Tags: Hurt/Comfort, medical trauma, near death experiences, angst with a happy ending, protective robby, he needs a hug, panic attacks, no use of y/n, both reader and robby pov, injury recovery, found family
The last thing Robby expects during a shift is for the next trauma patient rolling through the doors to be you.
One minute he’s an attending running the ER like usual.
The next, he’s watching the person he loves code in trauma bay three—and discovering that maybe doctors aren’t supposed to see the people they care about flatline.
He does not handle it well.
Or:
you almost died and robby absolutely falls apart about it.
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The first thing I notice is the lights.
Bright white ceiling panels rush past above me, sliding in and out of focus as the gurney rattles down the hallway. Every bump sends a dull ache through my chest that makes my breath catch behind the oxygen mask.
Voices blur together around me.
Someone squeezes my hand—steady, warm.
“You’re in the ER,” the nurse says gently. “Just keep breathing for us.”
My head feels heavy, like it’s sinking into the pillow beneath it. The smell of antiseptic and clean linens is unmistakable.
Then the gurney swings around the corner toward the main nurses’ station of the Pitt.
And suddenly everything stops.
The voice is sharp, breathless.
Familiar enough that even through the haze in my head, my chest tightens.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch appears beside the gurney like someone pulled him out of thin air. His scrub top is wrinkled, one glove half-off like he’d been in the middle of something and walked straight out.
Normally he’s the calmest person in the entire ER. The doctor everyone else looks to when things start going wrong.
Right now he looks terrified.
“They came in from a vehicle collision,” Mel explains as she moves alongside the bed, tablet already in her hand while she scans the numbers on the monitor. “Possible internal bleeding. Hypotensive.”
Robby’s eyes flick over me with automatic clinical precision.
The bruising along my collarbone.
But the second his gaze settles on my face, something in him cracks.
His voice is so soft it almost disappears under the sound of the monitors.
He leans closer to the gurney.
The word baby slips out like it’s instinct.
I try to focus on him. My vision swims, but I manage to catch the shape of his face leaning over me.
“You’re okay,” he says quickly, like if he says it enough times it might become true. “You’re in the ER. I’ve got you.”
His hand hovers near mine like he wants to grab it but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.
“BP’s eighty-two systolic,” Mel says, frowning at the screen.
“That’s not good,” Robby mutters immediately.
Cassie pushes through the group with gloves already on. “Trauma bay three is open.”
“Second IV is in,” adds Trinity from the foot of the bed as she checks the fluid line.
Robby barely hears them. His attention is locked completely on me.
“You’re okay,” he repeats softly, almost to himself this time. “You’re right here.”
The monitor beeps faster.
“Pressure’s still dropping.”
Robby’s head snaps toward the screen.
“Why is it dropping?” he asks immediately.
“We just started fluids,” Santos says.
Garcia steps up beside Mel, calm and focused as always. “Let’s get a FAST ultrasound when we’re inside.”
Behind them, Mateo is already adjusting the oxygen tubing while Perlah hangs another bag of fluids.
Everything is moving quickly.
His hand finally finds mine.
His fingers close around it carefully, like I might break if he squeezes too hard.
“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”
Dana steps into the scene then, having clearly noticed the commotion from halfway across the department.
She takes one look at Robby.
And immediately understands.
“Robby,” she says carefully.
His thumb is brushing absent circles against the back of my hand while his eyes track every flicker on the monitor.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, before she can even say anything else.
“You’re standing in the middle of a trauma intake holding their hand.”
His grip tightens instinctively.
Mel glances between them, then quietly tells McKay, “Let’s move.”
The gurney starts rolling again toward trauma bay three.
Robby follows immediately.
Dana steps directly into his path.
“You can’t be here, Robby.”
He stares at her like she’s just spoken another language.
“They need surgery,” he says quickly, words tumbling out. “We should scan first but if there’s internal bleeding—”
“They’re going to do everything they can.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing half a step away before coming right back toward the trauma doors.
“I should be in there,” he says quietly. “I should be helping.”
“You can’t,” Dana says gently.
His breathing is getting uneven now.
“I’ve handled worse cases than this,” he insists.
But the words sound hollow even to him.
Through the trauma bay window, Mel and Garcia are already running the ultrasound while McKay checks the monitor again. Langdon appears beside them, calm as ever as he reviews the readings.
