Eight Days of Hanukkah —Michael Robinavitch
Summary: Everyone knows about your crush on Robby—except Robby. So, when Hanukkah begins, you leave Robby a gift every one of the eight days, hoping he'll know. Except he doesn't. What do you do when your great idea proves to be not so great? (8.6k)
Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!attending!reader
TW: Implied that the reader is not Jewish (she had to research Hanukkah); best friend Jack and ONLY best friend Jack; Mentions of burning a CD and if you don't know what that means then I feel far too old; there is a sex scene but it's not graphic and I've seen way worse in teen books these days so; Angst; misunderstanding; Baby Jane Doe's ending is revealed (or at least, my take on it). Think that's it, let me know if it's not.
Credit & Tags: GIF by @aryacoulson, DNA divider made by @diviniyae; Tag: @byefon A/N: I did a lot of research into Hanukkah and I hope I did it justice and I hope you guys like the story. It kind of got away from me because I did a lot of research and the release is a little delayed because I got sucked into my research. Hope it's okay.
Day 1: Silver and Blue Hand painted Dreidel
Everyone knows that you like Michael Robinavitch. It’s not a secret and, in fact, it’s fairly obvious, the way you smile, the way you go out of your way to talk to him when you never do it for anyone else. The way you sometimes in bring in a drink for him, something for him to try.
You remember when Trinity noticed. She asked you who the extra drink was for, her tone leading, hinting for herself. You’d explained that it was for Robby.
“Robby? Like Dr. Robby?” she’d asked and you’d nodded, lips pressing into a smile, the thin-lipped one that happens when you try to suppress a real one. “Jesus. Are you in love with him or something?” It was when she’d seen your face, the pinched, shocked expression like a grimacing deer in headlights that she’d gone wide-eyed and laughed. “Oh, Sunshine!” she’d laughed. “He doesn’t deserve you, but okay.”
Dennis had been the next and he’d been kinder. He’d just asked you one day, the two of you in the break room, a breather, ten minutes to come back to yourselves after the case you’d worked on, the five year old child who died, drowning in their own fluid build-up.
“Do you like Dr. Robby?” he’d asked and you’d turned from where you stood at the coffee maker, a mug in your hands smelling of that burnt, tar coffee that couldn’t really be coffee but had enough caffeine to get you through the day.
“Why do you ask?” you’d replied, fingers curling around the mug and its handle, attention fixed on him, unwavering.
“Because of the way you look at him. I just wondered.” It was the kind of question that was really just a formality. He was just telling you that he knew.
“Yeah, I do.”
The rest of the shift had picked up on it, silently but surely, tiptoeing around it and ignoring it for the most part, doing their best to act like they didn’t know even if they did. The night shift figured it out one day and Parker and John were never ones to let teasing you go, but they made sure they never did so around Robby. Even they had their limits, teasing as friends, yes, outing your crush to the crushee, no.
The only problem is that everyone but Robby knows. And sometimes that seems a blessing, sometimes that seems a curse.
It seems a curse because you like him, a lot yet you have had to watch him date women after women after women who are nothing like you. You have had to suffer through heartbreak over and over and over without ever saying anything to anyone, only brushing off the questions, putting on a smile and acting like nothing hurts, like everything is fine, everything is normal. What do you mean my heart is breaking? I’m the same me as always.
The only person who you have to talk to is Jack Abbot, your best friend. Jack is the one who is there to catch you as your heart breaks, swearing about Robby and how fucking blind he is and telling you to move on or just fucking tell him. It was Jack’s idea to do something to show Robby, but you don’t think he meant this.
“Fucking Hanukkah gifts,” he says, looking down at the papers with your notes, ideas and the plan. You researched quite a bit into Hanukkah, the tradition, the dos and don’ts of gift giving for it and the evidence is on the paper, in your own hand.
“Yep,” you reply, looking up from your tablet where the last gift to be ordered waits, sitting in the digital cart. “See I’ll leave them as anonymous gifts until the eighth day when surprise I’ll reveal it’s me.”
“I hope…” he pauses, lips pressing together as he looks from you to the papers, the concerned big brother look in full force, “I hope this goes the way you want, Sunshine. I really do.”
“It will,” you tell him, voice light, enthusiastic as you press order on the cart, now all eight gifts having been ordered or shipped, soon to be in your possession.
“I hope so,” is all Jack says again, sitting down on the couch and reaching for the remote, for your choice of movie for the monthly movie night. “What is it again?”
“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” you answer and he groans, shaking his head as he clicks through the streaming services.
“So, what?” he says. “Are you trying to be your own rom-com now? The Eight Days of Hanukkah or something?”
“Obviously.”
But the truth is, it doesn’t matter about the teasing or the groaning, you know Jack has your back. Your best friend, partner-in-crime, and the one who’s stuck on this rodeo with you.
You can just see the edge of the silver and blue ribbons that you strung on Robby’s locker, tied from his lock, gift number one dangling from the ends. It’s a small, blue and silver dreidel that you painted yourself, taking special care to paint the nun, gimel, hay and shin right. The symbols on the blue sides are painted silver and the ones on the silver sides are painted blue.
