and, it’s not if i believe in love but if love believes in me • m. robinavitch
Excerpt:
Robby thinks he might need to go back down to the pitt because he feels his heart break—Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, sudden weakening of the muscle.
Except this isn't sudden at all. His heart has been aching for close to a year now. Robby's always been weak for you. From the very start.
Warnings: f!reader, brief mention of reader losing a sibling, angst, age gap, r1!reader, senior attending!robby, flirting, mutual pining, death of a pediatric patient, therapy, crying, robby’s constant inner turmoil, one beautiful kiss
wc: 7k
a/n: this was supposed to be a blurb based off this. what the fuck. title from ‘moment of surrender’ by n. mulvey. scribble div by @/strangergraphics
You don’t stick out to him initially, just another face in the sea of young residents that crash through his emergency department every year. Nothing incredible, nothing terrible, nothing to draw his attention.
Until there is. Until he has to pay attention.
Robby allows you to continue compressions far longer than he should, watching sweat and tears drip from your face as your lips move with inaudible pleas, prayers, promises, exhausting your best efforts.
He steps in only when your rhythm begins to slip into something ineffective, mutters, “I’ll take over,” and replaces your hands on the little boy’s chest with his.
Robby delivers six perfect compressions before slowing to a stop, stares down at you as the monitor lets out one continuous note, and the fucking hopelessness he sees in your eyes—the utter devastation…
“He was just… he was just a kid,” you whisper, “he was about to turn five…”
“I know,” Robby nods.
You look from him, to the monitor, back to Robby, and begin to tremble, chest rising and falling too fast, and—
“Hey, hey, deep breath, look at me,” he commands, but you just shake your head, take a step back and stumble over your own feet.
Christ.
“I can’t. I ca—”
You’re tearing off your PPE, hiding your face and choking back sobs as everyone in the room politely averts their eyes, and then you’re gone.
“Shit.” Robby takes off his own gown and gloves, looks at Samira and tells her, “we’ll be back for moment of silence in a sec,” then jogs after you.
You’re his responsibility. Robby is in charge of keeping you safe while you’re in the hospital. Whether it’s a needle stick, an aggressive patient, or a swan dive off the roof, you’re supposed to be under his supervision. That’s why he follows.
The stairwell is a classic hiding place, the first he checks, and Robby sighs in both resignation and relief when he finds you on the bottom step, knees to your chest, head tucked against them, using your toes to rock yourself back and forth.
He’s slow to lower himself, sitting next to you with a little space left between, and for a moment Robby just lets you cry. It’s been a while since he’s done this, actually. He typically leaves the meltdowns to Dana, should’ve grabbed her instead of abandoning the pitt himself, but he’s here now, so…
“It gets easier,” he starts, eyes locked on where he’s pressing his fingertips together, forearms settling on his restless legs. “It doesn’t stop hurting, but eventually you… start to understand there’s only so much you can do. And, sometimes it’ll make you feel hopeless and helpless and like there’s no point to it all, but I fucking promise you, there’s a reason,” he exhales the last part, and it sort of feels like this is a reminder to himself as well. “There’s a reason we try everything, and there’s a reason it hurts when ‘everything’ isn’t enough.
“So, you can’t stop hoping, okay? You can’t stop trying, but you have got to know when it’s time to surrender. Know that you’ve done everything in your power to save your patient, but there are just some things you can’t fix. Accept that, and it gets easier.”
You sniff then turn your head, cheekbone resting against your kneecap as you blink bloodshot eyes at him. God, you’re a mess, and it makes Robby’s chest ache.
Always hard to watch the new kids fall apart.
“So, you’ve accepted it, then—that you can’t fix everything?”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head, “oh, I didn’t say that. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard from other, much better adjusted doctors.”
He thinks he hears a laugh, but it breaks into a wet sob. You scrunch your face up, purse your lips and try to steady your breathing.
Robby’s hand hovers over your shoulder with the urge to pat or squeeze or do anything to ground you, but he just ends up flexing his fingers and dropping them to the step he’s sitting on so he can push himself up.
“We’re gonna have the moment of silence for Duncan if you want to say a few words, but I understand if you’re not up to it. That was a tough one.”
You don’t respond, and that’s okay. Robby leaves you alone and heads back to the pitt, stopping at the hub and asking Dana to check on you if you aren’t back within ten minutes.
It turns out there’s no need to worry, though, as you step into the room just in time for Robby to ask if anyone has anything to say about little Duncan.