Inside the room, Mateo is setting up blood while Perlah adjusts the IV pump. Donnie rushes past with supplies while Lupe updates the board near the nurses’ station.
The whole ER is moving like a machine.
Robby is the only part that isn’t functioning.
His chest rises too fast.
Dana gently grabs his arm.
His eyes never leave the trauma bay window.
“I can’t lose them,” he says suddenly.
The words come out small and raw.
Dana’s expression softens immediately.
Inside the trauma room the monitor alarm goes off.
“Pressure’s sixty-five,” Perlah calls.
Langdon glances toward the window where Robby stands.
He’s gripping the counter so hard his knuckles are white.
Dana’s hand stays steady on his shoulder.
“They’re going to do everything they can,” she tells him quietly.
His eyes are fixed on the trauma bay doors.
Like if he looks away—even for a second—something terrible might happen.
And for the first time since anyone in the Pitt has known him, the doctor who holds the entire emergency department together looks like he might fall apart completely.
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From the hallway, Robby can see everything.
The trauma bay doors have glass panels built into them—a design choice he has always appreciated. It lets the attending keep eyes on the room even when they’re not inside, a way to supervise without crowding the team.
Tonight, it feels like a curse.
He stands only a few feet from the glass, arms folded tightly across his chest as if holding himself together. His fingers press so hard into his biceps that they ache, but he barely notices. His attention is locked entirely on the room in front of him.
Inside trauma bay three, the team moves around the bed with focused precision.
Mel stands near the monitor, her tablet tucked under one arm while she watches the numbers climb and fall. Garcia is beside her, leaning slightly forward with the ultrasound probe pressed against your abdomen, eyes scanning the screen for any sign of internal bleeding.
Cassie moves between the monitor and the IV lines, her voice calm but sharp as she relays vitals to the room. Frank stands close to the bedside, already positioned in that subtle way experienced physicians have when they’re preparing to take over if things go bad.
Near the crash cart, Perlah prepares medications while Mateo adjusts the defibrillator equipment. Just behind them, Dennis hovers with tense focus, opening packages and passing supplies the moment someone reaches for them.
Robby knows these people.
He has worked beside them through chaotic trauma nights, mass casualty drills, and endless exhausting shifts where the ER feels like a battlefield.
They are some of the best doctors and nurses he knows.
But none of that helps right now.
Because the patient on that bed isn’t just another trauma case.
His gaze keeps drifting back to your face through the glass. The oxygen mask covers half of it. IV lines snake from both arms. The monitor beside the bed flickers with unstable numbers that make his stomach twist.
You look so small lying there.
Robby presses his palm against the glass without realizing he’s done it.
Dana stands a few steps behind him, watching quietly. She knows him well enough to recognize when pushing him will only make things worse.
For now, she lets him look.
Inside the room, Mel glances at the monitor again.
“Pressure’s still dropping.”
Garcia nods slightly but doesn’t take her eyes off the ultrasound screen.
“We’ll know more in a second.”
He hates this part of medicine.
The waiting. The uncertainty. The long seconds between information where nothing can be done but watch and hope the numbers stabilize.
His mind runs through possibilities automatically.
Internal bleeding. Splenic rupture. Liver injury. Cardiac contusion.
Each one spirals into worse outcomes before he can stop himself.
The monitor tone changes.
But Robby notices immediately.
His entire body goes rigid.
Inside the trauma bay, Cassie's head snaps toward the screen.
The steady beeping stretches into something long and continuous.
The flat tone fills the room.
For a moment, everything stops.
Then McKay says the words Robby never wants to hear.
Inside the trauma bay, everyone moves at once.
Frank climbs onto the stool beside the bed without hesitation and positions his hands over your chest.
His arms lock straight as he begins CPR, each compression firm and precise.
Robby feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs.
Mateo grabs the defibrillator paddles while Perlah pulls epinephrine from the crash cart. Beside her, Dennis tears open another medication kit and passes it to her immediately.
Robby presses his hand harder against the glass.
Inside the room, Mel studies the monitor.
Everyone lifts their hands.
Your body jerks sharply against the bed.
Robby flinches like he felt the electricity himself.
For half a second the monitor shows nothing.
Then the chaotic rhythm returns.
Langdon immediately resumes compressions.
Robby’s brain automatically runs through the algorithm.
Defibrillation. CPR. Epinephrine. Repeat.
He knows exactly what they’re doing.
He has run this exact code dozens of times.