You hope that what you’re doing is enough, that it won’t blow up in your face, that Robby won’t snap at the whole of the ER like he’s done a few times since coming back from sabbatical. You hope and hope and hope because really, hope is the thing that keeps people going. It always has.
“Hon,” Dana says, her voice soft, her hand gentle as it lands on your forearm, “you’re gonna make it obvious if you keep doin’ that.”
“But Dana,” you whisper, one hand drifting to your stethoscope, the one you bought yourself when you got the appointment of attending at PTMC a year ago, “I need to see his reaction.”
“There’s not gonna be a reaction if you keep lookin’ at it like that,” she says, her tone wry, voice a steady, sweet drawl. “You gotta do somethin’ else before he gets here. Migrate back once he arrives, okay, sugar?”
“Fine,” you say, pushing up and off the nurse’s station, reaching over and pulling an iPad out of the slots. “But if I miss it, I’m blaming you.” You point two fingers at your eyes at then at hers, the universal, ever-dramatic sign for I’m watching you.
“Uh-huh, sugar,” she says, waving you off with one hand and turning to the computer, to whatever message has come across it, “go be a doctor now.”
It’s at that moment that you hear a familiar whistle behind you, one whistling the tune of “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, one you’ve heard laughing, crying, yelling and simply talking. One that sets your heart aflutter even when you wish it didn’t, even when that crush had meant that you got hurt more often than not.
“You’re in a good mood,” you call out, brows knitting together as you look at Robby, at the way he seems happier, a little brighter as he lifts his fingers from his backpack strap to wave at you, continuing on to his locker, never once stopping his humming.
“I think someone got laid last night,” you hear Trin call out and your muscles tense, go rigid of their own accord, your tongue pressing hard against the roof of your mouth, eyes hot, kind of burning as your chest constricts for a moment.
God, you hate crushing on people. Why does it have to happen? Why can’t you just, not like anybody? Because that would make life a whole lot simpler.
“Trin’s just being…well, Trin,” you hear Dennis say behind you, his hand coming to rest on your back, in the place between your shoulder blades. “She doesn’t…mean anything by it.”
“I’m well aware, Huckleberry,” you whisper, turning your head to look at him, lips pressed thin, nostrils flared and brows quirked as he rolls his eyes, a faint blush of pink upon his cheeks.
“I’m rooting for you,” he says and then he steps away, turning back into the bustle of the ED while you glance forwards again, watching as Robby reaches his locker, hands removing the dreidel from the ribbon.
You feel as your breath catches, as you wait like the tired expression with bated breath to see his reaction. He looks at it, holding it up and twisting it in his fingers, his humming finally stopped as he slips it into his pale blue zip hoodie pocket, the very same hoodie you got him for his birthday last year, begging him to retire his green one.
He slipped it into his hoodie pocket, you realize then, blinking once, twice and fighting back the smile that wants to grow as you turn on your heel, your shoes for once not squeaking on the polished linoleum roll floor as you head to Patient Bay 13, the image of him twirling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket remaining with you.
Because maybe this wasn’t such a fucked up idea after all.
Take that, Jack Abbot.
As you’re climbing into your car that day, at the end of shift, body heavy, bones aching and heart just…tired, you can’t help but smile, a small kind of smile because all day, Robby looked at the dreidel when he could, taking it out and spinning it, smiling at it, maybe remembering good times, happy times.
When he was stressed in traumas, his hand always drifted to his right pocket, the one where he’d placed the dreidel.
So, maybe you did something right.
Day 2: Silver Gelt
You step into the ED, your bag on your shoulder, hand hooked through the strap, the bag of silver gelt in the water bottle pocket of your backpack. The ED is your favourite place because of how alive it is; it’s a soul-sucking, soul-crushing, murdering machine and you love it. Because it’s never quiet, because it’s always going, because it will always exist.
“Look at who’s in to help us this fine, fine morning!” a voice calls out and you stop in your tracks, sighing once, the kind of sigh that is less a sigh and more just a sound of annoyance.
“What do you want, John?” you call out, glancing over your shoulder to see Thing 1 standing there, arms crossed and the ever-present accessory of a Dunkin’s iced coffee in his hand.
“I’m just so glad that a day shift doc came in super early before their shift, just to help us out,” he says and you glare at him, eyes narrowing even more as Parker walks over, their face lit up, lips pulled back in their smirk. That’s the only word for that smile.
“Could it be that Doc Sunshine is actually here to help us, night crawlers?” they ask and John uncrosses his arms, lifting one hand to his chin, rubbing it as if he has a beard on that smooth, baby-face.
“Or could it be that she’s satisfying her own selfish love interests?” he counters and Parker gasps, the sound fake and overdramatic, their dark eyes wide as they look at you. In response, you lift your hand, flipping them off.
“Fuck off, Things 1 and 2,” you reply, turning back to the locker room. “Don’t forget!” you call out. “You promised not to tell!”
“Wow!” you hear John yell, his voice once again returned to its normal deadpan. “How quickly you doubt your friends.”
