatively, trying not to offend you, “who’s the father?” And you answered with a simple “Dr. Robby”, like it was the most obvious thing ever, no one believed you. 

You were joking, obviously. Dr. Robby. 

Sure, you and Robby got along well, just like any other colleagues in the hospital. But there was no way he was the father of your baby. No way the two of you were dating, or even just hooking up. You were never anything but professional with each other in the ER. 

So when you went into labour earlier than expected, gripping the counter of the central hub with white knuckles as a contraction washed over you, no one thought anything of it when Robby hurried over, helping you into a wheelchair and into a room. He was just being Dr. Robby, the good doctor they all knew him to be. They had seen him take off running multiple times when one of their own was injured on the job; of course he would stay with you while an OBGYN team came down to check you out. 

And when the baby was born, and everyone came to visit the Pitt crew’s newest addition, maybe there was some surprise to see Robby holding your baby in his large hands, cradled against his bare chest, a blanket over one shoulder. But it made sense, you clearly didn’t have anyone else in the picture — you were doing this on your own — why wouldn’t he give your baby some skin to skin while you rested? You were all family in the Pitt, at the end of the day. 

And when Robby told everyone you and your baby were settling in nicely at home, everyone was happy to hear it. They were happy for you and the baby, and why wouldn’t Robby know how well you were doing? They had all watched him wheel you out of the hospital, knew he helped place the carseat in the back of your car. He had even driven you home. 

It wasn’t until you came to visit nearly a year later, carrying your baby, when everyone realized that maybe, they had misunderstood the situation. 

You stood with Dana and Perlah at the central hub, smiling as your round faced, happy looking baby waved a chubby hand at Jesse juggling for them, when Robby turned the corner, stopping short. 

“My favourite person in the world” Robby crowed happily, and you watched as your baby’s face lit up at the sound of his voice. You set them down, letting them waddle as fast as they could over to Robby, who crouched low to catch them. 

And it was only when Robby stood up, holding your baby close in his arms that everyone came to a very sudden realization. 

Robby and your baby had the same brown eyes, the same nose, the same tilt of the head when someone spoke to them. But it was only when your baby scrubbed their tiny hand down their face the same way Robby did on particularly rough days and there was an incoming trauma, that Perlah shot a look at Princess, who looked at Dana, who looked at Jesse, who looked at Mateo.

Thankfully, the only thing incoming was nap time. 

“It’s about that time” Robby said quietly, glancing at his watch. 

“We should get going” you said, reaching out to take your baby back, but they stubbornly held on to Robby. 

“I’ll come to the car” Robby said, and with a happy wave, you said goodbye to everyone in the Pitt, following along as Robby led the way outside. Your baby rested their head on his shoulder, their brown hair the same shade as his. 

Your colleagues watched you all walk away, an awkward silence hanging over them before slowly turning to the security office. 

“Who won the paternity bet?” 

[voidsagent]

i’m thinking again…

new dad jack abbot who is just absolutely obsessed with newborn scrunches…like to the point he will fight/race reader to be the first one in front of the bassinet the second your baby moves or makes any noise.

those scrunches are HIS.

he’ll pick the baby up sooo gently, cooing at them as they make all the baby noises, and the second that baby scrunches up to stretch jack is a puddle on the floor. don’t even bother mopping it up cause it’s just gonna keep happening every time that baby wakes up.

the baby’s little legs curl up into their bottom, arms stiff and stretched out, back curved a little and the cheeks…good lord those chubby cheeks get all squished against their arms and their eyebrows raise. their tiny face gets red as their fists flail a little bit.

jack’s got the biggest smile on his face, so soft and warm for his mini me.

“biggggg stretchhhh”, jack will coo, eyebrows dancing in his hairline as he gasps softly when the baby finishes stretching and looks right at him.

“there, much better”, jack says softly, pulling his baby close and letting them rest against his shoulder; “yeah i know…feels so nice to stretch out, huh?”

reader just watches the entire thing unfold with nothing but love in their eyes. half ready to pounce on jack and not wanting to interrupt the moment. reader has no idea how many videos of that exact moment they have on their phone by now. at least a dozen.

when the baby reaches that stage in between three and four weeks old where they technically aren’t a newborn anymore, jack is distraught. his baby is growing up and he doesn’t like it. even more so when he goes to pick the baby up and they just…don’t scrunch.

instead their arms go all the way above their head, stretching out the same way jack would…like a full grown person. their tiny body is still a little arched, but not the same way it used to be. not in full scrunch, legs still dangling below their little body.

jack freezes, almost immediately. he just…stares…loses it. blinks once, then twice before a soft breath comes from his mouth, brows already furrowing before he can stop them.