Your eyes are still red and wet, and your voice warbles as you speak, but you do speak.
“He loved soccer and Bluey—his f-favorite character was Rusty who, if you don’t know, is very good at cricket,” you laugh to yourself and almost everyone else snickers in kind. “He’d just learned to tie his shoes and kept—‘hem—kept asking if he could tie mine f-for me…”
Dana wraps an arm around you when you inevitably dissolve into a fit of sniffles and hiccups, and Robby is so overcome with sympathy and sorrow and a strange flavor of fondness, he has to clear his throat before he can lead the room into taking a minute to feel and reflect and appreciate the young life lost.
Robby watches you the whole time, your closed eyes, the gentle rocking that he recognizes as his own antsy habit, your hand clutching your necklace—a pendant, maybe a cross.
“A locket,” Dana later tells him during her short break in the ambulance bay. She blows smoke out of one side of her mouth before adding, “poor thing lost her little brother when she was ten.”
Robby scratches the back of his head and dares to ask, “how old was he?”
Dana looks at him but doesn’t say anything at first, just ashes her cigarette, nods a few times, then finally, “just about to turn five.”
“Fuck me,” Robby winces, “guess that explains that, then.”
“No kiddin’, but hey, look on the bright side,” Dana nudges him with an elbow, “whatever you said to her brought her back into the game.”
God knows why.
✧ ✧ ✧
Robby can’t not pay attention to you after that. It isn’t that he’s waiting for you to have some kind of breakdown or turn in your badge, it’s just… he has this very small but very profound piece of knowledge about you, and he’s seen you crack and then saw you put yourself back together, and because of that he is very aware of you and your patients, and he keeps wanting to check on you.
“You wouldn’t be playin’ favorites, would you?” Dana asks with an omniscient smirk.
He responds almost monotonously, “I certainly would not be,” as he looks over the rims of his glasses to spot you stepping out of an exam room with Trinity, laughing at what he assumes is Santos’ particular brand of borderline offensive humor.
Dana hums in that smug way of hers, pats Robby on the shoulder as she passes behind him then calls out to another one of the new residents, “hey, kid, get some new scrubs, yeah?”
Robby charts and replies to emails for a few more minutes, but his eyes seem to always end up on you. He’s just being watchful, maybe a tiny bit protective, but he has a good reason to be which is that Robby might actually die if he ever has to see that absolutely gutted expression on you again (though, it is something he’ll have to resign himself to considering the workplace).
So, it’s fine—being cautious, that is. Just like it’s fine when Robby starts requesting for you to help out on his patients a little more than anyone else.
“You just need more experience,” he tells you at the beginning of a shift, “more confidence.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Dr. Robby, but I doubt working right next to you is gonna help with my confidence.”
“Why’s that?” he quirks an eyebrow, would maybe be offended if you weren’t already laughing.
“Because you make me nervous! You’re, like, the guy around here. My hands are shaking right now, you think I’m gonna be able to hold a scalpel with you standing right next to me?”
The way you admit it so freely is so goddamn endearing, it makes Robby genuinely smile. You don’t even try to hide your hands, actually hold them out for him to see, and yeah, you are definitely jittery.
“Okay, fine,” he glances away, sways while thinking out loud, “what can I do to make you stop being nervous?”
“Get a demotion?”
He snorts, mumbles bemusedly, “I fucking wish,” then, “aside from that.”
You make this pouty little face, stroke your chin like some evil mastermind, then grin at him. “Tell me something embarrassing about yourself.”
“What?”
“You’ve gotta make yourself more human!” you insist, which makes sense, but, “come on, you saw me with snot running down my face. I feel like I’ve earned a little, tiny secret.”
“Christ, you’re gonna be a handful, aren’t you?” Robby mutters, and you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh again.
“Alright, uh…” he has to think for a second, something funny that won’t get him sent to HR. “Okay, here’s one, a few years ago the power went out, when I was on the elevator—”
You gasp, “no!”
“—and I was between floors, so even when they tried to pry the doors open, I couldn’t really get out. So, I’m stuck for three fucking hours, and the whole time I really have to—” wait. Hard fucking stop. This is absolutely something that could get him sent to HR, actually.
“Had to what?” you push, but Robby knows you know, “come on, you already started the story. You have my rapt attention.”
“No, no,” he shakes his head, “let me think of another one.”
You stare at him, and Robby can see that you wanna keep pressing him, but you don’t. You respect the boundary.
And, that is why he finishes the story.
