The jugular, series
- the jugular (4.6 k)
- chapter 2 (2.5 k)
- chapter 3 (2.9 k)
ficlets
oxytocin (800)
Jack Abbot
Bounded. bounded. it refers to limits and restrictions, but to obligations as well. it demands consequences of expected situations. and it is also the word one uses when a bail has been paid for one's freedom. a promise. an obligation. a cage. or a burden.
I was waiting to see if this would make it into your exwife series….can we expect more angst 👀
suicide tw
its just that... think of all the grief a child has when a parent commits suicide. all the anger. all the guilt. growing up feeling like you were so unberable that the person who was supposed to be there for you had no other choice but to take their own life. that the person who is meant to love you the most didn't love you enough to try. and yeah, maybe one day he understood that it wasn't like that. logically, medically speaking knows that it isn't like that. but that hole in his chest never quite dissappeared.
and think of growing up so angry about it. seeing death as a punishment for those around. why did she have to punish him like this. what did he do wrong. was it that he didn't make the bed? was it that his toys were scattered? angry tears fall down his cheeks everytime he thinks about it. but he can't talk about all the anger, all the guilt, all the hate. because, once someone is gone you are forbidden to speak ill of them. only the good things can be said. so what is he supposed to do with all the rage? with the sense of betrayal? with the abandonment?
if robby's mom commited suicide then he absolutely lost his mind when his wife had post-partum depression. he saw it all over again and distanced himself. all the anger that brewed for decades came back against her. and he fell into the pitt himself. the hole in his chest devoured him whole.
boy’s weekend | the pitt, michael robinavitch, suicide tw
so now that KL confirmed robby’s mom killed herself (link) i whipped something up in ~20mins. not even 1,000 words but heavy tw for suicide and addiction. below is the full drabble and here are my tweets w some more headcanons. enjoy
It’s well before the 2000s, and Michael is still Michael, or Mikey, or kiddo. Mikey enjoys going to the great, big lake where grandpa has a rickety old cabin. There’s no electricity (he likes to play pioneer, boiling beans over a stove and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches over a campfire) and there’s no phone and sometimes, his dad joins. Mom and dad eat differently, and their parents sound different, and sometimes Mikey wishes other grandpa could come, too. That grandpa knew about life without electricity, as they often reminded their grandson with accents as thick as the honey they’d smear on the wounds of his boyish injuries; Mikey thinks he’d fare well here, but him and grandma had to talk to his mom this weekend for something they deemed “very important”, dad explained.
Mikey enjoys the car rides to and from the cabin. Likes watching dad, and dad’s dad, and picturing himself as das and dad as dad’s dad. He wonders if someday he’ll have a son in the backseat while he and dad sit up front and talk about which CD to put in next, the best song off of Déjà Vu, something called rehab, and what brand of peanut butter is the best for campfire pies. This time they’re being quieter on the ride home, certain conversations dwindling just quiet enough for Mikey to miss every other word.
What Mikey likes most of all is when they stop at a coffee shop right before the run-down apartment and get mom her favorite latte. Mikey tried it once- spit it out while dad and grandpa laughed and clutched their plush stomachs from the front of the car. Dad ruffled his dark hair and said he’d grow into it. Mikey didn’t know how mom liked that stuff, but she always smiled and hugged him and picked him up and kissed dad’s cheek when they brought it home.
This time, grandpa parks the car and dad slings their duffel over his shoulder. Mikey hops out of the car and stares up at dad, who isn’t moving, just standing by the passenger door and crouching down (he hopes to be tall one day, like dad is) to speak to his son.
“Mikey, you had a good time?” He nodded, of course. He always had a good time up north. “Mikey, your mom had a big talk with her parents this weekend. She might be going on her own trip for a few weeks tomorrow, so be extra good today, okay, bud?”
Mikey nods up at dad, and catches the look he sends his grandfather. Then, he’s bounding up the apartment stairs and bouncing from foot to foot until dad unlocks the door and he sprints inside, and down the hall to the master bedroom.
“Mom! We got your,” Mikey’s half-toothless smile falters when he sees mommy laying on the ground and a piece of paper on the bed. Why would someone lay down on the ground instead of the mattress? Mom and dad had a really nice bed, too; probably the nicest thing in the whole apartment, because they didn’t have a lot of money but they believed in having a big, soft bed to cuddle up in, usually with Mikey between them.
Mikey was suddenly hit with a feeling he’d never felt before. It was beyond him, and beyond his age: his heart felt like it stopped beating and his hands clammed up and he set the latte carefully on her nightstand and walked over to mom.
“Dad? Mom’s still sleeping.”
“Sleeping? Then lower your voice,” Dad is chuckling, and his voice gets closer, and then he must be in the doorway because when he yells a very bad word it sounds like he’s right next to Mikey’s ear.