“We’d never tell,” you hear Parker say, “we’re just bugging you, man! Go win your old man over!” You can’t help but roll your eyes at their words, slipping into the locker room and dropping your bag at your feet, pulling the blue and silver embroidered bag from your water bottle pocket, punching in Robby’s locker code, the light turning green and you pull the door open.
You and Robby exchanged codes in that just in case event. That just in case being one of you is mortally injured or dying or needs something and can’t get away to get it. And, it really helps you out right now as you set the bag with the silver gelt inside, shutting the locker door, lock clicking as it closes.
“All good?” Jack calls out and you turn to him, giving him a thumbs-up as you toss your bag back over your shoulder.
“All good.”
“I need those labs on the kid in Central 3 back now, Whitaker,” you say as the two of you step out of the room, the iPad held to your chest. “Do whatever you can, just get them!”
“Yes, of course,” he says, cheeks flushing the way they always do when he gets even slightly nervous. “I’ll…I’ll do that right now.”
“Okay,” you reply, turning away from him, towards the nurse’s station, your heart stopping for just a moment at the sight there. At Robby laughing with Dana and Jack, holding the bag of the silver gelt you got him, unwrapping a piece of the chocolate and popping it into his mouth.
He looks…happy. Light. You hope it’s the gifts, but something inside of you worries that it’s not. That it’s someone else.
“Give me one,” Jack says, his voice carrying across the ED as he nods at the bag of the chocolate, but Robby shakes his head, pulling the bag to his chest.
“My secret…Hanukkah gift-giver got these for me,” he replies, his voice as light as he seems, the sound making you happy, a small smile blooming on your face as you bounce on the balls of your feet, walking over to the nurse’s station, a renewed spring in your step. “Get your own secret gift giver.”
“Dana?” you call out, eyebrows raised as you exchange one iPad for another, another patient, another bay, another problem that you get to solve. “Any labs back for me?”
“Let me check, sugar,” she says, reaching over and squeezing your forearm in the touch she has that is maternal and safe and precious all the same time. You can feel Robby’s body not far from yours, seeming to radiate heat over to you as you lean on the counter, your torso and arms digging into the edge, no doubt lines will be on your forearms after.
“Hey, Sunny,” you hear him say, his voice raspy in that way that sets your soul aflame and you turn to him, a small smile on your face, one that stutters, shutters for a moment like a malfunctioning camera lens when you see the smile on his face, the way he’s tipped the bag towards you. “Want one? I have a secret admirer, apparently and, you know, spoils are no fun when it’s just for yourself.”
“What?!” Jack cries, his face twisting in mock hurt and irritation. Well, knowing Jack it’s real irritation, but it might not be; everything both does and doesn’t irritate him. He’s not an open book. “She gets one and I don’t?!” You roll your eyes at him, sticking your tongue out as you reach forwards, pulling one of the silver coins from the bag.
“I’m special, Jack,” you counter, your eyes flicking back to Robby, your heart skipping beats when you see that he’s still looking at you with that precious half-smile he has. The one that means he’s really happy. He looks good, really good, unfairly good, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, revealing broad forearms covered with dark coarse hair, a watch on his left wrist, fingers long, thick…you blink, swallowing hard, looking away from him and back to your best friend who stands with his arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as he shakes his head.
“You’re really not,” he says. “You’re just nice.”
“No,” Robby says, turning to Jack, expression darkening. “She is special, Jack.”
Day 3: Sufganiyah
Your kitchen is a warzone, the counters covered with flour, bits of drying dough stuck on the granite countertops, jelly here and there, glaring red and congealed like blood. It’s more of a murder scene than a warzone, actually, you realize as you stand there, wiping your hands off on the dish towel you’ve tucked into the ties of your apron. A murder of the special donuts currently being deep-fried outside, watched over by one Jack Abbot.
“How are they coming?” you call out, stepping out of the kitchen, feeling the flour as it sticks to the lines of the soles of your feet. “Almost done?”
“Remind me again,” he calls out, “why we’re doing this?”
“So, that I can work up the nerve to tell Robby that I like him,” you answer, pausing at the doorway, your back porch doors wide open, the smell of oil frying dough acrid and disgusting, but a necessary evil.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, looking up at you before back down to the fryer as he scoops a golden brown ball of dough out of the fryer, laying it on the paper-towel laden tray. “You love Robby. There’s a difference between like and love and you crossed it long ago.”
“No,” you say, but inside you can feel that sinking of your stomach, the pit that tells you that he’s right, that you crossed that line into love. Maybe when you reached out to his grandparents, spoke to his grandmother about her recipe, got her excited that her grandson would be celebrating the holiday with someone again. Maybe when she offered to send you the bag that you’d placed the gelt in, the one from his childhood and the locket that had been in his family for generations.
Or maybe just when you spent your days off with him or anything with him.
Because you don’t think a crush would hurt this much when they fall for someone else.
“Maybe,” you pause, looking up at the still dark morning sky, “maybe I do love him. And maybe that’s what this is all about.”
“What? Telling him you love him?”
“No,” you whisper, meeting Jack’s worried, unsure gaze with yours. “Making sure he knows he’s worth it to me.”