But those were strangers.
Not the person whose laugh fills his apartment when they cook together. Not the person who steals his hoodie every time they stay over. Not the person who falls asleep with their head on his shoulder halfway through movies.
Inside the trauma bay, Perlah hands off a syringe.
Cassie pushes it into the IV line without hesitation.
“Two minutes,” Garcia says, watching the clock.
Mateo charges the defibrillator again.
Dennis stands beside him now, eyes darting between the monitor and the supplies in his hands, ready for whatever the next command is.
Robby’s breathing becomes shallow.
His hands begin to shake.
“Robby,” Dana says quietly beside him.
Inside the room, Langdon keeps counting compressions.
“Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine—”
Mateo glances toward Garcia.
Robby’s chest tightens painfully.
It feels like someone wrapped iron bands around his ribs.
The room suddenly feels too bright.
His lungs refuse to cooperate.
He tries to inhale, but the breath stops halfway.
The words come out thin and strained.
Dana steps closer immediately.
Inside the trauma bay, Mel checks the monitor again.
Langdon does not stop compressions. Sweat beads at his hairline now, but his arms never falter.
The team moves around the bed with relentless focus.
Garcia calls out medications. Perlah prepares another syringe. Mateo repositions the defibrillator. Dennis reaches for more supplies before anyone even asks.
Everyone is doing exactly what they’re supposed to do.
And Robby suddenly realizes he cannot watch them try to bring you back to life.
He steps away from the glass.
Dana reaches for his arm, but he’s already moving down the hallway.
By the time he reaches the quieter corridor near the supply rooms, the panic hits him all at once.
His hands slam against the wall.
He bends forward sharply, trying to breathe.
Each inhale is shallow and shaky, like his lungs forgot how to work.
His heart pounds so hard it makes his vision blur.
His fingers curl against the wall as his whole body trembles.
Footsteps echo down the hallway behind him.
She reaches him quickly but doesn’t say anything right away.
Instead, she gently guides him down into the chair beside the wall.
He collapses into it without resistance.
“Breathe,” she says calmly.
“You’re hyperventilating.”
He drags both hands through his hair and stares at the floor.
“They’re coding,” he whispers.
Dana kneels down so she’s directly in front of him.
He shakes his head weakly.
“I should be in there,” he says hoarsely. “I should be helping.”
“They’re dying and I’m not even—”
“They are not dying,” Dana interrupts firmly.
Robby finally looks up at her.
Her expression softens immediately.
“They have Mel, Garcia, Langdon, McKay, Santos, Mateo, Perlah, and Whitaker in that room,” she says gently. “Half the best trauma team in this hospital.”
He trusts every single one of them.
But none of that quiets the fear clawing at his chest.
His hands are still shaking.
“I can’t lose them,” he whispers.
Dana reaches up and squeezes his shoulder.
Down the hallway, the trauma bay doors remain closed.
Inside that room, the people Robby trusts most in the world are fighting to bring your heart back.
And all he can do is sit in the empty corridor, shaking and struggling to breathe, while the person he loves most in the world fights for their life without him.
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The room is quiet when Robby finally sees you again.
Not the controlled chaos of the trauma bay, not the alarms and shouted commands and the violent rhythm of compressions. This room is dimmer, calmer. The steady beeping of the cardiac monitor has settled into a slow, regular rhythm that fills the silence like a heartbeat the entire floor can hear.
The ventilator breathes for you in soft mechanical sighs, the rise and fall of your chest steady beneath the hospital blanket. Tubing runs from the ventilator to the breathing tube at your throat, IV lines disappearing into your arms, monitors tracking every tiny change in your body.
Robby stands in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside.
He almost doesn’t recognize you like this.
Not because you look different, but because you’re still.
You’re the person who talks with your hands when you get excited, who fills quiet rooms with commentary or teasing remarks or laughter that echoes off the kitchen walls of his apartment. Even when you sleep, you shift closer to him at some point in the night, curling into his side without waking.
Now you don’t move at all.
The sight makes something heavy settle in his chest.
He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits down slowly.
For a few seconds he just stares at the monitor.
All numbers he has spent his entire career reading with clinical detachment.
Tonight they feel like lifelines.
His shoulders sag slightly as the adrenaline finally drains out of his body. The exhaustion underneath it hits all at once.
Like someone pulled the air out of him.