“Mike!” He bellows, “Go get your grandpa! Tell him to call an ambulance! Anya,” Dad is yelling, and Robby is frozen, and then dad keeps yelling and he’s kneeling over mom and still saying bad words and he’s hitting her chest and saying things like “Anya, are you fucking serious?!”, and his knee crushes some pills into a pretty orange dust, and he screams at Mikey again but calls him ‘Michael’ so that he knows it’s serious. Mikey knows he needs to get grandpa and he finally sprints down, running into the older man on the stoop of the building. He relays dad’s message. Grandpa’s face looks a way he’s never seen it before, like he’s just seen something really scary, and he abandons Michael on the apartment steps to go to the nearest payphone.
50 ways to leave your lover. (6k followers celebration fic!)
(michael 'robby' robinavitch x ex-wife!reader)
The four times Robby tries to win you back after your divorce, and the one time he finally manages to lock it all down.
warnings: 18+, mdni! explicit sexual content, ex-husband!robby, robby's done some work pre-sabbatical in this universe, doesn't follow pitt s2 timelines, age gap (34/52), robby sleeps with his medical student (what's new?) oral (f receiving), protected sex, ditching dates for your ex-husband w/c: 5k
main masterlist // robby masterlist
Number one. Eighteen months post-divorce. The Abbot-Mohan wedding.
Stupid Jack Abbot.
Were it not his wedding day today, you'd seriously consider wringing his neck. The only thing stopping you is the prospect of widowing Samira after three hours of marriage.
Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.
This, you were prepared for.
Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.
Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.
It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.
He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."
There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.
The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.
At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.
"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.
"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."
And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.
*****
Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.
Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.
Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.
"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.
"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."
"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?
"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."
Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.
Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.
"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."
This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"
"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."
Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."
"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.
You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.
Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.
You still have some sense.
Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.
The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.
Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.
Your shopping list for next week.
Not how warm he feels against you.
The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.
Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.
You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.
The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.
*****
"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.
"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."
"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.
"Yeah? How?"
"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.
He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.
"Need a hand?"
He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."
Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.
Truly.
The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.
Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.
Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.
"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."
Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.
He's gotta find a way to change that.
Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.
After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.
That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.
A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.
Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.
By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.
At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.
All things you can do in your sleep.
But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.
He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”
You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.
Uh oh.
This is bad.
Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.
You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”
“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”
“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.
You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.
He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.
“I don't think this is a good idea.”
“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”
There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”
“Always, sweetheart.”
You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.
Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.
“And don't call me sweetheart.”
You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”
“We're not holding hands.”
Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.
A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.
“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”
The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”
“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”
Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.
Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.
“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”
“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”
“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.
He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”
"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.
"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."
You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."
"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"
It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."
The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.
"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.
"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."
"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.
He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."
Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.
Apparently, you and Robby text now.
You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.
Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.
He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).
Currently?
He's fixing your busted boiler.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.
Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.
He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.
All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.
That means he's furious.
Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.
When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."
You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"
You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"
"What? No!"
"Why not? Thought we were being honest."
It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.
His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.
You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.
In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.
The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.
The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.
The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.
Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.
After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.
While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.
It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."
He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."
That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.
He's practically inescapable.
He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."
"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.
But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.
There are many words that would end this right now.
Stop. No. Don't.
And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.
Then an O.
Two B's.
And a Y.
He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.
Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.
The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.
You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.
"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.
You look up from the sink. "Hey."
He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.
"Long day?"
"Mhm."
You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.
"You want me to plate up dinner?"
"If you want."
It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."
"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.
"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"Stop!"
Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.
"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"
Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”
Robby's face falls.
“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”
He folds his hands together.
"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."
"You stopped talking to me."
"I know."
"You stopped letting me in."
"I know."
Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"
"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.
But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."
"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."
Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.
Robby. 22:01.
Just got back to town
What are you up to?
You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.
Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.
He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.
Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-
No. You can't let yourself think like that.
You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.
He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.
Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.
Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.
To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.
You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.
It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.
But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.
So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?
"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.
"Hm?"
"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."
Shit.
Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.
You. 22:04.
I'm on a date, actually
"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.
If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.
Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.
Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.
Robby. 22:05.
When will you be done?
I'll come and pick you up.
Miss my girl.
A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.
You never have been.
Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.
Robby would double that, at least.
You. 22:21.
...Not your girl
But you can pick me up around 11.
You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.
The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."
"A... dermatology emergency?"
"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."
Another lie.
You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.
“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.
"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"
"If he knew you were my ex, probably."
Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.
"You ready?"
You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.
*****
Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.
There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.
You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.
Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.
“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”
He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.
Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.
Not that you can't have seen other people.
You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.
Like nothing ever went wrong.
Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.
You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"
"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."
"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."
Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.
“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."
Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."
"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."
You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.
This version of Robby still has bad days.
Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.
The difference is that he always comes back.
And he lets you help.
Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.
But Robby had been right.
There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.
Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."