“Okay, shit, so I’m alone for three hours, and I have to pee—”
“As one does,” you affirm, completely unserious.
“—and, literally as soon as I—” was about to pull my dick out, “—decide ‘fuck it, there are four corners’, the power comes back on. I was this close,” he holds up pinched-together fingers, “to pissing in an elevator car, and I’m almost positive one of the maintenance guys caught a glimpse of, uh…”
“The equipment,” you helpfully supply, and oh, wow, Robby’s face is blazing. This was a terrible idea.
But, you’re giggling like some of the behavioral cases that get brought in, almost uncontrollable as you cover your mouth, and all Robby can do is keep his hands in his pockets and hang his head.
“No, no, that’s—the story really isn’t…” You’re having a hard time speaking through your bubbly laughs, and even through his shame, Robby can’t help but be entertained. “I mean, it’s natural, it hardly counts as embarrassing, but holy—oh, your face, you poor man, I’m so, so sorry, hold on—”
Then, you actually walk into the nearest empty room to presumably calm yourself down, reappearing maybe 15 seconds later and taking a deep breath.
“Okay, I’m good,” you nod. “I don’t think I’m nervous anymore. Kinda hard to be scared of a guy who blushes like a schoolgirl.”
The look he gives you is unimpressed, but as he sucks his teeth and mutters something about how you shouldn’t disrespect your elders, Robby noticed the way your eyelashes are still wet, clumped together like they had been when he found you crying in the stairwell, and it barrels into him then and there—a thought so irrevocable and awful: the only tears he ever wants to see rolling down your face are tears of laughter.
But, because this is an emergency department full of blood and tragedy, Robby knows that sooner rather than later, the heartache will have you curled up and crying again, and when that time comes he hopes he’s able to follow after you like last time, able to sit beside you, and maybe be the one to wipe away your tears.
Robby blinks at you, the way you’re beaming at him so happily, and then he looks past you to Dana who is, as always, watching.
She was right—of course—and Robby wonders if he’s able to communicate his guilt and his panic to her with a single look, if she can see his inner turmoil as it dawns on him.
He is playing favorites, but it has nothing to do with medical knowledge or skill and everything to do with the way you look at him and smile at him and make him smile back.
✧ ✧ ✧
It isn’t just the rough shifts that end with beers in the park. Sometimes everyone gathers to toast to the good ones, too, when the only patients lost are the ones that roll in from the old folks home, when the baby can be resuscitated and the heart attack can be reversed.
Princess is telling everyone about the six-year-old who got into the liquor cabinet, impressions of the kid provided by Langdon who takes a swig of his own ginger-ale and purposely staggers around while mimicking, “let me ta’k to Chaaaase. Need my fff’phone call—little dude was belligerent!”
“How does he even know about the phone call thing?” you ask, delighted, “does SVU come on after Paw Patrol now?”
Langdon shrugs, “who knows, man. Kids are crazy,” a little breathless after his performance. He drops down to sit on the ground like a few others—like you. You’ve got one leg folded under you, the other bent at the knee for you to rest your chin on, and Robby thinks that if he tried to sit like that for more than four seconds, he might disintegrate completely.
But, not you, not with how young you are, still able to bend without breaking, stretch without snapping, and you should be doing other things right now. Robby knows that you’re off for the next three days, so you should go. To a friend’s, to a party, to somewhere that isn’t right fucking next to the bench he’s sitting on.
You’re so close that you’re able to lean against the metal arm rest, and Robby doesn’t think. It’s pure instinct, the way he drops his hand on your head like he would to pet a cat. Mindless and casual and fucking inappropriate.
Robby gives you a gentle pat, makes the whole thing a little more purposeful rather than the mortifying accident it really is, and you snicker before looking sideways at him, able to see straight through him, so all Robby can do is grimace and mumble, “sorry.”
You push yourself up to stand, “it’s fine,” sling your backpack over your shoulder. “I’m gonna go sleep for three days.”
You’re taller than him now, and Robby lets his head hang back so he can look up at you and grouch, “no need to fucking brag.”
“Ooh, you probably make about five times my paycheck, so I am not even a little sorry.”
Robby tracks the way you reach toward him for a split second, like you’re about to touch him, card fingers through his hair or give his head a vengeful pat, but you stop yourself and grip the strap of your bag instead.
You dismiss yourself with a simple, “later, guys,” then turn and start walking in the direction of the closest train stop.
Robby doesn’t even realize he’s watching you until Jack, to his left, nudges him with an unopened beer which Robby immediately turns down.