His scrubs are wrinkled from the shift. His hair is messier than usual, pushed back so many times his hands have left it sticking up unevenly. There are faint red marks around his eyes from where he pressed his palms against them earlier in the hallway.
He hasn’t fully recovered from the panic attack.
He watched your heart stop through a glass door.
Robby leans forward slowly, resting his elbows on his knees.
For a moment he just studies your face.
The sedation has softened your features. Without the tension or pain from earlier, you look almost peaceful. The ventilator tube is the only thing that really breaks the illusion.
His hand hovers over yours.
That alone makes something inside him loosen slightly.
He wraps his fingers carefully around your hand like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmurs quietly.
There’s no one else in the room to hear it.
Robby rarely lets people see him like this. In the ER he’s the steady one, the attending who keeps the room calm when everyone else starts to spiral.
But right now he just looks tired.
And still a little terrified.
His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.
“You know that?” he adds softly.
He glances at the monitor again.
Robby exhales slowly, leaning back in the chair.
His grip on your hand tightens slightly without him realizing it.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.
The words hang quietly in the room.
A soft knock breaks the silence a few minutes later.
Robby straightens slightly, turning toward the door.
Dennis Whitaker steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure if he should interrupt.
He pauses when he sees Robby sitting there, still holding your hand.
“Sorry,” Whitaker says quietly. “I didn’t know if you wanted—”
“What happened?” Robby asks immediately.
The question comes out fast.
Whitaker stops where he is.
Robby’s voice is steady, but his eyes aren’t.
He’s back in doctor mode now, clinging to it like it’s the only thing holding him together.
“What exactly happened?” Robby asks again, softer but no less urgent.
Whitaker nods slowly and steps further into the room.
“They’re stable now,” he says first, clearly choosing his words carefully. “The code lasted just under five minutes before we got ROSC.”
He already saw the timeline in the chart.
But hearing it out loud still makes his chest tighten.
Whitaker shifts slightly, glancing toward the monitor before continuing.
“The crash caused multiple injuries,” he explains. “They’ve got five fractured ribs on the left side—two of them displaced. One of those fractured ribs punctured the lung, so they developed a moderate pneumothorax.”
Robby’s eyes flick automatically toward the drainage tube at your side.
“Chest tube’s in place,” he says. “It’s draining well. Lung’s already re-expanding.”
“There’s also a pretty significant pulmonary contusion. That’s the main reason they’re still intubated. Their lungs were struggling to oxygenate properly on their own after the trauma.”
Robby’s thumb moves slowly against the back of your hand as he listens.
“And the cardiac arrest?” he asks quietly.
“Combination of hypoxia and blood loss,” he explains. “They’ve got a grade three splenic laceration. Not completely ruptured, but it bled enough to drop their pressure fast.”
Whitaker continues gently.
“Trauma surgery looked at the CT. For now they’re managing it non-operatively, but they’re watching it closely in case the bleeding worsens.”
Robby nods again, absorbing the information piece by piece.
Whitaker glances briefly at the chart in his hand.
“They’ve also got a fractured clavicle and a small liver contusion,” he adds. “Plus a moderate concussion. CT was clear for brain bleed, though.”
A breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Whitaker looks between the two of you.
“So,” he finishes quietly, “five broken ribs, collapsed lung, splenic laceration, fractured clavicle, lung contusion, liver bruising… and a concussion.”
“But everything is treatable.”
The ventilator breathes in.
The monitor continues its steady rhythm beside the bed.
He squeezes your hand gently.
Whitaker watches him for a moment before speaking again.
“They’re going to be in a lot of pain when they wake up,” he says quietly.
Robby gives a tired half-smile.
“They complain about paper cuts,” he mutters softly.
Whitaker huffs a small laugh.
But Robby’s eyes never leave you.
“You’re lucky,” Whitaker adds gently.
His thumb brushes slowly over your hand again.
“I know,” he says quietly.
Hours pass quietly in the dim hospital room.
The lights have been lowered to the muted overnight setting, just bright enough for staff to read monitors and medication labels without waking patients unnecessarily. The ventilator breathes steadily beside the bed, a slow mechanical inhale followed by a soft exhale, repeating over and over with patient precision. The cardiac monitor answers it with its own rhythm—steady, even beeps that mark each heartbeat.
Robby hears every one of them.
He hasn’t moved from the chair beside your bed in hours.