"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.
"Marry me. Again."
"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"
He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."
A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."
His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"
You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."
how did reader accept the first date? throwback chapter // set after "the chasing"
wc: 2.1 k
warnings: they lose a pregnant girl and baby :( not explicit and not mentioned specifics but you should know that !!!! maybe ooc too idk at this point
make sure to check out the masterlist for more toxic content
“Risk birth, ETA 5 minutes.” Dana announced across the room.
It was almost 7 PM. As much as he hated staying over after his shift, late traumas meant a chance to walk you to your car–and damn if he wasn't going to take it.
After your latest imminent rejection, Robby had simply kept on with his life. He knew whatever electric tension lingered between you two wasn't going anywhere, so he had settled into a routine of teasing you whenever you were down at the pitt, quietly waiting for the day you finally fell into his arms.
Though that resolve tested itself every time he heard the nurses talking about your boyfriend—some hospital lawyer that apparently everyone loved. Robby rolled his eyes just at the mere thought.
Dr. Adamson grinned at Robby. “Page your girl,” he ordered, already returning his gaze to the charts he was reviewing.
“She is not my girl,” Robby half-protested, but he caught himself smiling at the presumption. He figured if half the hospital already called you his girl, it was halfway to the truth anyway.
So, he paged you.
STAT ETA 5 min -MR
“I have never seen you so smitten, Robinavitch,” Dana teased.
“Nor will you ever again.”
At her brows riding up on her forehead, he pressed on, entirely unapologetic. “She is the one. I know it.”
Dana scoffed. “Does she know it?”
Robby smiled, leaning against the nurses' hub while he waited for the elevator doors to open. “She does.”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“Small detail.”
Less than two minutes later, he saw you coming through the elevator doors. Pink scrubs tucked underneath your white coat, your hair neatly clipped up and away from your face—and just like that, he was already smiling.
.
It had been brutal. A young pregnant girl who had overdosed. Neither you nor Robby had been able to save her, or the baby.
When the gurney was finally rolled away, you had ripped off your surgical gown, balled it violently into the trash bin, and headed straight for the elevators. He let you go, figuring the night you lost a nineteen-year-old and a seven-month-old baby wasn't the night he’d get lucky.
In silence, he picked up his backpack and headed to the parking lot, the weight of the loss heavy on his shoulders as he walked out into the humid night.
He saw you right away. Leaning against the hood of your car, shoulders shaking as you let out a frustrated grunt, strands of hair slipping loose to fall across your face.
Robby called your name, and you spun around, teary-eyed and pouting. The second you saw him, you frantically scrubbed at your cheeks.
“What’s wrong?”
You let out a shuddering sigh. “You mean besides losing two lives today? Jeez.” You tried your best to force a casual shrug and failed miserably. “My tire's flat.”
“You got a spare?” He swung his backpack off his shoulders, dropped it by your feet, and immediately started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt over his forearms.
“That’s the spare.”
His head tilted slightly to the side. “How long have you been driving on the spare?”
“Since the good one punctured.”
Robby scoffed. Hands planted heavily on his hips, an incredulous, disbelieving smile tugged at his lips. He covered his face with one hand, massaging the bridge of his nose.
Without another word, he picked up his backpack, walked right past you toward his jeep, and swung the passenger door wide open. “Get in.”
You blinked at him, eyes wide.
“I am driving you home. We can deal with this in the morning.” He jerked his chin toward the interior of his car.
You swallowed, grabbed your backpack, and climbed in—and Robby could have sworn his heart took a violent, hopeful leap.
.
“I’m hungry,” Robby suggested once the vehicle was moving.
“Wanna go get some takeout? My treat for the ride.”
“Yes to the first. No to the last.”
You laughed—a small, almost nonexistent sound that anyone else would have missed. But not Robby. Not when it felt like his entire world was gravitating around it.
You told him about your favorite place, and he followed every instruction to the letter. He ordered at the drive-thru and went straight to your building.
Outside, he popped the trunk and removed the soft top of his Jeep. Both of you climbed in, sitting comfortably to share your first meal. Your legs were almost touching, separated by a mere five centimeters.
When you were done you leaned back against your backpack, and a moment later, Robby did the same. You both laid down in the back of his Jeep outside your place, sharing a bag of fries.
Robby couldn’t focus on anything else except that proximity and the lingering smell of your hair. He could have happily died right there, looking at you lying next to him. But greedy as he was, he needed more.
“This isn’t a date, Robinavitch,” you muttered.
He snorted. “Of course it isn’t. You have a boyfriend.”
You turned to look at him, chewing the last of your meal. “I don’t, actually. But still.”
“Oh no,” he mocked, “what happened?”
You laughed, pushing him softly on the shoulder. “We had some differences.”
“About?”
“Damn, you’re nosy.” You raised one eyebrow. “Okay, let’s play questions, and it’s my turn. Why does nobody call you Michael?”