“What, scared you might do something stupid,” Jack jabs in a hushed voice, “like take a first-year resident to bed?”
Robby turns his head like he’s relaxed, about to reply to a funny joke, but when he actually looks at Jack, he can feel the blaze in his own eyes— “not gonna fucking happen.”
And, Jack is wearing that fake expression of incredulity, “no?” mouth open like he’s shocked until it starts to curve at the corners as his amusement shows through. “Shame. Bet she’d let you.”
“Which is why it’s not gonna happen.” Robby crushes the empty can in his hand, clicks his tongue, then looks back at Jack to add, “when did you turn into such a dog?”
Jack laughs, “always have been, man. Just hard to see through the crippling depression.”
Robby has a joke about SSRIs and limp-dick lined up, but it’s not even worth it. Not when Jack’s words are still tumbling around his head. Bet she’d let you.
Yeah, Robby thinks so too, and the idea makes him a little sick. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he does.
There are about a dozen reasons for him to keep his hands and his heart to himself, and it’s not all just workplace ethics.
You’re so fucking young and have so much to learn. There are experiences you still need to have, people you still need to lose. Robby doesn’t get half the references you make; the last modern TV show he watched was Breaking Bad, and that came out almost twenty years ago. You probably have more in common with Jake than you do with Robby, another fact that makes his stomach roll.
There are plenty of people who are better suited for you. You don’t need to be attached to someone like Robby in any way other than professionally.
And, that’s what he tells himself every morning that you walk into the pitt, eyes sleepy but still lighting up as soon as you see him.
✧ ✧ ✧
Robby brings you up in therapy once, and Pete will not fucking drop it.
“Other than the age difference, why do you find yourself so repulsed by the idea of getting involved?”
“It’s not repulsion,” Robby corrects, “that makes it seem like I find her repulsive, which I obviously don’t, which is the fucking problem.”
“Why is that a problem?”
Robby stares at him because he knows that Pete cannot be this fucking stupid. He cannot seriously be—
“I know that there are hospital regulations and procedures,” he stops Robby’s line of thinking, “and, I also know there are ethics committees and paperwork should an exception need to be made.”
“You are getting way fucking ahead of yourself here,” Robby tells him, fingers twitching with the urge to snatch Pete’s pen out of his hand to stop him from tapping it on his notepad.
“No, I’m reminding you that one of these immovable objects isn’t as stationary as you’d like to believe, so… excluding the age difference and workplace dynamic—why?”
Groaning, Robby leans back on the couch, palms against his eyes, frustration clawing at his chest.
“Can’t I just say it’s not a good idea and move on?”
“You can try,” Pete shrugs, and like he does at least once a session, Robby curses Jack for ever talking him into therapy. “You think you’ll be able to move on?”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Pete is still watching him. Robby can feel it, his face blank but eyes so fucking expectant. It’s a lethal combination, he’s learned, neutral but with just enough encouragement to make it hard to let him down.
“Look, she’s just a fucking kid, and she doesn’t deserve to be shackled to an old man with a fucking mood disorder.”
“A mood disorder that you’re getting treatment for,” Pete interjects, “and, Robby, you are not that old. You are middle-aged, and you’re physically and mentally active. Healthy. You’re not on your fucking deathbed.”
Robby smirks, always happy when he’s able to get Pete to drop the clinical bullshit and start talking to him like a person rather than a patient.
Still, a little swearing isn’t about to change his mind, so Robby delivers his next argument, “we don’t even have anything in common.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t have anything in common with my husband,” —an immediate and annoyingly sensible rebuttal— “but we made each other happy from the get-go, and after a while we did have things in common—friends and hobbies and music, and I’m not telling you to get down on one knee for this girl, but I am telling you that all of your reasons are bullshit. So, what is it, Robby? What’s really keeping you from shooting your shot?”
Robby glares at the other man, eyes narrow and venomous because fuck him. Fuck him.
Pete already knows why, knows exactly what’s holding him back, but he wants Robby to say it.
Admit it.
Shutting his eyes, Robby just breathes for a few seconds, waits for his heartbeat to slow, and tries to relax his shoulders so that they aren’t right next to his ears.
Then, once he feels steady enough, Robby stares right at Pete and states, “I’m not good enough.”
It doesn’t matter what his therapist says, Robby knows it’s the truth.
✧ ✧ ✧
It shouldn’t surprise him to find you on the roof this afternoon. It’s the best place to get some air, some clarity, a view of the city smog.