At some point he shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, his shoulders slightly hunched like gravity finally caught up with him. One arm rests against the mattress, his hand wrapped loosely around yours. His thumb moves slowly across your knuckles every so often, an absent, repetitive motion that he doesn’t even seem aware of.
It’s the only thing about him that moves.
He’s checked the monitor numbers more times than necessary.
He’s read the chart twice.
He knows your vitals are stable. He knows the ventilator settings. He knows exactly how much fluid is running through your IV lines and what medications you’re sedated with.
But he keeps watching anyway.
Your chest rises slowly with the ventilator.
Each breath feels like proof you’re still here.
Someone draped a thin hospital blanket over his shoulders earlier. He doesn’t remember when that happened or who did it. His scrubs are wrinkled now, and his hair sticks up unevenly from where he’s dragged his hands through it again and again.
And he hasn’t left the room.
The door opens quietly sometime after midnight.
Robby barely reacts at first, assuming it’s one of the night nurses coming in to check your lines or adjust medications.
But the footsteps that enter the room are slower.
He lifts his head slightly.
Dr. Jack Abbot stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded loosely across his chest.
Abbot doesn’t say anything right away.
He just watches for a moment.
Robby slumped in the chair.
Still staring at you like the rest of the room has faded out of existence.
Abbot exhales softly through his nose.
Robby glances up briefly.
Abbot steps inside the room, the door clicking shut quietly behind him. His eyes sweep over the monitors, the ventilator tubing, the IV pumps, taking in the scene out of habit before settling back on Robby.
“You’ve been here the whole time?” he asks.
Abbot glances down at his watch.
“That was… what, six hours ago now?”
Time stopped meaning much after the trauma bay.
Abbot drags another chair closer and sits down across from him, elbows resting on his knees as he studies Robby’s face more carefully.
Not the usual end-of-shift exhaustion that everyone in emergency medicine carries around like a badge of honor.
Robby looks hollowed out. Like someone pulled the energy straight out of him.
“You look like hell,” Abbot says quietly.
Robby huffs out a weak breath that almost resembles a laugh.
Abbot nods toward the bed.
Robby doesn’t bother denying it.
His thumb drifts slowly across the back of your hand again.
“You should go home,” he says gently.
Robby shakes his head immediately.
Just a simple, exhausted certainty.
Abbot gestures lightly toward the machines around the bed.
“They’re sedated. Ventilated. Monitored by half the ICU staff on this floor.”
“So you sitting here staring at them isn’t actually doing anything.”
Robby finally lifts his head.
His eyes are tired, rimmed red from too many hours without sleep.
Abbot studies him carefully.
“Alright,” he says slowly. “Then what is the point?”
Robby’s gaze drifts back to you.
Your face is calm under the sedation. The ventilator lifts your chest slowly before letting it fall again.
His fingers tighten slightly around yours.
For a long moment he says nothing.
Then he exhales quietly through his nose.
“I didn’t exactly handle earlier very well.”
Abbot tilts his head slightly but doesn’t interrupt.
“There was a moment in the hallway,” he continues slowly, choosing each word with careful precision, “where breathing became… a little unreliable.”
Abbot’s expression softens almost immediately.
“Turns out watching someone you care about get shocked twice does weird things to your lungs.”
Abbot lets out a quiet breath.
“That’s one way to describe it.”
Robby’s thumb moves across your knuckles again.
“I stepped out,” he adds.
Abbot doesn’t correct him.
Robby glances at him briefly.
Silence settles over the room again.
The ventilator breathes in.
Abbot watches Robby for a moment before speaking again.
But the way his fingers tighten slightly around your hand says enough.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Robby’s eyes never leave your face.
“They almost didn’t make it,” he says quietly.
Robby watches the monitor for another long moment.
Green lines rise and fall across the screen.
Your heart continues beating in steady rhythm.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“I’m not leaving,” he murmurs.
Abbot pushes himself up from the chair with a quiet sigh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
He walks toward the door, pausing before he opens it.
When he glances back, Robby hasn’t moved.
Still watching every breath like it matters more than anything else in the room.
“Try to sleep at some point,” he says.
He just brushes his thumb across your knuckles again, leaning a little closer to the bed.
“I’m right here,” he whispers softly.
And this time, he’s not talking to Abbot.
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i've been obsessed with the pitt and thinking about how robby would react if we got injured lolol.
I posted this on my AO3 page (fireflystories)
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
2087
izzy806
yousharknotpass