The coffee is brewing and the worst part is, is that it always smells like coffee, yet it never tastes like coffee. But caffeine is caffeine and you forgot to pack both your espresso beans and Kopiko so you have no other option but…breakroom coffee to get your caffeine fix. Energy drinks are out of the question, you can’t stand the fizz in your mouth, the texture of it as it snaps, crackles and pops in your throat as it goes down.
You reach up and pull down your mug, the one you keep in the breakroom, emblazoned with your name on it so if anyone uses it, they’re admitting to trying to steal your stuff. And once when you caught Donnie with it, you said that he was stealing your identity, just to be a bit dramatic.
“Hey, Sunny,” you hear Robby call out, your body jumping just a bit at his presence that wasn’t there but now is.
“Hi, Robby,” you reply without turning around, focusing on the nearly full coffee pot, on the so close escape. You didn’t see his reaction to the day three gift and you worry that you’ll give something away if you speak with him, act normal. You’d rather act strange and not have to worry about it than act normal and reveal too early that you’re the admirer.
It’s then that the coffeepot beeps and you pull the carafe from its base, pouring the tarlike coffee into your bright blue mug, turning around and waving once at Robby. Robby who is sitting at the breakroom table with the container of three Sufganiyah you packed this morning and tied with silver and blue ribbon.
“You know,” he says before you can exit the room, escape your own nerves, “my admirer gave me three of these donuts and that’s one too many.”
“Shouldn’t that be two too many since there’s only one of you?” you ask, glancing over at him, your heart aching at the way he smiles at you, waving you back and over. Back towards him.
“I said what I said, Sunshine,” he replies. “You want to share them with me?”
“Unfortunately,” you answer, nodding your head to the breakroom door, to the ED that lives outside, its own living, breathing entity, “I only had five minutes for my break and I spent them all brewing coffee.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, “I’m the boss and I am hereby extending your break so you can help me finish these.”
“Fine,” you sigh, walking back over to the table and sitting down, feeling your joints crack and pop and creak as you do so, reaching into the Tupperware container and withdrawing a single Sufganiyah, the smell of frying dough still clinging to the walls of your kitchen at home. “But only because you made me.”
“I’ll have it be known,” he says, his voice light and bright to match the smile on his face, the one that appeared as soon as you sat down, as soon as you bit into the pastry, jelly oozing out on your hand, your squeal echoing through the breakroom.
His laughter joining it.
Day 4: Motorcycle Helmet
You feel dead on your feet and you haven’t even started your shift yet, haven’t even put your stuff in your locker, but honestly, that’s what you get for being convinced by Trinity to go out with her, Dennis and Mel to the karaoke bar, Victoria busy with Cassie.
“Looking great, Sunshine,” Jack says as you step into the ED, your bag feeling way too heavy on your back, your only response to flip him off as you walk towards the locker room, your feet already aching. “By the way! It’s all good!”
That’s when you realize that he dealt with the fourth gift, the one you got both for practicality, point making and sentimentality. The one that Jack had arranged because he had an old army buddy that did graphic design. A buddy that had done the detail work on the motorcycle helmet you bought.
Jack had promised yesterday when you went out that he’d deal with the helmet, get it in the locker and everything for you and yay, it all went well. But really, you’re too sore to really care today.
“Rough night?” Robby asks and you can feel your heartrate speed up, body tensing, preparing for flight or fight over the jump scare, your one hand pressing against your chest as you turn to look at him, narrowing your eyes and shaking your head at him.
“You have no idea,” you reply, voice dry and rough, tired in its own right, tone low, slightly irritated as you turn to your locker, jabbing your button far too hard into the keypad, violent as it beeps and unlocks, the light turning green. You pull on the door and throw your bag in, grabbing your water bottle and box of chocolate covered espresso beans before slamming the door and turning to leave.
But seeing Robby holding the helmet and rolling his eyes, lips twisted in a wry smile has you stopped in your tracks, the detail work facing you, his attention focused on the front.
“Think my secret Hanukkah giver is making a point?” he asks.
“Look at the back,” you tell him, voice still tired, still dry and wry but lightening as you see Stevie Nicks’ logo, the heart with wings and the lyrics thunder only happens when it’s raining. He flips it in his hands, sucking in a deep breath at the blue and silver detailing before lifting his gaze to you, lips quirking in that boyish smile he has.
“Guess I have to wear a helmet now.”
Day 5: Leather Bound Collectible of Gray’s Anatomy
You’re waiting for Robby, leaning against the bank of lockers, listening to his voice as he gives last minute, going off shift advice to the team that isn’t his team, but he just can’t let go of the ED. Even coming back from sabbatical hasn’t changed that, in fact it’s almost worse, like he feels he has to make up for his time away. Like he’s abandoned this place. This place that is alive in its own right, this place that will last long after all of you have gone.
“Go home, brother,” you hear Jack say, can imagine him pulling Robby aside and pushing him towards the locker room, pushing him away, to leave. To rest. But Robby’s never been good at that, resting.
“I’ll stay for that incoming trauma,” Robby replies and you sigh, rolling your eyes as you push yourself off the lockers, striding to the archway and peering around, taking note of Jack, arms crossed and Robby, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck.