He sighed. “Only my family calls me that. What differences made you break up with your boy-toy?”
“We discussed kids. I said I wanted two; he said he wanted three.” You took a sip of your soda, the straw making a wet noise. “And then I said we could renegotiate because when I returned to work, I’d probably get baby fever—”
You sighed, and Robby thanked God for it because his food was threatening to make a reappearance at the mere thought of you having someone else’s children.
“—and he said his wife won’t work. He wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom, non-negotiable.”
Robby’s eyes widened. Knowing you, he almost pitied the fella. “So you murdered him?”
He teased, and you laughed. Robby prided himself on being able to make you do that.
“My turn. What’s your body count?”
He cackled, his body rolling to the side. “I can’t tell you that!”
“Have you lost count?”
“I am a gentleman!”
“Find that hard to believe.”
“But it’s true.”
Your brows climbed up your forehead, and his chest tightened.
“Why don’t you wanna go out with me?” he asked, softer and kinder now, with true curiosity behind the question.
You looked back up at the sky, your gaze lost in the twinkling stars. “Because I am tired of that game, Robby.”
He might as well have been physically struck; his lungs suddenly ran out of air. “What game?”
You smiled, a cynical curve touching your mouth as your eyes closed. “The nonchalant dating, one-night-stand obsession. I want the long run now.” You sighed.
You turned your body sideways so you were lying face-to-face. Robby could have sworn his heart was going to stop any second as he saw your eyes shining in the dim light of the night.
“Why do you want to go out with me?” you asked, your eyes glinting.
Robby swallowed hard. Why. Because he had been certain for a while now that you were the woman he wanted to marry. Because he hadn’t thought about a family in years until he met you. Hell, he hadn’t even ached for a kiss since middle school, and that was all he did now after meeting you.
Robby just exhaled—a loud, big gulp of air. Then: “I want the long run too.”
You smiled, almost too easily. “Aren’t you a charmer?” Your head shook slightly.
Drowning in a rush of adrenaline, he asked, “What do I have to do for you to acknowledge that I am not lying?”
You looked at him and looked, going on for far too long for his comfort. “Prove it.”
He laughed—a big, fat, cynical laugh. “Is waiting for you to walk you to your car not proof? Having your seven and a half, no powder, gloves ready when you reach the ED?”
Your head tilted.
“Alright. What about sending you medical journals with highlights and Post-its?”
“Professional interest,” you barked, a smile twitching at the corners of your lips.
“Sending Colombian coffee to the OB-GYN department every month so you don’t have to drink Costco coffee?”
“You do that?”
He nodded. “Or paying off the cafeteria ladies so they'll save dessert for you?”
“Robby!” you whined, your cheeks turning pink and hot.
“Every Wednesday, when they make your favorite. And I know it’s your favorite because I heard you say it to Dana six months ago.”
You went silent. For a terrifying second, Robby considered the possibility of you walking straight into your house, calling 911, filing a restraining order, and labeling him forever as a creep.
Instead, you did the one thing Robby had dreamed about. You closed the distance and kissed him.
Your lips on his felt like a fantasy. You were soft and sweet, yet demanding and conquering—everything you were, and everything that had made him fall for you.
Robby prided himself on a lot of things. His usual control of a situation whenever a woman was in his arms was one of them. But right there, in the trunk of his Jeep with you kissing him, he felt like a complete novice. He kissed you back, sure, but his arms were frozen. Your hands were in his hair, pulling and squeezing as you explored him, while he couldn't even bring himself to pull you closer. He knew he’d be doomed if he did. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop, that he would never get enough.
But as you bit his lower lip and sucked, your nails scraping his scalp, his instincts finally awoke. He pulled you flush against him, one hand locked on the back of your head to keep you in place, and the other on your hip to ground you against that hypnotizing sway he definitely hadn't imagined.
Just as he thought he had things under control, you pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. Damn you and your eternal resolve to always have the upper hand.
He stopped you, pushing you softly to regain some semblance of composure. His jeans strained precisely where your weight rested. Nowhere to hide, really.
“Wanna come inside?” you asked with a ragged breath.
Robby had to be dreaming. He had dreamed about this more times than he cared to admit: your hair hanging loose on your shoulders, your cheeks flushed, your lips swollen, and your chest heaving in rapid movements. And still. Still.
“No.”
One of your brows danced at him as you pulled yourself down and closer to him. Your lips brushed his ear, his jaw, his neck. “As exciting as this is... we are past the age of making out in the back of a car.”
He caught you by the hair, effectively kissing you again—rougher and needier. “I know,” he rasped against your lips. “But no. I want a date.”
Your brows knitted. “You can have it both ways.”
Of course. He could be a grown-up and have it both ways. But it didn't align with the perfect plan he had in mind.