“um excuse me bean, where the heck is your scrunch?”

his voice almost wavers. bean stares back at him, blinks once before chewing on their fist, unsure why jack’s still got them held out into the air. clearly the scrunch isn’t coming.

bean grunts in protest.

jack brings them close, cradling their tiny head and letting his lips brush against the soft downy hair on top of their head.

“can’t believe you lost your scrunch…when did you get so big?”, he whispers into their skin.

he inhales the new baby scent, which is thankfully—still fully in tact.

jack tells reader dramatically about the events when they emerge from the shower. hands waving in the air. he’s fully dissatisfied and appalled that bean dared to loose their scrunch. not when it was his favorite thing.

“it’s ok honey, now bean has the cute baby stretch”, reader assures him.

jack let’s put a noise that almost sounds like a grunt, but sighs anyways; “It is kinda cute…”

“see? it’s ok”, reader tells him, caressing his hand with their thumb; “we’ve got lots of videos too, jack.”

jack nods, eyes flicking over to look at bean who’s chilling in their bouncer chair. he points at them, eyes narrowed with a quiet humor that’s decorated with a slight seriousness; “you”, he says; “need to stop growing so fast.”

so yeah, he’s a little distraught and has a mini existential crisis…and maybe he watches those videos of every scrunch bean every did later that night in bed while reader is fast asleep next to him. maybe his eyes are a little glossy, sue him. that’s his baby.

[da-pitt]

LIVE ABBOT AND ROBBY REACTION:

[puppydogwhitaker]

a seriously underrated rated part of the pitt is just how much trinity and jack admire each other

[bamb1ed0ll]

Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!reader - oneshot

Periods

cw: pure fluff, one reference to sex, period blood

Saw this post and yes, I totally agree. That man is far from clueless. He's not stupid, and especially if he were with a woman, he'd totally look up what he could do/what's happening.

The first thing Pope noticed when you opened your front door was the utter exhaustion written all over your face.

Next came the posture, like you were trying to curl into yourself, be it from pain or the urge to hide away. The slight sway, like standing on your feet physically drained you.

Hair messy and unwashed, skin suffering a bad breakout, clothes big and hanging off your frame. Feet bare, peeking out under the fabric of your sweatpants. Eyes red and puffy with what looked like dried up tears on the corners of them.

He felt a bit guilty for the way his heart swelled at you looking like what he could only describe as cute, considering you probably felt like dying right now. Messy, tired, sure, but in a way that made him want nothing else but to take care of you.

"Y'haven't answered me all day. Called you too." He can see the guilt crossing your face, mixing with the tiredness. "Shit- 'm sorry, couldn't stand lookin' at my phone...felt like throwin' up all day."

At your answer, Pope's expression softened. "Can i come in?"

"Andy, I-I'm a mess, and so's my appartment...I-I'd rather not have y'see me like this...b'sides, I- i can't like...have sex with you...it hurts too much" Your boyfriend's brows raise slightly at your nervous, almost sorry statement. A hint of confusion showing on his otherwise blank stare.

To be fair, your relationship with him was pretty new. And sure, you were all over each other just about every time you had a minute to yourself. But did you seriously think that'd be the only reason for him to want to spend time with you?

Then again, Andrew couldn't blame you, you'd told him about the men you'd been with before.

"That's not why I'm here." He states, with a flat, factual tone, like it's obvious. Lifting his hand to hold out the white plastic bag he's been holding the entire conversation. "Got you stuff. Thought you might want it."

Curiousity making your tired eyes open a bit wider, leaning forward and hooking a finger onto the plastic to take a peek inside. Snacks, your favorite. Some you only mentioned casually, like an afterthought. Pads, and a stuffed plush bunny on top of it all.

"Didn’t know what you use, but I remember Julia buying those. 'nd I asked one of the female staff 'bout it." Again, that flat, factual tone like he didn’t just make your heart crack a bit.

Tears spring to your eyes as you look up to meet his again. You feel your bottom lip start quivering, vision getting blurry "andy...how'd you even know?"

"You mentioned it a week ago. Complained 'bout how it'd probably happen soon, 'nd 'cause you acted off t'last few days, thought sorta that would be the reason."

