something new, something stolen
Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!reader
synopsis: You go out for drinks with the rest of the PTMC Emergency Department after being convinced by Trinity Santos. You have your first drink and your first kiss after Doctor Robby drives you home.
word count: 3k
a/n: there isn't anything crazy in this fic but if there is anything you think I should add to the content warnings just let me know (^-^)
content warnings: first time drinking (reader), first kiss/stolen kiss (reader), age gap (reader is 24), reader works at PTMC as a surgical stores clerk (basically managing the hospital's inventory and requisitions for the different wards/departments)
After work drinks weren't something you really participated in on account that you didn't drink alcohol— there was never any special reason for it, it was just something you never had an inclination for. But, Trinity Santos, had a way of convincing people— i.e you— to go along with her requests; she was never malicious, never putting you in uncomfortable situations and also knowing when not to push something. This however, was something she would not let up on.
You needed to go for drinks with them.
It would be fun, she had said.
Which, much to your chagrin, it was. The noise of a crowded bar on a Friday night was, surprisingly, rather pleasant. The raucous laughter and drunken chatter not as overwhelming as you had always thought it might me; nobody was pushing their way through, neither were they doing or saying anything obscene.
Your shoulders relaxed a bit as Trin and you joined the rest of The Pitt Crew, as she'd taken to calling the group. Victoria, Dennis and Samira had already found a table on the far side of the bar in a corner, Samira looking far better than Victoria and Dennis who along with Trin had just finished up a shift. It had been a rare day off for her and yourself— mostly because you didn't like the idea of taking days off only a hand full of months into a new job.
"I see you two finally made it," Doctor Abbot said as he joined the group carrying a few bottles of beer in one hand and a glass of a particularly colourful cocktail in the other. "Thought you both must've gotten lost."
"Little miss fancy pants over here wanted to make sure she looked good," Trinity replies as she points at you, your face heating in embarrassment at her teasing dig at you.
"It's not my fault my hair was being difficult," you intone as you hang you fiddle with the charms hanging from your bag.
"Your hair looks good," the familiar voice of Doctor Robby said as his hand glides across the small of your back as he passes you. You try to resist jumping a mile in the air at the touch, a shiver running down your spine. The warmth you felt in the apples of your cheeks now engulfing you completely.
"Thank you," I say with a huff. "It only took me over half an hour. The stupid curls wouldn't sit right."
He smiled at you, his eyes catching the harsh overhead lights. "Let me get you a drink," he says, his voice low and kind.
"She doesn't drink," Trinity interrupts before you could say a word.
She wasn't wrong. But you did hate her a little for cutting in like that. "One drink should be fine," you say, looking at her pointedly before looking at Doctor Robby.
Trinity held up her hands in surrender before she set her sights on Whittaker. "I can get you a cocktail or coke if you want," he offers without question.
"A whiskey sour?" You say the name of the first drink you could think of that didn't sound horrible or immature. "Maybe?"
"You don't have to get alcohol," he tries to assure you.
"I know, but it sounds... nice," you shrug. "No harm in one drink, right?"
"Okay," he relented, patting your arm before he makes his way to the bar.
You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should stay put or follow after him even if only to make sure he doesn't have to carry all the drinks by himself now that Doctor Abbot had settled next to Samira clearly without any attention to move away for even a second. Everyone had someone to converse with, to keep their attention, and so you thought it best to make yourself scarce and head to the bar after Doctor Robby.
It was crowded to say the least, everyone congregating at the bar to welcome in the weekend, to watch whatever game was on and get hammered. Crowds weren't your thing, it annoyed you to no end and a drunk crowd was just terrible— all sense and propriety was thrown out the window. But you'd be fine, you silently assured yourself; it wouldn't be awful because why would it be when you were going to be surrounded by friends— gosh, you couldn't remember the last time you had friends— who would look out for you, especially Trinity.
With a soft hey, you sidled up to Doctor Robby, narrowly avoiding getting shoulder checked by a guy carrying a tray of shots only to lose your footing— the fact that you were wearing heels, though of sensible height, did not help— to quite literally fall into his arms because why ever not, the universe was out to get you, you were certain of it because you really weren't a clumsy person by any means, nor were you altogether socially inept.
But ever since you started working at The Pitt, as everyone so affectionately called it, it was like everything was going, maybe not wrong, but definitely not well. Just on the second day on the job you had sprained your ankle while dropping off the supplies that the ED was running low on, then about a month after that you had slipped on the last two stairs, because for some god forsaken reason it was wet, which resulted in a rather embarrassing fall and a bruised lower back— no lasting affects, thankfully. Then, of course, there was the box that fell on your arm just two weeks ago, no broken bones.