“No. I don’t want you regretting it in the morning.”
“Will there be something to regret?” You asked, your breath hot against his face.
He scoffed. “I brought you home because you are vulnerable, sad and didn’t want you to cry yourself to sleep. Not because I pretended to take advantage of it.”
It was your turn to scoff. “I am a grown woman, Michael.”
His eyes traveled down your body. “I am aware. Very.”
“I can make my decisions.” Your fingers traced the lines of his chest. “Even reckless ones.”
“See? Reckless. We’re going on a date and I’m proving you that I am not a poor decision.”
“Okay.” You grinned. Kissing him.
“Date first.” He pecked your lips again, apparently unable to stop.
“Old-fashioned guy, huh?” you teased.
“Well, I am old.”
You smiled. “Yeah, you are. Alright. Date.”
You sat up on your knees, pressing down on his embarrassingly obvious erection, and extended one hand for him to take.
He did, shaking your hand firmly as if sealing a business deal.
“Tomorrow. 8:00 PM. Before you change your mind.”
You stood up from his lap, hopping off the Jeep and tugging at your backpack. He sat back, watching you go.
“I won’t.” You slung the bag over one shoulder, looking back at him with a teasing smile. “Night, Michael. Sweet dreams.”
As you walked into the building, he collapsed backward onto the bed of the truck, waiting for his jeans to go back to normal.
tag list (tysm!!): @wonwoosthetic @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli @honeytii @naked-hyacinth @barnes70stark @ficcyyfics @cafekitchen
dr robby x exwife!reader /// the one where you get a new intern and she's specially interested in robby, unaware of your past
wc: 1.2
warnings: ageism / the word "daddy" is used for robby
make sure to check the masterlist for more toxic content <3
“Stacey, you’re with me,” you called out, heading toward the elevators.
Your new resident followed close behind. She had started only a few days ago, already making a name for herself as sharp and ambitious, with a full year of Ob-Gyn at Presby under her belt. She was a good doctor, undeniably smart, and—as you’d noticed—strikingly beautiful. You’d also witnessed the peculiar phenomenon of the Ortho-Gods suddenly finding reasons to do paperwork on the OB floor whenever she was on shift, a fact she seemed blissfully unaware of.
Once the elevator doors slid shut, you briefed her on the code you’d been called for. “It seems straightforward, but I want you to get a feel for the pitt.”
Stacey’s face lit up, her cheeks flushing pink. “I have to say something first.”
You braced yourself. You knew the drill: Yes, he’s my ex-husband. Yes, we have two kids. Yes, I still love him. But Stacey took the conversation in a direction you hadn't anticipated.
“I am like so excited for this. When I told my attending at Presby I was coming to PTMC, she said, ‘Lucky you, getting to learn emergency medicine from Daddy Robinavitch himself.’ And then, on my first day, I came downstairs and saw him, and... oh my god, he really is a daddy.” She spoke with a sudden, infectious confidence, looking at you with wide, excited eyes, treating you like a best friend sharing hot gossip.
But you weren’t her best friend. So you stared at her, your eyes widening. “Excuse me?”
Stacey froze, her face draining of color. “Oh my god. I don’t know why I said that. That was so unprofessional—I’m sorry, I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours—I—”
You scoffed, raising a palm to cut off her rambling as the elevator chimed.
You stepped out into the chaotic hum of the central hub and led her straight to Trauma One. Inside, Robby and Langdon were already mid-discussion. Mel stepped back, allowing you to take the lead after a brief introduction to the patient.
“Can I take the lead?” Stacey asked, her eyes wide with eagerness.
You nodded with a small smile. She jumped into action, moving closer to the gurney to suggest courses of action and assessments (because those were definitely not orders).
“New kid on the block, huh?” Robby asked, his gaze shifting from the patient to you.
“Doctor Stacey Fox, meet the pitt. Pitt, meet Doctor Stacey Fox,” you introduced, unable to resist a little jab. “And this is Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief of Emergency Medicine. If you plan on sticking with emergency Ob-Gyn, he’ll be just as much your attending as I am.”
“Mom and Dad,” Langdon teased.
You ignored him, turning your focus back to the monitor. “Signs of pre-eclampsia?”
“No,” your student said, waving a hand. “But she’s forty-two. It’s a risky birth.”
“Why?” you pressed.
“Because she’s… old?”
You stared at her.
“...er?” she tried, grinning weakly.
Beside you, Robby let out a sharp, amused huff.
“Because she could have gestational diabetes, pre-eclampsia, or placental complications,” you recited, your voice tight. “Any of those present?”
“None,” Dr. King added.
“Doctor Fox?” you prodded.
“No,” she said, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
Robby leaned in, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ve got this.”
The glare you shot him could have scorched steel.
“There are other things I’d offer for your stress, but right now, a break’s my best,” he pushed, a teasing, lopsided smirk playing on his lips.
