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Jul 30, 2025

Shadow

well well well, anyone care for a little dr robby x f!attending!reader <33

robby is a details man

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author’s note: HELLO DIVAS, tis me, Luna :000

I’ve been up to my metaphorical bawls in university work (i’m a senior help) so this has come together in drips and drags for a while. I was more challenged by this project than I initially realised, but the more i thought about it, the more inspired i became, and i’m really proud of this piece. i also did something CRAZY and stepped from one old white man to another; welcome to the lunarcowgirl canon…dr michael robinavitch.

warnings & content: panic attack/anxious breakdown, bit of childhood trauma for robby resurfacing (emotional abuse from father to son), simp behaviours, age gap relationship, some attempted violence by a crazy patient, medical guess work courtesy of moi

word count: 2.8k (guys I couldn't stop)

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Dr Michael Robinavitch found his tendency to panic humiliating. This was the opinion he gave his therapist, seeking shelter behind a wry chuckle and a slow shake of his head. Being in the room in the first place was a step in recovery he had rallied against like a bit dog. Eventually, Jack had stared a smoking hole in the back of his neck for one too many shifts and Robby begged for the number if only for some peace. His therapist (seemingly taking Jack Abbot’s lead) ducked his head to find Robby’s eye, an perfectly measured look on his face.

“Why do you think it embarrasses you?”

Robby wished more than anything that he could say something in this too quiet room without it getting hoisted up on the autopsy table and split unceremonsionuly down the middle. His own guts felt on display, each miserable inch of rot.

He brought his hands to his face, simultaneously rubbing at the growing scarlet flush and giving his shaky hands something to do.

“Because I’m Captain of the whole fucking ship, I shouldn’t be drowning.”

He felt his voice trailing upwards, gaining that incredulous tone that made him feel 13 again; trying desperately to explain angry tears to an apathetic father. He could never scrub his Dad’s expression off the inside of his eyelids.

“You being in charge does not make you any less deserving of peace Robby,” His therapist said, “In the place where you work, your humanity is your most valuable asset. If you refuse to acknowledge that you have needs, you compromise that.”

Why are you crying Michael? Wipe that pathetic fucking look off your face!

Robby shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the grating noise running up and down his brain stem.

Robby…we need to take him off the ventilator, the little girl…she needs it

Down came the pressure, crushing his sternum inwards, robbing his lungs of any movement. His blood screamed in his ears, the walls of every cell in his body buckled towards their centres.

Well you’re not my father, so fuck off!

“Robby.”

His therapist’s voice felt miles away, thin and unsteady, something caught between the static on a bad radio channel.

“Robby, you can’t let the wholeness overwhelm you. You need to ground yourself in one single moment, in what you know is true.”

The wholeness was a world bleeding red. It was everywhere; on his clothes, on his hands, all over his heart.

“Just pick a tiny detail, something small, but something real.”

Nothing in this godforsaken mess of a mind felt real, just ugly shape and clanging sound and…blue?

A smudge of powder blue on the very corner of his consciousness, the shade as familiar as the veins on the back of his own hand, a clear Pittsburgh sky.

“Blue…blue fabric,” His voice laboured against the panic.

“Right, good, what kind of fabric?”

“Thin, and pale…soft?” Robby fought to hold the image in his mind, the colour was a blur of motion, bobbing and weaving.

“Don’t overthink it, just find the details, what else?”

He let his head fall backward, opened his lungs, straining at the muscles that yanked him down down down.

“God, uh, the smell of pear…jasmine, something warm…amber?”

The details came pouring in now, filling up his mind, drowning out the roar of panic.

A gentle hum from around a corner, Billy Joel a little off key, Fleetwood Mac with the verses sung out of order, Bruce Springsteen in a dancing, mezzo-soprano lilt.

A soft smile over the heads of a crowded room, the shadow of a dimple on the left side.

A scramble of letters on a chart balanced on his knee, the familiar shapes of loopy ys and identical n’s and h’s that he’d learned to parse with treasured time.

A laugh, open-mouthed and golden, that could only be uncovered when surprised into existence. a rare and precious creature, that filled up the air until the very oxygen tasted sweet.

A tiny birthmark, barely there, in the shape of a star above a right temple. the discovery of it still felt monumental. to be that close, to be welcomed into that careful curated space of casual intimacy. Arms tangled in each other in an effort to hold a life inside someone with all the blood, the panicked beeping of a failing heart that had both the healers’ in empathetic cardiac tandem. In the adrenaline come down of success, the peel away from each other was laborious and painful, and he’d caught that tiny white mark. something that was only his to know.

“Where did you go?”

Robby jerked back to life, back snapping painfully to rigid attention. Breath eased in and out of him in measured breaths, his heart beating in a careful rhythm.