So, no, it isn’t surprising to Robby. What is, however, is the fact that Jack is up here with you, a box of pizza on the ground between the two of you.
There was a tough case down in the pitt, critical patient with two sobbing, terrified kids, and though you were able to stabilize the woman, those children still saw too much before Kiara was able to pull them away. If he’s being honest, there’s still a fair chance that mom won’t pull through in the long run.
It makes sense that you’re up here—Robby told you to take a walk himself—but it is three in the goddamn afternoon, Jack isn’t on shift for another four hours, so why is he here?
“Couldn’t sleep,” the man in question calls out as Robby starts walking over, “didn’t have anything better to do, so I came up and ordered lunch. Company was unplanned but not unwelcome.”
Jack winks at you, and Robby wants to kick him, but you just roll your eyes and look up, squinting into the sun until Robby steps over to block it.
“Wouldn’t have come up if I knew he talked so much,” you say, “didn’t even give me a chance to be sad about Mrs. Lyons.”
Jack shoves the bite of food in his mouth into his cheek so he can speak up, “yeah, and you’re welcome for that.”
Robby almost laughs, wants to bask in the satisfaction that comes with witnessing Jack Abbot’s charm fall flat, but it’s hard to be smug when the only thing that Robby can think about is that, yeah, Jack does talk. Too fucking much. So just what has he been talking about?
Trained to be overly perceptive, Jack stares at Robby, smiles that signature Abbot half-smile and states, “don’t worry, brother, I haven’t been spilling any sordid Robinavitch secrets.”
Robby has no doubt he’s telling the truth. Jack is a chatty son of a bitch, but he’s not a liar.
“Grab a slice, man, I’m not gonna finish the whole thing, and little miss I-don’t-like-pepperoni isn’t gonna help me.”
“You don’t like pepperoni?”
You shake your head, “I don’t like red meat aside from the occasional burger when I’m low on iron.”
“You’re bad at being American,” Jack scoffs.
“Whatever you say, soldier boy,” you start to get up, taking Robby’s hand when he extends it to help. “Have fun with your heart disease.”
“E’ry’hing in mo’eration, baby,” Jack shoots back, this time with his mouth full.
You look at Robby, then, “cannot believe that’s your best friend.”
Robby’s, “psht,” is exaggerated with the purpose of making Jack gasp like he’s offended. “Who told you he’s my best friend?”
“Uh, him,” you jerk your head toward the man still sitting on the ground.
“Well, he’s full of shit, so don’t listen to anything he says.”
Robby pauses for a couple seconds, sees Jack start typing on his phone and uses the illusion of privacy to check, “you okay?”
“Yeah, I—I mean, I think I am. For now,” you smile a little sheepishly, and Robby stares at the shape of it for too long, the subtle curve of your lips and the flash of teeth underneath.
Then, he realizes how close he’s standing, able to catch the details like he’s able to catch the scent of your hair product.
“Uh—ha, so,” you take a step back, obviously having had the same realization, “anyway, I’ll get… I’ll just go back down…”
The stuttering is unwarranted, and the way Robby has to reach out to steady you when you stumble so fucking cute, it makes him lightheaded.
He just—fuck, he wishes you were scared of him. It sounds shitty, but it’s true. The clumsiness and nervous giggles—it should all be from intimidation, not interest, but Robby can see it, the affection, the admiration, the glittery devotion, and it kills him because he doesn’t deserve it. He has done nothing to earn that from you. Any of it.
“I’ll be back down in a second,” he tells you, turning back toward Jack just to break line of sight.
Only when the ‘roof access’ door closes does Robby say anything: “don’t fucking start.”
“Oh, I’m fuckin’ starting,” Jack replies, closing the pizza box then grabbing the railing behind him to pull himself up. “I talked to her for fifteen minutes, and ya’ know what I found out?”
“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me.”
“She’s funny, she’s smart, she can’t cook to save her life, and she worships you, man.”
It’s one thing for Robby to see what he’s pretty sure are romantic feelings, but it’s another to hear about them from a third party. He feels off-balance, maybe a little short of breath.
“And, I’m not talking about some puppy-dog hero worship. She’s been here for, what, a few months? More than enough time to see you lose your shit several times over, and she still likes you, Robby. More than likes. And, I know it’s mutual, so—”
“So, it doesn’t fucking matter!” Robby cuts him off, unable to listen to anything else Jack has to say. “It doesn’t fucking matter. She’s my resident, and she’s young enough to be my daughter. Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about that?” Face in his hands, Robby scrubs at his skin and groans, “feels like I’m going fucking crazy.”
