The One That Got Away (2/?) - Warm Beers and River Water
Pairing: (young) Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x f!reader
Summary: You and Robby spend a day off getting to know each other better.
CW: Alcohol, injury description, Robby being a flirt, riding a motorcycle after drinking, fluff
AN: Huge apology to anybody who was waiting for another chapter of this series. My laptop broke a couple of months ago and I've only just splurged on a new one. Chapters may come a little slower due to work, but I have this series pretty much planned out. Enjoy!
PART ONE |
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The sun returned with a vengeance the next morning, scorching the earth like it was trying to upstage the previous night’s rainfall. You squinted as you emerged from your hut, shielding your eyes as you looked over at the long line already forming outside the vaccination tent. Robby and Claire were already set up, jabbing needles into arms at unprecedented rates. You made your way over just as Robby was handing a little girl a lollipop. He let out a low whistle at the sight of your tangled hair and the dark circles under your eyes.
“That moonshine did a number on you, huh?”
You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, didn’t realise I overslept.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Robby said, prepping another needle. “Told Dan you could probably use a few extra hours this morning.”
Your eyes drifted down to where his sleeves were rolled. There was a small tattoo on his left bicep - ‘Memento Mori’ in bold script. Remember that you must die. The barely there smirk on his lips was evidence enough that he’d caught you looking. Before you could come up with some excuse - ‘there was a mosquito on your arm, I swear!’ - a cry for help echoed throughout the camp.
A small crowd had already formed when you and Robby reached the camp entrance. A boy no older than eight was laid out on a stretcher made of cloth and branches, his arm bent at a sickening angle. His mother clutched his uninjured hand, eyes wide with fear as she pleaded with you in Lingala.
“Fell from a tree,” Robby translated tersely as he palpated the boy’s wrist. The child whimpered in pain but didn’t pull away, just stared up at Robby as his stretcher was carried into the trauma room.
You snapped into action without thinking: splint materials gathered, gauze unwrapped, and morphine drawn with a steady confidence that belied the queasy twist of your stomach - half hangover, half adrenaline.
Robby nodded approvingly as you stabilised the limb. “Good hands,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, before reassuring the mother with his limited vocabulary.
By noon, the boy was in recovery with his arm set cleanly. By evening, you’d treated another handful of minor traumas - a wild dog bite, a scalp laceration after a fall, two heatstroke cases, and a freak fishing line accident. When you passed the boy’s cot during the night crew’s handover, he grinned toothily and mimed climbing another tree despite his sling.
Robby leaned against the clinic wall when you both left, nodding back towards the patient beds. “Still wanna bolt for the airport?”
You knocked your shoulder against his, trying to conceal your smile. “Shut up.”
“Good,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Because I already told Dan that you’re the best trauma doc we’ve had in months. Except me, of course.”
“Of course.”
Robby huffed out a laugh. “And if you had bailed? Would’ve had to chase you down myself.”
His tone was light, but something in the way he didn’t quite meet your eyes made it feel heavier than a joke. He wanted you to stay. An unfamiliar warmth settled in your chest at the thought. No, that was ridiculous, you’d only known each other for twenty-four hours.
You hid your smile by looking away, pretending to twist a loose nail that was sticking out of the doorframe. “You wouldn’t catch me. I’m fast.”
Robby stubbed out the cigarette, his breath tickling your ear as he leaned in to whisper. “I don’t doubt it.”
The damp mud squelched beneath his boots as he walked away, leaving you hot in a way you couldn’t blame on the African sun.
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You walked into camp with a spring in your step the next morning. The sun was tucked away behind a cloud, making the heat a little more bearable, and giving the world room to breathe. Breakfast was a bowl of lumpy porridge, prepared by Claire, and a blackened banana which you shared with a hungry stray dog. There was no sign of Robby in the mess tent or the clinic. Dan seemed to notice you wandering around like a lost lamb, his eyes flitting between you and the crossword puzzle he was trying to finish.
“If you’re looking for Robinavitch he’s taking his death trap motorcycle on a joy ride.”
You turned around, trying your best to appear casual. “I wasn’t looking for him. I was just … wondering where all the patients are.”
Dan smiled to himself as he filled out thirteen across. “Mmhmm. Lot of people around here respect the Sabbath, so we’re closed to everything besides major traumas. Gives us a break and a chance to re-stock.” He squinted down at his paper. “You wouldn’t happen to know what a nine letter word for ‘rogue’ is, would you?”
Before you could answer, the distinct sound of an engine rumbling approached, followed by a plume of dust. Robby stopped his bike outside the clinic, just shy of you and Dan, and flashed you a wide smile.
“I miss anything?” he asked, lowering the kickstand with his boot.
Dan barely looked up. “All quiet on the Western front. Your friend here was looking for you though.”
“I wasn’t looking for you specifically.” You said quickly, feeling your cheeks heat up.
Robby brushed past you to grab his water canteen, the stupid grin still on his face. “Ouch. I thought we had something special.” He leaned over Dan’s shoulder. “Three down. Scounderel.”
Dan cursed under his breath as he filled in the boxes. “Go on. Get outta here and give me some peace."
You watched as Robby mock-saluted and backed away, the tread of his boots heavy against the ground as he headed towards the mess hall. He stretched his arms overhead as he walked, the hem of his shirt riding up enough to show the trail of hair leading from his belly button down to his …
“You’re not here to shadow me y’know,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his as you fell into step with him.