Brows tangled into a frown on his face, he sought for the explanation, “I don’t really—I don’t know.”

“Well you calmed yourself, quicker than I’ve ever seen from any patient, let alone you.”

Robby’s brain sought through the images, their colour and light, the huge array he had found within him without even knowing. Their mosaic had a name.

His therapist was looking expectantly at him again, but Robby was eager to be rid of the scrutiny for now.

“Thank you for today,” He said, leaping from the chair to offer a quick hand shake, “I have to get down to the Pitt before shift starts.”

“Robby…Dr Robinavitch, do you know how you did it?”

Robby was already gone, chasing the blue.

The Pitt was crawling by the time the elevator doors slid open and Robby stepped out. It had been weeks since anyone had commented on Robby arriving at work from upstairs, but he still felt the eyes of half a dozen staff members on him as he weaved through the sea of black, blue and grey scrubs.

Dana, faithful soldier, stood at attention under the board, already drawing up battle plans on her tablet.

“Morning,” she drawled, not looking up, “You had coffee yet?”

Robby smiled to himself, tucking his backpack under the station, “Yeah, triple shot coursing through my abused system as we speak.”

“Good,” She said, “Whittaker has done some kind of unspeakable evil to the machine in the break room, all it does is hiss at you now.”

“Call in Riley,” He replied, eyes skimming over Night shift’s leftovers in all their aching neon colour.

“I don’t know if hospital chaplains can perform exorcisms.”

“You’re telling me Riley is not actually a priest?”

Dana shrugged, glasses perilously close to taking a nose dive straight off her nose, “Never asked.”

Robby looked after her incredulously as she marched away, shaking his head.

The air shifted almost imperceptibly behind him, just the smallest, softest movement. Pear, jasmine, amber.

He moved embarrassingly quick, looking for the shadow that followed that scent around. Sure enough, hovering just below his right shoulder was that soft smile, that little dimple.

You.

The response was immediate, his heart lept up in recognition, pushing against the front of his rib cage as if trying to crawl its way out towards you.

“Hey,” You hissed in a stage whisper, “How’d it go?”

Your eyebrows danced up to your hair line, bouncing in a gesture that he understood as a nod to the ceiling and the floors above it.

Robby’s lips pressed into a hard line to avoid breaking into a humiliatingly endeared laugh. His returned whisper was just as loud, “Fine.”

You settled into a contented nod, knowing that his willingness to play along was a sign he was telling the truth.

“How many this morning?” He asked, doing a bad job at not tracing your profile with his eyes as you slid your arms upward into a catlike stretch.

“Five,” You replied, “Nice and easy, but I’m trying to come down from the weekend.”

“If running 5 miles the morning of a 12 hour shift where you will not sit down is nice and easy, I’m not interested in what you find strenuous.”

Your eyebrow raised once more, this time by itself. A shiver spread through Robby’s system, right down to his toes. He wondered if you could see him squirm.

“You gotta keep the body moving Robinavitch…” A lean in, close enough for him to see the little bit of gold around your irises, “Don’t want it giving out on us.”

Your laugh was liquid sunlight, seeping deep, deep into his skin.

As usual he never had the right words to say; it was never the right time. Somewhere monitors were beeping and people were hurting and a clock told him he was running far, far behind. Get to work, save the day, stay afloat; rinse, repeat.

You smiled through the silence and poked him lightly in the ribs, “Protein bar later? I got a new flavour you are going to hate.”

Any attempt at a frown was thwarted by the corners of his mouth pulling steadily outwards into a smile, “I dread it already.”

You were already moving away, pushing the sleeves of your pale blue undershirt up your arms as you went, “Don’t be scared El Capitan, you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

No, Robby thought, you wouldn’t. You’ve already put all the pieces back together.

The Penguins had made the playoffs for the first time in 5 years, and it was bringing out the crazies as well as any full moon could.

“Sir,” Your voice was firm and steady above the crashing waves of spit and bile and rage, “You need to calm down or we are going to have to restrain you.”

Despite spending the better part of the last 20 years as a teacher, Robby didn’t really like to hover. There was a careful line to walk between supervision, and sowing doubt under the skin of your senior resident by making them think they weren’t trusted. The line was even thinner with you.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” The patient had whipped himself into a irreversible frenzy, alcohol leaking from his mouth, blood seeping from the cut above his brow.

“Ok, that’s enough,” You said and nodded ever so slightly. Malik and Russ, two of the biggest PAs on the floor leapt to attention, wrestling the flailing arms down to his sides.

Robby’s own arms were crossed tightly across his chest, his fingers - going white with the effort - moulding craters in the skin of his biceps.