He is. Everything, all of this, you. You are driving him crazy, and he doesn’t know how to take back the wheel or if he even wants to.
✧ ✧ ✧
It gets worse because Robby lets it get worse. He keeps you working on the same patients as him, keeps guiding you through procedures, keeps standing too close and talking too low and staring too long—eyes locked over the work station counter or the iPad held between the two of you, a clash of wide pupils and curiosity that’s only broken when something steals one or both of your attention away.
And, people are talking. Robby hears the whispers, hears Princess and Perlah and sometimes Trinity speaking in Tagalog while watching you and Robby interact. Even if he couldn’t hear any of that, Dana’s voice is loud and fucking clear on her smoke break, “you gonna make it a thing?”
“Nope,” Robby exaggerates the ‘p’, his eyes on the ground, arms crossed as he digs his fingertips into the spaces between his ribs.
“You tell her that?”
“Shouldn’t have to.”
Dana scoffs at that.
“What?” Robby defends, “she’s a professional. She knows there are boundaries.”
“Christ, Robby, are you even hearin’ the shit that’s comin’ outta your mouth? If anyone needs to remember boundaries, it’s you—lookin’ down at her with those big, sad eyes, what’s the girl supposed to do but fall in love?”
“She’s not—”
“You’re huge, you’re smart, you’re funny sometimes, and you don’t punch holes in walls,” Dana lists, some of the ash falling from her cigarette as she talks with her hands. “Face it, cap’. You’re the whole package.”
“Maybe one that’s been kicked around by the UPS guy.”
“See,” she points at him, “funny.”
Robby sighs, twisting his mouth from side to side as he thinks before eventually telling her the same thing he’s told Jack and Pete: “nothing’s gonna happen. I can’t let it.”
“Well, watching you two dance around like this raising my blood pressure, so I’m gonna start pushing her toward the senior residents, yeah? Maybe Frank can take on that mentor role.”
“Ohoho,” Robby chuckles, “you are an evil, evil woman, Dana Evans.”
She takes a drag, exhales with a smirk, “you’re god damn right I am.”
✧ ✧ ✧
He has a running catalog of the things he learns about you—new tidbits every single day.
Your go-to coffee order is an upside down caramel macchiato, iced. Your favorite on-the-clock snack is Goldfish, though you’re partial to the fruit bars in the vending machine. You keep a variety of squishy stress balls in your locker for anxiety, and a bag of twizzlers for the same reason.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to, like, chew on plastic cables?”
“No,” Robby shakes his head, bewildered and maybe a little concerned.
At the same time, Langdon, who’s leaning against the hub a few feet away, butts in, “dude, all the time!”
“Okay, right! See, I’m not crazy.”
Robby looks between the two of you and makes the same face he does when he’s about to deliver bad news to patients, “sweetheart, I am so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but having this man agree with you does not prove your sanity. If anything, it points to an underlying disturbance, and I’m considering calling for a psych consult.”
“Why are you always so mean to me?” you whine, your fake pout betrayed by the mirth dancing in your eyes.
Before Robby can respond, Langdon interrupts again, “oh, this is nothing. Have you ever seen him on a bad day? He’s—”
“Hey, Frank,” Robby says easily.
“—a real—hm, what?”
“Go somewhere else.”
Langdon clicks his tongue, drums on the counter, then spins around, “you got it, boss.”
Robby waits for him to make himself useful in an exam room before turning back to face you.
“So, I heard a rumor,” you start, a bit of a song in your teasing tone of voice, “that he used to be your favorite.”
“I don’t have favorites,” Robby deadpans.
You hum, “sure you don’t,” then grab another twizzler from the pack and play, “can I interest you in some plastic, sir?”
He plucks it from your fingers, “why yes, you may,” then tears into it, lost in the warmth of your goofy grin and the idea that it’s all for him.
✧ ✧ ✧
Something ugly slithers in Robby’s stomach, scalding as it works its way up his esophagus to settle in the back of his throat.
Jealousy. Possessiveness. It burns him. Makes him grip the counter too tightly and clench his jaw in a way that would make his dentist cringe.
Eyes locked on you, Robby watches you talk with a paramedic, a recent hire, he thinks. Or maybe Robby just doesn’t recognize him, hasn’t noticed him before. Had no reason to.
But, he’s all grins and floppy hair. Young. Definitely within the age range you should be interested in.