You nudged him back, barely able to conceal your smile. “I know. I just didn’t really know what else to do today.”
Robby looked down at you, considering, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorcycle?”
“Do I look like I’ve ridden on the back of a motorcycle?”
“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”
A bird cawed from a tree canopy above you. You huffed, determined not to let Robby - the stupid, charming, scoundrel - fluster you. It was stupid, you’d left America behind to escape from all the bad decisions that had been haunting you for years. And yet, standing before you was a terrible decision. A terrible decision with beautiful eyes and a smile that could get you to do anything.
That’s how you ended up on the back of the bike.
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The engine roared beneath you like a wild beast, the seat vibrating more with every reckless mile put between you and the camp. Robby’s laugh cut through the blood rushing in your ears. He seemed to relish the way your grip around his waist tightened every time he accelerated harder.
“Still alive back there?”
You kept your eyes fastened shut, not daring to look at the trees whizzing past dangerously close to your head. “No! I died five miles ago!”
That laugh again. Rich and throaty. Robby slowed the bike down as he turned into a river clearing, the water reflecting the afternoon sunlight. You clung tightly to him even after he killed the ignition, feeling him turn around.
“You can open your eyes now,” he said, with a smile that you heard rather than saw.
You did, blinking hard as the sun’s rays flooded your vision. There wasn’t much in the clearing, just a few damp boulders by the running water and lots of mud. Robby jumped off the bike, taking your hand to help you down.
“Ta da,” he beamed, spreading his arms wide. “What do you think?”
“There’s nothing here,”
Robby scoffed, digging into the canvas bag on the back of his bike. “Ugh, you’re a hard to impress date.”
Date. The word sent a rush of heat right through you. “Didn’t realise we were on a date.”
“We’re not,” he said quickly. “I’m just saying, if I did ever take you out on a date then I’d probably have to sell a kidney to afford it.”
You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a couple of beers. It was cheap swill, the kind that tasted like cardboard and got you drunk fast. The glass bottle was warm from being stuffed in his bag all afternoon when he passed one to you, the serrated edge of the cap scratching your fingers when you tried to unscrew it.
“Give it here.”
Robby took the beer from you, uncapping it on his belt buckle. The bottle hissed like a rattlesnake, a sea of foam rising to the top. You hummed contently after the first sip, rolling your eyes when you caught Robby smiling at you from behind his own beer.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
The silence between you was thick. A heavy blanket that weighed on you the way humidity did. Robby watched a stork wade through the water in search of fish. You watched him. Your eyes traced over the faded scar on his cheek, the gold chain that dipped beneath his shirt, the bead of sweat trickling down his arm, the way his fingers gripped the neck of the beer bottle.
“You know,” you said, eager to break the silence, “we don’t know that much about each other.”
Robby’s eyes drifted from the bird to you as he took another swig from his beer. “Ask me anything, I’m an open book.” He stretched his legs out, his boots knocking against yours. “Favourite food, first kiss, childhood traumas … well, maybe not that last one yet.”
You nudged his foot, letting the touch linger. “Okay, I’ll go easy on you. Why’d you really come here?”
He exhaled through his nose, the lowering sun giving him a golden glow. “Thought I’d hate it. Wanted to prove I could see something through without bailing like…” A pause. A sip of beer that acted like a colon at the end of his unfinished thought. “Turns out I kinda like it. It’s just hot as hell and full of people who annoy me.” His shoulder bumped yours. “Mostly you.”
“Gee, thanks,” you laughed. “Okay, your turn. Ask me anything.”
Robby studied you for a moment, almost like he was trying to come up with a diagnosis. The teasing glint in his eyes faded into something more thoughtful. “The night that made you pack your bags … what was it?”
The question felt like a splash of cold water, intimate in a way that made it hard to hold his gaze. Across the water, the stork swallowed a fish in one gulp before flying away again. You could’ve lied, brushed it off with a joke about insurance paperwork or burnout cliches. But in Robby’s company, the truth spilled out easier than expected.
“A kid,” you admitted, voice quiet. “Collateral damage from a drive-by shooting, got nicked in the spleen. Medicaid was pending for three weeks while infection set in.” The memory of small hands gripping yours flashed sharp behind your eyelid before you blinked it away. “He died in the ICU, and the parents were given a huge medical bill as a souvenir for losing their only child. I just … I couldn’t do triage by wallet again.”
Robby didn’t say anything for a while, he just slid his hand closer to yours, your pinkies grazing on the warm ground. “So … favourite movie?”
You let out a surprised laugh, the lump in your throat easing slightly. “Nice deflection.”
“Never seen that one.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned around the bottle, drinking the last of his beer in a few gulps. “Ugh, I hate warm beer.”
“Well, you should have rode here faster.” You said, mimicking his teasing smirk.
Robby took your beer too, ignoring the indignant noise you made as he finished it off, before offering you a hand up. “C’mon, super doc.”
You took it, feeling every callus on his hand as he hauled you to your feet. The bike rumbled to life beneath you again as you settled back into the saddle behind him, wind catching your hair when he gunned it. By the time you skidded back to the clinic, shared laughter echoing over the engine, the moon had already claimed the sky. Robby cut the engine, reaching back to steady you with firm hands around your waist as your wobbly legs hit the ground.
“Don’t ever say I don’t show a girl a good time.”
You couldn’t argue with that one.
tag list: @thesandbeneathmytoes