“No, you won’t, Robinavitch!” you call out and you can see as his back goes rigid, muscles tensing as he turns, glancing back to see you, face melting into that happy, regretful expression.
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks and you step out from the archway, your arms crossing like a mimic of your best friend, the two of you the wall, preventing Robby’s entrance back to the ED.
“Long enough,” you answer, tone arch and dry, “especially considering I was promised disco fries.”
“But t—”
“No, Robby,” you interrupt, holding up a hand to stop him in his tracks, his explanation not needed, excuses not important. “Let’s go!” He sighs and holds up both hands in that gesture for I give up, I give up, walking over to you, his lips curving up in that boyish smile he has the closer he gets to you, one hand coming to land on your shoulder, steering you back into the locker room.
“Is it just disco fries or have you added to the order considering I’ve made you wait way past shift end?”
“Oh-ho, I am glad you asked,” you say as he steps around you to open his locker, the square blue and silver wrapped package still sitting on the bottom of his locker, unopened. “It’s now disco fries, a giant chocolate milkshake and…let me think…yeah, coffee.”
“Milk shake and coffee?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at you, motions paused, bag half on his shoulder, half off.
“Yeah,” you tell him, eyebrows arching. “Do you have a problem with that, Michael?”
“No,” he says, lips seeming set permanently in his smile, other hand grabbing the package, slipping it under his arm, backpack on his shoulder as he slams his locker closed, the lock clicking with its high-pitched electric beep. “No problem.”
“You haven’t opened the gift yet?” you ask as he turns, the package still wrapped, the special edition of the classic book still inside, unseen.
“I’ll do it at the diner,” he says. “Come on.” And he reaches forwards, taking your hand in his, his palm warm against yours and you can feel that hitch in your breath and that ache in your heart because you wish, god you wish that this was a date and he was your partner and not just your friend. You wish that gesture wasn’t a friend just tugging you along after him, but your boyfriend leading you to a date, to romance and love and everything you want and hope the gifts will give you even when you have that feeling that they won’t.
The sad fact is, is that even if they don’t work, you’ll still love him and still follow him wherever he leads. Whatever force guides the actions of the universe, it’s a real bitch.
“Open it!” you whisper, tone excited as you reach across the diner table and poke him in the arm. He rolls his eyes at you, the gesture sweet and affectionate and layered with knowing and he picks the wrapped book up off the Formica table, fingers sliding into the line of the wrapping paper, sliding along it, the tape tearing off and paper falling open to reveal the gold-leaf lettered copy of Gray’s Anatomy.
The book that made him want to be a doctor.
He read it when he was a kid, one of the older, long since revised version, one that his local library had put on the free cart, the one for books too old and not used to be taken and he did. He read it in two days at ten years old and told his grandparents the next day that he was going to be a doctor. That he would do what was in the book, that he would know everything that he needed to know.
And you found a special edition of the version he spoke about.
“Jesus,” he whispers, lifting it from the paper, twisting it in his hands and looking at every facet of the paper. “I…” You can see the tears in his eyes, one slipping down his cheek, tangling in the dark and greying beard, just a bit of shine, a little bit of glitter made of sadness.
“Good gift, I take it,” you say and he looks up at you, eyes narrowed just slightly, his nostrils flared as he nods, carefully unzipping his backpack that rests beside him on the red, cracking vinyl booth, sliding the book inside with a tenderness reserved for treasures of the utmost importance.
Good gift for sure.
Day 6: Iron Maiden Hall of Fame Induction Shirt
“What did you do on your sabbatical?” you ask Robby, the two of you walking into the ED together, matching cups of Starbucks in your hands, thin plastic cups sweating onto your palms.
“Not telling, Sunshine,” he says, glancing over at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes from you, the ones you’ve seen in a million different ways, angry and sad and happy and at their lowest.
“But why not?” you press as he lifts one hand, pushing the sunglasses up and onto his head, those perfect chestnut eyes warm and familiar as his lips curl up in an affectionate smile. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, something jangling inside it, something light and bright and tender.
“Because,” he says as the two of you cross the floor towards the locker room, steps in sync, in tandem. You roll your eyes at him, dramatic to make a point, one he pointedly ignores in favour of crossing into the locker room ahead of you.
“Did you go to Starbucks?!” you hear John cry and you pause, turning around, lips pressing thin as you see him standing there, arms crossed, Dunkins’s cup in hand.
“Yes,” you answer, your tone wavering in the face of his steady, steely gaze. He doesn’t play around with coffee and Dunkins is his place. The one he favours and supports and Starbucks is his enemy. Says they pollute the propriety of the coffee.
“Betrayer!” he cries and that’s when you break, your laugh cracking out of you, loud and bright and filling the air, a locker beep sounding behind you.
“Sunshine!” you hear Robby and you glance back to see him, holding up the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame shirt you special ordered from their site. “The Hanukkah gift-giver apparently knows I love heavy metal.”
“Maybe they actually think you’re a lover of Phil Collins,” you counter and he laughs, his face seeming to open up rather than draw together.