The thing is, it doesn’t really seem like you are. You’re smiling, friendly, but look like you’re trying to disengage, keep looking at the tablet in your hands. There’s a chance you just don’t realize that you’re being flirted with. There’s only so much the paramedic can do in a setting like this.
Still, Robby can tell—the way the kid is leaning a little too close, braced on an open gurney with his sleeves rolled up. His smile is lopsided, boyish and charming. You’d make an attractive couple, Robby thinks, immediately nauseous at the idea.
When you glance over your shoulder and catch him already staring, Robby lifts his eyebrows, tries to give you his best ‘don’t you have a job to do’ look, mostly to distract you from his previous expression of violent yearning.
Your pretty face drops noticeably, probably think you’re being scolded, and maybe that is what Robby’s doing. Chastising you for something you have no control over, having the audacity to let it happen right in front of him.
So fucking stupid, Robby is so fucking stupid. He has no goddamn right, and yet—
Expression taking on a pleading quality, Robby snaps out of his unjustified anger, and it hits him that… oh. Oh, yeah, you’re looking at him for help, which he is more than happy to provide.
Letting go of the hub counter, he makes his way over, and the paramedic looks a little startled when Robby stops right next to you.
“When’s the last time you checked on your guy in eleven?” Robby questions, acknowledging the younger man with a nod before focusing solely on you, head dipped, all irritated and expectant.
“Um…”
Last Robby checked, 11 just got discharged, though that bed should be getting filled again very soon.
You catch on fast, one side of your mouth lifting for a fraction of a second before you go back to looking sorry.
“I was just headed that way.”
Robby hums, presses his lips together in a forced smile, then before he can stop himself— “course you were. Quit flirting and get to it.” Then he levels his eyes at the paramedic and offers a clipped, “same goes for you.”
Robby turns and walks away but not quick enough to hear the man scoff, “guess the rumors are true. He really is that much of a dick.”
Robby tilts his head just enough for the paramedic to see his face, the sharp angle of his mouth. Heard that.
Facing away from Robby, you don’t see his bitter amusement, and with raised, tense shoulders, you all but hiss, “except he isn’t, so you can fuck right off with that.”
A flurry of emotions swirl inside of him—surprise, pleasure, affection, guilt.
Fuck, you shouldn’t be standing up for Robby; you should be agreeing with the kid. Robby is a dick. He has his moments, the capacity for humor and positivity, but these days he’s mostly sour and cynical and self-deprecating in a way that annoys those closest to him.
Turning to stomp away, you get about four steps before running straight into Robby, shoes squeaking when you try to stop from careening into him, but it’s really his hands on your shoulders that save the both of you from a couple bruises.
“Hey, easy,” Robby holds you still. “We don’t even have anyone in eleven. Slow down.”
Eyebrows pinched together, you pull out of his grip and mutter, “I need some air,” then brush past him.
You look upset, and honestly, Robby isn’t quite sure why. Did he read the situation wrong? Was he not supposed to save you from whatever that was?
Robby gives you a few minutes to yourself, long enough for you to make it out of the pitt, into the elevators, and up to the roof.
The ED isn’t currently flooded with traumas, so he figures it can survive without him for at least a little while. He shoots Dana a look, and she nods, probably understanding the situation better than Robby does himself considering he doesn’t understand it at all.
His heart thuds in his chest, the rate only slightly elevated, but it God, it feels so fucking heavy, not unlike the lead that’s weighing down his stomach.
Something is about to happen. He doesn’t know what, but he knows it is.
Robby doesn’t see you when he steps outside, and panic seizes him for a short moment until he hears the familiar sound of sneakers on concrete just around the corner.
He takes a deep breath, waits for his hands to stop shaking, then steps around that corner to find you posted up against the little building—its only purpose being to shelter the stairwell that leads from the hospital to the roof.
You glance over at him, eyes squinted as they try to adjust from fluorescent light to sunshine. Usually, this is the part when you smile at him, when you look happy to see him. This time, though, your expression remains blank, and Robby has no idea what to make of it.
“If I misread shit down there, I’m sorry,” he tells you because you both have better things to do than stand in silence. “I didn’t mean to ruin whatever—”
“I wasn’t flirting,” you suddenly bite, and Robby actually leans back a little. “Why the fuck would you even think that?”
What?
“I—why are you so pissed that I did?”
Your lips are pressed together in an angry pout, and Robby wonders what it would feel like to kiss you, if that pout would go away, if you would melt at his touch.