Letting out a small, choked up sound that sounded a bit too much like a sob, you wrapped your arms around his middle and pressed your face into his broad, strong chest, dampening his shirt.

Following this, he runs you a bath. Embarrassment filled your body at the way he was watching you undress, blood trickling down your thighs. Sure, he'd be awkward talking about it, like with so many things, but his movements are steady. Unbothered.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he massages the shampoo into your scalp. And while the conditioner sets, and you try your best to relax in the warm, bubbly water, he starts cleaning up a bit. Putting the clothes you left on the floor into the washing machine and turning it on, making sure they don't stain, cleaning the dishes you couldn't find the energy to do, fixing the couch and wiping down the coffee table. Knowing how much more comfortable you feel in a clean, tidy enviroment, not to mention it comes naturally to him.

Hands under your arms as he helps you stand up and dry off, putting on the clothes he picked out beforehand.

Pope wraps his thick arms around the back of your thighs, picking you up and walking to the kitchen. You find yourself sitting on the counter top, while your boyfriend grabs a glass from the cabinet and turns to the sink to fill it, before handing it to you. "Here, drink up. What d'you wanna eat?" Pope says, already pulling out his phone, already opening the delivery app.

Not much later you find yourself on the couch, wrapped up in blankets, sitting on his lap sideways, facing the tv. Half empty pizza cartons in the kitchen, snacks spread out on the coffee table for whenever you feel like it.

Andrews warm, heavy hand rubbing circles over the soft skin of your tummy and up and down your thigh, occasionally coming down to massage your fuzzy-sock-covered feet, the other arm wrapped around you to keep you close. Head against his shoulder, holding the plushed bunny he got you, you finally feel at ease.

And Pope? Feels his heart swell, pride and warmth coursing through him at you trusting him to hold you like this. "Pretty girl..." You can hear him quietly mumble more to himself than anyone else, before pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

And when you need space, when everything feels too hot, too loud, too much because of the pain coursing through your body making you feel sick and dizzy, you'd catch his hands tense and fidget helplessly at not being able to keep you from pain. Like it's his most important job in life.

So he does what he can and lies next to you. Not touching, not talking, just being there.

A comforting presence to let you know he's there, and he's not going anywhere.

Don't mind me crying in the corner...

[richeeduvie]

Can you write something about Jack and the reader obsessing over how cute and chunky chubby is while she’s toddler? I can imagine her having one of those cute toddler bellies😭

In the midst of you being half-awake, your daughter wobbles in with a dangerous authority. She's come in wearing a diaper and a shirt two sizes too big for her. She'll be able to fit into it one day, when she's taller and bigger. Don't think about that right now.

She lifts her arms. The shirt rides up.

Her perfect little belly is on display for you and Jack.

God, she's too fucking adorable! This is his fault, somehow! It must be his genes, or the fact that he fed you too well while she was in the womb.

She blinks when she realizes you and her father are watching her.

She pats her own stomach. You know. Just to kill you. Go ahead and kill your mommy, why don't you? Not with guns, just perfection.

"Belly!"

You don't even know how to describe the noise that comes out of you.

"Jack, look at her, she's so chunky."

"...I see that."

By the sound of his voice, Jack's not handling the sight of your baby any better than you are.

Chubby grins and begins toddling toward you, her belly leading the way with her little feet slapping against the floor. Jack watches her like the little miracle she is.

She collapses into your body with no regard for your knees. You gather her up, and when you do, she folds into your chest.

"Be...bell-lee-lee...leeeee."

"Yes," you coo, kissing under her chin and giving her stomach one gentle poke. "Your little belly. You are very beautiful."

Chubby decides the poking is the funniest thing to ever happen to her, because she begins to laugh wildly. She leans backward in your arms like she's so sure you'll keep her from hitting the floor.

You will. Always.

Jack moves before you can even adjust your hold. His hand spreads across her head.

"Easy. You trying to crack your head open before nine?"

Chubby smiles at him upside down, and that's enough to kill the sternness in him. What's left is so soft that you want to make fun of him, but your chest just hurts from the swell.

He takes her from your arms, and with clumsy hands, she reaches to lift the hem of his shirt.

She pokes his stomach.

"Dada belly."

You nearly die laughing, which becomes contagious. It's obvious when Chubby begins to shriek with her own laughter at the sight of her father's dignity dying under her observation.

Jack knows the only thing to do is sigh and kiss his daughter's head. Maybe punish you later for laughing.

"At least we're matching. Shame you wear it cuter."