“Fair enough,” he says and then he’s ducking past you, waving people off to head to the bathroom, the t-shirt balled up in his hand.
“I’m still waiting for an explanation you traitor,” John says and you sigh, gritting your teeth and turning back to him, lips pressing into a line.
“And I don’t have one except: I felt like it.”
“Betrayer.”
Robby wore the Iron Maiden shirt all day. You could see it poking it out from under his scrub top during traumas, could hear him talking about it and how he’d been a fan for years.
It gave that feeling of happiness that is unique to making Robby happy. Even if he doesn’t know that it’s youmaking him happy.
But he will, if things go according to plan.
So, why do you feel like they won’t.
Day 7: Burned CD
You’re waiting to see Robby, to see his reaction to the gift today because it’s the one you worked hardest on. It wasn’t easy to figure out how to adapt the new systems of technology for burning a CD like you did as a kid, but you did it, selecting songs you know he loves, ones that remind you of him and one that captures how you feel for him.
You even redid the lyric book, taking the album cover of Rumours by Fleetwood Mac and the lyrics of “Songbird” the one that seems to be how you feel for him. You took the sheets of all the other songs on the CD, reattaching all the papers together and tucking it into the grooves of the empty CD case. It was work, but it didn’t feel like work because you love him and you want him to know at the end of all of this, that he’s worth it.
He’s slightly late getting in, his eyes tired, but happy as he walks into the locker room, but he freezes at his locker, the CD taped to the outside of it, album cover facing him. He’s frozen for just a moment before he moves, tearing it off his locker with a violent force, tossing it into the garbage can like it’s nothing but a waste.
Like it’s disgusting.
You swallow hard, pushing up and away from the computer, from charting, feeling like, for all the world, you’ve been gut-punched. You feel light-headed, woozy, off-balance. This, his throwing out of your work, hurts more than seeing him fall in love a thousand times over. Because his falling in love has nothing to do with you, it’s not a rejection rather just a not noticing.
That…that was a rejection.
“Sugar?” Dana calls out as you stumble, blinking past the tears lining your eyes. Her voice is worried, concerned, but you wave her off, ducking into the bathroom, shoving into a stall and letting the tears fall down your cheeks, slip down your face, searing lines into your skin in their wake as you press your forehead against the cool metal wall of the stall.
Best laid plans are always the ones laid to waste.
You should have listened to Jack when he said just fucking tell him, Sunshine. Because it would have been a rejection, but it wouldn’t have hurt like this. It wouldn’t have been your hard work rejected like that. Thrown away like it’s nothing.
Nothing but an annoyance.
The tears slow and you draw in a deep, shaky breath, stepping back from the wall, pressing your palms against your cheeks and wiping away your tears, unlocking the door and stepping out, going to one of the sinks and splashing cold water on your face, patting it dry with paper towels from the dispenser.
You look at yourself in the mirror, realizing that the look in your eyes is not sadness but numbness as much as feeling numb seems better than feeling sad, you wonder if it really is.
Or if you’re only numb because there’s still a long way to fall.
You’re tired as you step out into the ambulance, drawing in a deep breath of the winter air, delighting in the way it feels against your fevered skin. Robby was in a foul mood all day, yelling and losing it at everyone and you felt it was your fault. You pushed too much, wanted too much, hoped for a true romantic moment, but it faltered.
It failed.
You had told Dana you were sick and could she tell Robby you wouldn’t be in tomorrow at the end of shift and she asked if you were okay and you put on the same face you used to when Robby was dating around. The one that says yeah. The one that says fine. The one that says I love myself and definitely don’t think I’m a fuck-up.
But you’d gone to Jack. Because he was the one who was stuck with you on this crazy, scary, stupid, heartbreaking journey.
“You were right,” you’d whispered. “It was stupid to do this.” He’d placed his hands on your shoulder, looking at you one way and then another and looked up, seeing Robby behind you. You could tell because his jaw hardened and his nostrils flared.
“You don’t need him,” he’d told you. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? I’ll bring your favourite ice cream and we’ll watch whatever movie you want.”
“Promise?” you’d asked and he’d looked back at you and nodded, lifting one hand from your shoulder to offer you his pinky. You’d wrapped yours around his and he’d whispered, “promise.”
And Jack always keeps his promises.
You shake your head now, coming back to yourself and turning, body going rigid as you see Robby standing there with the director of the daycare, Noelle Patrick.
“It’s all set,” she says and you watch as she places her hand on Robby’s arm, the gesture comforting and familiar and all too much like a girlfriend, assuring her boyfriend and oh my god, how dumb could you be?
Of course Michael Robinavitch has a girlfriend. He always has a girlfriend. How could you be so stupid to think that he was single and you had a chance? You’re his friend. That’s it. And, honestly, you’re done with it all.
You’re done with him. You’re tired of feeling this was, so you resolve that when you get home, you’re going to run a bath and play Ethel Cain and drink a glass, maybe two of your expensive red wine and cry until you have no tears left, banishing him from your mind and moving on.
You deserve that.
He has love and you deserve that too. It’s time to purge him from your mind.