He already knows the answer to that, and it pains him. You absolutely would melt for him, and it’s something he derives a sick satisfaction from, but it mixes with frustration and regret. Whatever he’s done to earn your adoration, he shouldn’t have.
There is no reason for you to be caught up on him, so smitten that you have no desire to pursue someone like the charming paramedic. You deserve more.
“I just… I don’t want you thinking I’m involved with anyone,” you mumble, then even quieter, “and if you do, I—… I want it to bother you.”
Robby sighs, raking a hand down his face before he joins you in leaning against the building. So, this is it. The conversation.
Robby stares up at the sky as he takes another long breath to prepare himself for what he’s about to say.
“It does bother me. Makes my fucking stomach hurt.” He can feel your eyes on him but refuses to meet them. “That doesn’t matter, though.”
“Yes, it does.”
You stand up straight, body turned to him now, but Robby doesn’t move aside from the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
He wants to reach for you, tug you to him, hold you by the hips, and stare. He wants to smooth your hair out of your face and smile fondly and bump his nose with yours. He wants to kiss you, feel you hum against his lips while he nips at yours, your tongue, your chest, your small fingers clutching his jacket.
Robby wants.
But, he doesn’t take. It’s not in his nature.
“I can’t give you what you want.”
A sharp inhale, and you take a step closer.
“And, what do I want, Robby?”
Finally looking at you, he blinks a few times, letting the question hang for a few seconds before finally—“me.”
You nod slowly. Robby sort of expected that having it out in the open might bring you some sort of relief, but that’s not what happens. Not even close.
Instead, he watches as your shoulders curl forward, arms crossing over your middle to hold yourself, and your voice is small and watery when you ask, “do you not… want me?”
Robby thinks he might need to go back down to the pitt because he feels his heart break—Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, sudden weakening of the muscle.
Except this isn’t sudden at all. His heart has been aching for close to a year now. Robby’s always been weak for you. From the very start.
“That’s not it at all,” he mutters, the statement wrapped in a layer of disbelief because how could you actually think that? How could he ever not want you?
“Then, why—” you’re interrupted by a sniffle, and Robby digs his nails into his palms when the first tear falls.
“Fuck, please don’t. Please.”
The sting in his hands is gone as quickly as it came, replaced by cotton as he takes hold of your scrub top and gently pulls.
No, no, no, he shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t pull you because you will come to him. You will acquiesce, bend to his every demand, every whim, whatever he wants.
Robby holds your face, and you let him. He tilts your head back, and you let him. He wipes your tears, and you let him, and he feels saliva pool in his mouth like he’s about to vomit because he remembers thinking about this. This. How much he wanted to be the one to wipe your tears, the dawning horror of what that meant for him. For you.
“You deserve the world,” he rumbles, thumbs brushing the soft skin under your eyes, wide and so, so full of longing. “You deserve someone who can give it to you, someone with the fucking energy, who isn’t middle-aged and jaded.”
Voice lowering into a rasp, Robby finishes with the truth—the whole reason he will not let himself have this: “You deserve someone who can worship you the way you should be.”
He isn’t surprised by the kiss, the way you push up to your tiptoes and press your lips to his. Robby’s been dreaming about it forever, though his fantasies never included the tears that get trapped between your mouths.
He indulges for too long, allows himself to slip a hand around the back of your neck as he moves with you. You fit him so well, your body locking into every one of Robby’s empty spaces, and Jesus Christ, he could get lost in this. He wants to so fucking badly, just stay right here with your fingers in his jacket and your lips trembling against his, feeling the words as you whisper them into his mouth like a secret, “I’m so fucking in love with you.”
He sucks it down with a sharp inhale, as if he has any right to let it be a part of him, swallows it and memorizes the taste so that he can return to it over and over again.
Robby pulls back despite his entire soul screaming in protest. He’s still holding you, fingers stroking the back of your neck, and the way he smiles is soft and sad and sorry.
I’m so fucking in love with you.
“It’ll pass.”
You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly, it pushes more tears from your waterline. Lip between your teeth, hands trembling where they’re still gripping Robby’s jacket, you cry.
Cry. Over him.
Feeling his own throat begin to tighten, Robby leans in to kiss your forehead, repeating the words like he’s begging for them to be true.
“It’ll pass. It’ll pass, I promise.”
God, he hopes it doesn’t.
It’s selfish and shameful, leaves him disgusted with himself, but fuck, Robby hopes you hang on to your hope long enough for him to become worthy of it.