“Fine,” you snapped, taking a step back. “But I’m taking ER Ken.” You gestured with a single finger, and he quickly peeled away the extra layer of latex and scrubs on his way out.
Once you were safely out of the trauma room, Langdon leaned in. “Is Dad coming home soon, Mom?”
You reached the hub, frantically searching for a lollipop in the supply drawers. “Shut up!”
Langdon stepped into your path. “What’s up?”
“Did you know Presby calls him ‘Daddy Robinavitch’?” You gestured toward the room with your thumb once you’d finally unwrapped a lollipop and shoved it into your mouth.
Langdon cackled. “WHAT?”
Your skin crawled as you explained the elevator incident, and to your utter misfortune, he only laughed harder.
“Stop it!” You slapped his arm, though your heart wasn’t in it. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Oh, you know exactly what to do,” he teased.
You rolled your eyes.
“Get back in there and smoooooch your husband.”
“Not funny,” you groaned.
“I’m dead serious!”
“So am I,” you muttered. “Daddy Robinavitch. I made him a daddy.”
Langdon’s expression softened, his gaze shifting to something behind you. “If it makes you feel any better, he only has eyes for you.”
You turned around and caught Robby watching you. His expression wasn't arrogant or teasing; it was raw, soulful, and heavy with a plea you knew too well. Your annoyance dissolved into a tender, involuntary smile.
You saw him turn back to the patient, supervising the procedure. Arms folded on his chest, shoulders squared. You noticed the difference when he looked at you and when he looked at the patient. He went from being your husband; a warm, soft, loving man. To the chief of Emergency Medicine.
When you returned, the room was filled with the thin, piercing wail of a newborn. A healthy baby boy was crying his lungs out, and Robby was carefully handing him to the mother.
“Great job, everyone,” you said, your voice warm.
Stacey beamed at you, her eyes sparkling.
“You taught me well,” Robby said, his voice quiet, his hand finding the small of your back.
Stacey’s eyes darted between you both, and as if on cue, her mouth opened to speak.
“We’re taking these two upstairs,” you said, overriding her before she could say another word. You instructed the nursing staff on the room number and follow-up care.
Robby signaled for you to wait a moment and your head turned to his side, granting you minimal privacy under the gawking eyes of the entire pitt.
“What got you so worked up?” he whispered into your ear.
You looked up at him, your gaze daring and sharp. “I’ll tell you later.”
One of his brows arched. A challenge.
You walked back toward the elevators with your student, the silence between you thick with tension.
“That was a great job,” you complimented her, softening your tone. “But you need to work on your bedside manner.”
“I know. That was awful. I’ve already apologized to the patient.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry to you, too.” Her entire face was red, “The whole… the ‘daddy’ thing. It won’t happen again.”
The elevator dinged, announcing your floor. You looked at her and smiled, the lingering heat from your interaction with Robby still buzzing beneath your skin.
“Don’t worry about it,” you said lightly. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard it.”
“Really?”
The elevator doors opened.
“No,” you said, a flash of confidence firing through you. “My kids call him Daddy, too.”
tag list (tysm!!): @wonwoosthetic @thesandbeneathmytoes @missmillivanilli @honeytii @naked-hyacinth @barnes70stark @ficcyyfics @cafekitchen
I didn't think I was usually one for ex-spouse fics, because that usually means angst— but this was funny, snappy, with just the right little touch of wistfulness and quiet yearning. This has shown me a new side of the exes dynamic to consider, where you get all the familiarity of an established relationship but with the romantic tension of people who aren't yet together. It reminded me a lot of his dynamic with Heather in season one, where they still work well together and you can see they care for each other. I really enjoyed this!!
You were currently in the process of winding down, going through your skincare routine while your boyfriend, Robby kept an eye on you from where he sat on the edge of the bed. He enjoyed watching, his eyes following the movements of your hands as they brushed through your hair, how you held so very still as you applied the different serums and creams, your gaze held focused on your own reflection, you just looked so real, he thought, so in your own world. But you of course noticed him, noticed his gaze on you, the way he sat hunched over at the edge of the bed, hoodie half unzipped elbows resting on his knees as his hands held his face, keeping it propped up.you saw how he tried to stifle a yawn, how his head hug down as pressed the palms of his hands into his eyesockets as if trying to momentarily will the day away. “Hey.” You say softly, trying to get his attention as you finish up with yourself in the mirror, flicking off the light in the adjoined bathroom before moving to lean against the doorframe. Robby's head lifting slowly at the sound of your voice, the scruff of his beard grazing his palms as he dragged his hand down his face before using it to prop up his chin as he looked at you, his eyes glassy and the bags under them looking darker than before. Swallowing the lump in his throat that seemed to have been lingering there all day, before gruffly speaking. “C’mere.” He ordered gently as his hand that wasn't currently being used to hold his head up was now lifting to reach out in your direction, beckoning you closer, and who were you to deny him, so you padded over.