There was a part of him, a loud part, that wanted nothing more than to swoop you in and drag you backwards out of the frey, toss in dog-housed Frank Langdon for his crimes. But he couldn’t do it, for the very same reasons he couldn’t take your face in his hands and kiss you senseless. It would be patronising, humiliating and altogether without fruition, for the both of you. So he was content now to hover, even if it chaffed, even if he squeezed the life from his own body in the process.

Ever the saint, you were carefully ordering meds while dodging poorly timed kicks from the world’s largest and hairiest 5 year old, “Let’s stick B52, and Emme can you find some soft restraints for Brock Lesner here please.”

A cheeky glance tossed over your shoulder had Robby’s fingers going all together numb, “Mr Renner, maybe when you’re in a better mood you can tell me where you got that Penguins jersey, I’ve got this friend who has a birthday coming up—”

With a roar, Mr Renner broke free of Russ, his arm snapping into a wild haymaker motion through the air. Gaze still hovering near your attending had your usual lightning reaction time failing and you all but threw yourself backward to avoid a fist to the face; right into Robby’s arms.

It was just a second, half a moment, a single heartbeat - your back pressed against his chest, your forearms in his hands. Undeniably real and solid under his touch. He steadied you quickly, allowing himself just one gentle squeeze of your elbows. Your face turned, ever so slightly to track the movement of his fingers on your skin before you stepped out of his embrace. Your abscense burned. Letting out a slow breath you approached the waning strength of Mr Renner, a sedative now coursing through veins courtesy of a somewhat aggressive needle punch to the thigh.

“Damn Sir, I wasn’t going to steal the thing off your back,” You laughed, but the sound was hollow.

He flexed both hands, letting the skin go taught over long fingers spread wide. You lived there still, the ghost of pressure and scent and real honest to God existence. Closeness, however fleeting, had to be enough.

It had become a more regular post-shift ritual in the wake of PittFest, to gather in the park.

“Eat, drink and be merry,” Shen sang, dragging Whittaker through some impression of a slow dance with him, “For tomorrow, we die!”

The poor resident made save me eyes to anyone who would look at him, but no one could make out the signal since they were too busy trying to breathe through the hilarity of him being swung around like a rag doll.

Samira and Jack were hunched together on the opposite bench, resolutely ignoring everyone, the former laughing at a joke from the latter that Robby knew wasn’t funny.

Santos was clearly trying to rope Jivadi into some diabolical scheme, but Victoria had grown steadily in confidence and shot back something that had the R2 reeling backwards in shock.

“She’s biting back.”

There it was again, that voice. A shadow passed over him briefly, before you came flying over the bench, landing nimbly on the other side.

“You are a hopeless show-off,” He laughed.

“And you’re not? I seem to recall an incident not 3 days ago where you tried to lift a pair of 9 year old twins, at the same time.”

You settled back into the seat, seemingly content to watch the revelry rather than join it. He was content to join you in that silence, but he turned his gaze to your hand on the seat beside you, the lines of your fingers, the shiny silver scar on your pointer’s second knuckle. Another detail of you that was now his to know. Another way that made you entirely… you. Embarrassed by his behaviour, he lent back into the chair, shifting his eyes up to the sky.

One by one, your shift mates made their excuses, fading into the rising darkness. Every time someone rose to go, Robby expected you to join them, brushing off your scrubs, uncoiling into your cat like stretch;

I’ll see you tomorrow Cap.

But you didn’t leave. Instead you sat in comfortable, easy, practised silence. A solid unmoving presence beside him. Did you realise your breath had slowed to match his? Did you know your hand on the edge of the bench was just millimeters from his?

The timing wasn’t right, he never had the words, somewhere a clock was ticking—

“Would you consider it wildly inappropriate if I suggested we got dinner sometime?”

Robby choked, his whole body flinging itself forward with his heart.

You remained still, calm, reaching a hand up to gently pat him on the back.

“You should take comfort that if you were to actually stop breathing, I’m trained to save you.”

Save him. Indeed.

He turned then to search your face for the punchline. Your expression was open, your eyes gentle and patient and trained on him already. Waiting for him to make the move.

“I’d…,” His voice was a feeble thing, “I would like that.”

Your mouth screwed up into a rose bud, a barely restrained smile, “Yeah?”

Yeah. Yes. Always.

He brushed your hair away from your face, achingly gentle, tucking it carefully behind your ear. He felt like an exposed nerve, a breath away from eternal, all consuming sensation - pain or bliss, it didn’t matter.

His thumb found the spot above your temple, brushed across the faint white star of the tiny birthmark, no bigger than any of his freckles.

“I love this.” He said simply.

The perfect, surprised laugh, “How did you even know it was there?”

“Because I know you.”

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That's it! Thank you for reading! love ya!