“…this Hanukkah thing, Noelle, really?” you hear Robby say, his voice cutting through your resolve, his words causing all your just built walls to crumble because of fucking course he thought the gifts were from his girlfriend.
Christ, how could you be so blind?
You run your tongue along your teeth as you draw in a deep breath, muscles tense as you hook your fingers through the straps of your bag and walk past them, head down, attention locked on your shoes, on the cracked and greying asphalt that scuffs underneath your feet.
“One sec,” you hear Robby say to Noelle and then, “Sunshine! Hey, Sunshine, wait up!” But you don’t. You don’t stop or pause or turn around, you just keep going and even though you hear him following, you keep going. You keep going faster until you’ve reached your car and you throw your bag in, climbing in and starting it, driving off before you could hear his voice and decide that you’d rather be his friend than lose him completely.
You need a break from him.
Day 8: His Family Locket Plan Cancelled
It’s a good day, for the most part, if you can ignore that perpetual ache in your heart. But, for the most part, it’s good—you got up late, put on comfy pajamas and didn’t worry about your hair too much, didn’t worry too much about makeup, rather just remaining comfortable and makeup free.
You watched a classic, one guaranteed to make you feel both better and worse, The Princess Bride, the movie you watched as a kid, wishing for a Wesley of your own, but never getting one.
You realized this time, watching it, that you’re Wesley, doing everything for Robby with love, determined that he’ll know love, even when all he does is hurt you again and again and again. Except that unlike Wesley who ends up with the one he loves, you’re destined to be alone. Because Robby is no Buttercup.
Now, you’re reading, a book you’ve waited on for a year, waited to conclude a book series that you love and you’re curled under a blanket, music spilling from your speakers, surrounding you, the soft, lilting voice of Conan Grey and “Vodka Cranberry.”
“SUNSHINE!” you hear, accompanied by open-handed slaps on the wood of your front door. You know it’s Robby, know his pitch and timbre and volume like no one else. You know him period, like no one else. “OPEN THE DOOR!”
You huff out a breath, one of aggravation, irritation and sadness all in one as you push your blanket off and set your book aside, tucking in the bookmark for your page. You were hoping to finish it today, but Michael Robinvatich has other plans and you’re still, sadly, his Wesley. The one who comes when he calls.
“Go away,” you say, voice flat as you pull your door open a crack, enough that you can look out and see Robby, his face distressed as he looks at you, tears staining his cheeks. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“No,” he says and his voice is quieter, a pitch you haven’t heard before. “I love you, Y/N.” And you know when he says your name, a name he rarely ever says that he loves you. That he means it. But you have watched him date people over and over and over and that was heartbreak enough. Loving him and losing him…that would destroy you.
“Go away, Robby,” you say again, your voice still flat. Still strong and steady even as everything inside of you is cracking. “I need a break from everything. That’s why I didn’t come in. So, please, respect me enough to leave me alone.” You move to close the door, but he shoves his foot into the crack, wedging it in place.
“I know it was you,” he whispers and your eyes close for a moment, the image of your meddling best friend popping up in your mind as you do so. Fucking Jack Abbot, you think because you know that he told Robby. You know he probably yelled and swore but he didn’t have the right to do that.
You wanted this to be done and now it never will be.
“Robby,” you whisper, your voice cracking on his name, cracking on that second syllable as he reaches into his back pocket, withdrawing the CD case, the album cover staring up at you, haunting and precious.
“I listened to it,” he whispers. “And I owe you an explanation about why I threw it away.” You sigh, the kind of sigh that reverberates through your whole body as you wrench your door open all the way and gesture him inside, conscious of the cold bite of the wind and the fact that you’re not wearing a bra underneath you pj shirt.
“Won’t Noelle care where you are?” you ask, closing the door behind him, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him, noticing the way his face has knitted together, confusion shining back at you.
“Noelle? What does she have to do with this?” he asks and you look at him, feeling that dumb-founded expression you have take over, the one of absolute shock.
“You mean your girlfriend won’t care that you’re here at my house to let me down easy?”
“Noelle’s not my girlfriend,” he whispers and he reaches into his front pocket, pulling out his phone and opening it up. “She’s my babysitter.”
“Babysit—” you cut yourself off when you see Robby’s phone screen, see the picture of the infant that was abandoned before he went on sabbatical. Baby Jane Doe.
“I adopted her,” he whispers. “That was my sabbatical. She’s my daughter…I named her Abigail.” The baby on his screen is smiling, happy, clapping, eyes wide and innocent.
“You’re a dad,” you whisper and he nods, shutting his phone off and slipping it back into his pocket, tapping the CD case with his now free hand.
“I threw it out because ‘Songbird’ is the only song I remember my mom playing when I was a kid. The one that was playing when she left and…and never came back. It was all I could hear when the social workers finally came and found me and placed me with my grandparents so I saw this and…I reacted badly.”
“But you listen to ‘Dreams’ all the time,” you counter and he nods his head, lips twisting into an expression you aren’t entirely sure what it means.
“But that’s Stevie Nicks,” he says. “And I listen to her re-recording. ‘Songbird’ is Christine McVie.”