Once you were within reach, his calloused fingers wrapped comfortably around your wrist, tugging you carefully closer to him until you stood between his bent knees. Only then did he straighten up a little, his arms finding their way around your waist in an almost bear hug as his face buried into your upper stomach, his bread scratching over the fabric of your top as he pulled you closer, if that was even possible. Your hands naturally moved, sliding over his upper arms, his shoulders and around to the back of his head as one hand cradled the base of his skull as the other gently started to comb through his hair. The silence of the evening lingering between the two of you before you dared to break it again. “Darling? You alright?” You finally ask, knowing the answer by his grip on you alone. Robby didn't answer right away, instead taking in a deep inhale as his thumb started to stroke back and forth over the curve of your hip, his eyes squeezed tightly closed like he was trying to block out any thoughts that dared interrupt this moment. The same words that had been swirling around in his head all day, maybe all week, truthfully longer than that. I'm not sure I want to be anywhere right now. He took another deep breath, trying to concentrate on you, on the smell of you, the smell that lingered on his clothes and sheets, the smell that made the muscles in his shoulders relax a little, and made him feel at home. Robby finally lifted his head, just enough to peer up at you from under his unfairly long and thick lashes, those glossy, pupils blown, pitifully pleading eyes that had your heartstrings feeling as if they had almost been ripped straight out of your chest. Your hand in his hair stilling and instead sliding down to cradle the side of his face, his cheek in the palm of your hand as you looked down at him, worried flickering in your eyes as you couldn't help the way your brows knitted together in concern for him. Robby felt his own heart ache at the sight of you looking so worried about you even if he did sometimes think your concerned pout was cute. Slowly turning his head in your hold, his beard tickling your skin as his lips came to press lightly into the warm space of your palm, letting his eyes fall closed a beat longer than necessary between blinks as his lips lingered there before pulling away only to nuzzle right back into your body. Though now his face pressed closer to your chest, cheek smushed up against your sternum as his arms locked around you. One of his hands moved up to press between your shoulder blades as the other held tight around your waist, holding you as closely to him as he could in this position as you stood between his spread legs. A few moments passed, a deep breath in and a deep breath out, his face pressed close as he listened to the steady beating of your heart and just when you were about to ask again if he was okay, he spoke. “Right here.” He mumbled into your chest, turning his head to press his lips right over your heart through the fabric of your top. “Just…just want to be right here.” The words coming out a whisper, like they were a secret or some birthday wish he was scared to say too loudly in fear that it wouldn't come true, as in this moment right here was where he wanted to be, the only place he wanted to be, with you.
(I don't know if this made much sense, and I swear I'm not trying to be insensitive to the severity of the scene im referring to in this, I just thought it would be a nice possible alternative perspective, like maybe in another universe he got to come home and have this moment instead of going off on his sabbatical. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it and if you have any thoughts or ideas feel free to let me know.)
In the end, as time goes by, they get back together without realizing they're back together. They don't date anyone besides themselves. (It's as if they're still married, without being so.) Because it's something deeper and more special than labels, something they've matured into. Their kids having the version more mature and love deep of their parents.
I think it's beautiful.
🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲
but also... robby being the overthinker anxious cookie he is (takes one to know one), i think he would want to re-marry if only for legal reasons. Like he'd be so worried all the time that something is going to happen to him and you'd get nothing. Paperwork for the kids' trustfund, sure, but if you needed something, anything, before they are 18, you'd be alone. And he would have, once again failed you.
He'd totally stays awake at night thinking about it. Was extra careful during the sabbatical because of it. Stays on the right side of the railing because of it.
Ok, so as per the conversation we had, my request is that after "the test," the reader realizes that Robby agreed to get a vasectomy for her, even though at this point they are not together. She realizes that he must be serious about getting her back/being with her permanently, cuz you don't get a vasectomy for just anyone.
Perhaps this leads to a discussion about his intentions and she's like "i didn't know you were serious? you were dating other people? you signed the papers???"
And him reassuring her that nope he's in it to win it (her).
hiii! thank you so much for your request <3 I hope you like it!
wc: 900
warnings: feelings
don't forget to check the masterlist for more toxic content <3
When Robby asked to take the kids for the weekend, you assumed he’d be in the middle of a bachelor’s strike, or perhaps just overwhelmed. You’d spent the week organizing a matinee for Saturday and calling in favors from your parents to handle Sunday’s bicycle riding trip to the park.
So, when you were paged to the ED on Monday morning, the last thing you expected to see at his workstation was a celebratory display: colorful balloons bobbing near the monitor and a hand-lettered sign you scoffed at. Your brows knitted together in confusion.
“Hey, honey,” Robby called out from behind you.
You spun on your heel, your thumb jerking toward the sign. “‘No more Robbies’?” you asked, your voice dropping into a skeptical hum.
He leaned against the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “It’s the nurses’ way of congratulating me on the vasectomy.”
Your breath hitched, eyes widening. “Oh? You’re actually doing it?”
His brows creased, the playfulness vanishing for a second. “I did it.”
“You did?”
“Friday.”
“Oh,” you managed, feeling suddenly off-balance.
“That’s why I couldn’t be around the kids this weekend,” he explained, his gaze dropping briefly to his own hips. “I needed to keep an ice pack in the… area.”
You winced, a sympathetic grimace pulling at your lips. “Ouch.”
“Don’t,” he warned, a hint of his old, teasing spark returning.
“You actually did it,” you repeated, feeling entirely dumbfounded.
He tilted his head, searching your expression with genuine concern. “Are you having a stroke?”
“I’m just—I… I’m surprised,” you stammered, straightening your shoulders, trying to save some face.
“Why?” He straightened up, his tone hardening. “You asked me to do it, I said I would, so I did.”
“But, like… that means something.”
His chin dipped, his lips pressing into a thin, tight line. He looked at you like you were the densest person in the room. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“You don’t want any more kids?” you whispered, the question felt too charged for a regular morning in the ED.
His mouth opened to retort, but he stopped. “You said that—”
“I know I don’t,” you quickly cut in, holding both palms up in a gesture of peace, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He blinked, visibly taken aback. “Wait. You're asking me if I want kids with someone else?”
“Not with someone specific,” you admitted, looking down at your shoes. “But yeah. Maybe someone you could meet in the future.”
“There’s not much of a future left for me,” he said, his voice flat.
“Don’t say that,” you snapped.
Robby let out a sharp, cynical scoff, but the old back-and-forth—the banter that had been the foundation of your love years ago—setteled in the air, somehow both new yet familiar.
“If you don’t want any more kids, then I am not having any more kids,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. Certainty. “We clear?”
A sudden warmth flushed through your chest, making you feel vulnerable and exposed. You had the overwhelming urge to close the distance, to wrap your arms around him and hide your dorky smile beneath his neck. Instead, you kept your hands at your sides and whined an unguarded, “Misha.”
He leaned in, ducking his head to match your height. “What?” he murmured, his eyes searching yours for the truth you were too terrified to voice. “You’re the mother of my children. No one else. I’m actually a little offended that you didn't know that by now.”
You shrugged, your shoulders lifting in an attempt to hide your awkwardness. And failed. “Well, we—we’re divorced. It’s only normal to assume you’d want to start over.”
“I only signed those papers because you asked me to,” he said quietly.
“Don’t,” you waved a hand, trying to cut him off, but he caught your wrist.
“You know my mantra,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity.
You did. He always claimed he only followed your commands, a twisted form of devotion that used to flatter you before it had turned into a weapon of his own insecurity. He moved to continue his routine, but you instinctively reached out, your fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie. He stopped dead, looking down at the contact.
“Wait,” you breathed.
Robby stood rooted to the spot, his eyes patient and waiting.
“Why did you sign?” you asked, knowing it was a stupid, pointless question. You’d asked for the divorce in the heat of a crisis, desperate to keep your children safe from his spiraling, aggressive depression.
“Because you asked me to,” he breathed, his voice raw. He didn't look away, even in the middle of the crowded ED. “And because I had already failed you too much.” He shifted, his gaze darkening. “Why did you sign?”
You swallowed hard. “Because I wanted you to wake up.” You paused, the air feeling thin. “But you didn’t.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You had kept that truth like an oath for two years: you’d expected the divorce to be his wake-up call, and instead, he had accepted it as a way out.
His fingers wrapped firmly around your arms the second you tried to pull away. You watched the realization ripple across his face—the shift from hurt to hopelessness, then to a flare of anger, and finally, a devastating, quiet love.
“You never…” he mumbled, his grasp tightening on your biceps as if he were trying to keep you from vanishing.
“It worked,” you whispered, shrugging off the pain. “A little late. But it worked.”
You stood on your tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek before pulling away to find your patient, taking a deep breath in hopes to scare the tears away.
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How a protective Robby fic? The reader is a nurse and trying to help in Chairs. An aggressive patient slaps them, Robby saw it and goes into protective mode. Something like the scene in Forrest Gump.
Thank you for the request!! I added your idea into the ex-wife series and changed it a bit, it wasn't in chairs but a patient's family member.
The couple that has pain in the ass interns together stays together…or well they don’t but they get back together after their divorce? Also the intervention had Santos and Whittaker very James and Michelle coded so you got that down to T!
PREACH!! hahaha imagine robby being SO pissed at langdon's hyperactive ass and reader having to chime in to the rescue... maybe that's how they became besties idk
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