“I chose it because…” you pause, swallowing hard, your eyes feeling hot, tears stinging them and the back of your throat, your pulse thudding in the base of your throat, a metronome of your emotions. “Because it’s how I feel about you. But…but you thought Noelle did all of that for you. I heard you Robby so…I don’t think she’s just a babysitter.” He steps towards you, setting the CD on the table you have beside the door, hands resting on your arms as he looks into your eyes, his gaze steady and unwavering. True.
“I thought it was her because she’s been pushing me to find my mother,” he whispers. “I thought it was her way of pushing me again.”
“I—” you pause, unsure what you want to say, caught in a situation you had never imagined. You had imagined giving him the last gift and that was all. Maybe a relationship beginning to unfurl, but mostly you hadn’t wanted to go down in flames of embarrassment at the nurse’s station.
“Jack told me,” he whispers now and you could kill Jack, you really could. “See when Noelle had no idea what I was talking about, it clicked that the only person who knew the story of Gray’s Anatomy was you. And I tried to catch you, but you left, so when I went back in to get my bag and follow after you…Jack found me and shoved the CD at my chest and told me to fix my fucking mess. To make it up to you because you deserve so much. Probably more than me, but I’m here, Sunshine. I’m right here now and I want to fix it.”
“Do you know how hard it is to burn CDs now?” you whisper, your voice thick and teary, the burn of tears echoing through your body as he lifts one hand and wipes away a falling tear with his thumb.
“No,” he says, “but I can figure it out if you want one.” Those words are enough to draw a laugh out of you, one that bubbles through you, watery and weak yet strong and light in its own right. “I love you; I just never thought you’d love me back.”
“Well, I do,” you whisper and his face cracks into a smile that is new, one that is still boyish, but more hopeful and light and happy, so very happy.
“I didn’t think I deserved you, to be honest,” he says and you close the distance between the two of you, wrapping him in a hug, one that is tight and needed and necessary to continue to feel. “What was day eight going to be?” he asks, his words ruffling your hair, his arms warm and safe and strong around you. A circle you don’t want to escape from but you startle and pull back, stumbling away from him.
“Come on!” you call out and you can hear him following you as you climb the steps of your split level house up to your bedroom, where the box rests on your dresser. “Here,” you tell him, grabbing it and handing it to him as he sinks down on the edge of your (thankfully) made bed.
You watch as he pulls open the top of the blue gift box, his breath hitching as he reaches in, fingers looping underneath the aging chain and pulling the old locket out, the Star of David on the front.
“Is this…” he pauses, watching the necklace as it dangles, twirling around and around in lazy circles in the air.
“Yeah,” you whisper and he looks up at you, his warm chestnut eyes lined with tears. “I called your grandparents when all this started and I was researching Hanukkah and your grandma mentioned this locket. And I asked if I could give it to you and she said of course and she sent it. She told me the whole story too and how much you’ve always loved it.”
“I can’t—” he breaks off, his body heaving with sobs and you cross the room to him, kneeling before him, your one hand resting on his leg, the other wiping away a tear with the edge of your finger.
“Open it,” you whisper and he does, with shaky hands, his breath hitching again and you know what he sees, the old grainy, sepia coloured photo of his grandparents on their wedding day and the other side has a picture of him and you, taken the day you became an attending, his arm around you. He looks at you in the picture while you look at the camera and it occurs to you now that maybe he did love you all along but you just didn’t see it.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice watery and yet steady as he slips the locket on over his neck. The rest becomes a bit of a blur as he pulls you up and presses his lips against yours in a kiss that tastes like chocolate and coffee and hope and love.
His lips are warm and soft as they move against yours, his beard scratching your skin in a way that feels precious and delicious and right and like it was always meant to be. The way his tongue slides along yours makes you think it was meant to happen because it feels right. Maybe…maybe this was always going to happen.
And that’s what you think all along as he undresses you and you undress him and he slides in and seems to fit, justfit to you. Maybe it’s not the best sex of your life, maybe it’s not proper or earth-shattering or something that makes you not capable of walking, but that’s what makes it all the better.
Because it’s real and the way his body feels pressing down on yours as he moves against you is something you wouldn’t trade for anything.
Because the sex itself doesn’t need to be earth-shattering, the very fact that it’s with Robby and that he loves you as you love him is earth-shattering.
And maybe, the locket he wears moves with his thrusts, hitting you in the face a couple of times, but it doesn’t matter.
Because it’s Robby and you love him and he loves you.
And that’s enough.
“You know,” Robby whispers after, your body drawn against his, the two of you laying underneath the sheets, looking up at the ceiling, your head on his chest, his arms around you and yours around him, “I’ve always wanted my own miracle.”
“Oh, yeah?” you ask. “Did you get one?”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I did. I have you and I have Abigail and what’s more of a miracle than that?”
“Well then, Michael,” you whisper, shifting on his body to see him, to see his face and that boyish smile and the love in his eyes. “What now?”
“Now,” he says, one hand reaching up to smooth your hair down on the back of your head, a constant rhythm as he looks at you lovestruck, “we take it one day at a time, Sunshine.”