You were still undecided on whether or not you were lucky to escape with bruises on your back, arm and pride especially with how tongue-tied you used to be around Doctor Robby; it was better now that you were more accustomed to him but that really wasn't saying much when you felt like a teenager with a horrendously bad crush.
You were almost certain that this was all somehow the masterplan of the cosmos to categorically humiliate and punish you for daring to leave. Was that a touch bit dramatic? Yes. But did it feel true, nonetheless? Also yes.
But it was fine.
Especially when you got to stand so close to him. The distinct sterile scent of someone who likely worked in the ED longer than you've been alive and, of course, of hand sanitiser was oddly pleasant— a blank slate for you to project your fanciful musing and daydreams onto.
"You okay?" He asked, his brows furrowing and head dipping in concern as he held you around the waist, steadying you from your embarrassing fall— which you could only be thankful didn't end with you face-planting onto the floor.
"Yeah, sorry about that," you right yourself, unable to actually look him the eyes right now. You should've just stayed at the table with the rest of the group.
"Happens to the best of us," he says simply, knowing better than to dwell on it for longer than necessary.
His hands lingered on your waist for a second longer than what would normally be acceptable as he guided you to stand in front of him, shielding you from being accidentally pushed around. Don't freak out, you chanted in your head. He was just making sure that you didn't hurt yourself, that's all. The fact that you could feel his body heat seeping into your back, the way he rested his forearm on the bar counter ordering your whiskey sour with his other hand having drifted down to your hip and resting there as if it were the most natural thing in the world, did not affect you. Not in the least.
You did not stop breathing, didn't hold onto the edge of the bar as if your life depended on it, didn't even think that this meant anything. Because it didn't, why would it? Doctor Robinavitch, in the few months that you've known him, didn't seem like the type of man to make a move on someone, at minimum, twenty years his junior— not that you would want him to be that sort of person.
That, however, did not stop you from fantasising— just for a moment— about him, properly, caging you against the bar and pressing against you, letting his hands skim the hem of your dress before sliding underneath.
"— should be wondering what's taking us so long," he holds your drink for you as he shepherd's you back to the shared table with a hand on the small of your back.
"They're probably drunk enough to not really care," you reply, the tail-end of what he was saying was enough for you to respond.
"Took you both long enough," Santos said, pulling you to sit down next to her, an arm thrown across your shoulders without any regard. "Thought I was gonna have send out Huckleberry to hunt to you down."
"That's a bit much, Trin," you cringe at her declaration. You didn't hate it though, her penchant for dramatics was something you both shared, her silly nicknames and out of left field jokes leaving you in stitches more often than not.
•♡•
Somehow, between the conversations and laughter, one drink had turned into two and then three and four. You weren't drunk, per se, having surprisingly handling your liquour quite well despite it being your first time drinking. And though you weren't drunk, your were quite tipsy; a bit unsteady on your feet but far more free, your inhibitions lowered significantly.
"We should start heading out," Doctor Abbot said, you think, your last drink— a neat whiskey that had just the right intensity to it that you liked— still clutched in your hands as you nodded along to the song playing, letting your eyes travel around the bar.
You grew a bit tired, electing to rest your head in your hand as you slowly sipped the last bit of your whiskey. The sounds of chairs scrapping against the wooden floor and the shuffling of bodies as they gathered their stuff. A weight of a firm hand on your shoulder drawing you back to reality, the wistful haze of alcohol that had settled in your mind like the early morning fog back home; no, not home, it hadn't been that for years, it was just New York now— a city you had once lived in but have since left, there was nothing there for you.
"Let's get you home," said Doctor Robby, as he took the now empty glass out of your hand. Turning your attention to him you notice he has your jacket and handbag in hand as well.
"Oh," you murmur, blinking up at him for a moment too long before you realise that you were the only two left. Trinity was supposed to drive you home, you remember distantly. Tearing your eyes away from him, patiently waiting for you to muster up and get going but you feel so slow— everything feels slow if you were being honest— and you can't say that you liked the feeling; why, you wondered quietly, would anyone drink when it slowed everything down like this.
It was awful, you decide silently with a nod.
But nevertheless, you get up. You reach sluggishly for your jacket, a chill settling over you now that you were properly moving again. Without a word, he helps you put it on. His hand rests at the small of your back guiding you out of the bar.
It was going to be miserable trying to get home in such a state. Why on earth did you decide on a place that was out of the way? Cheap rent, that's why. Maybe, you thought, when your lease was up you should move closer to the hospital.
"In you go," directed Doctor Robby, ushering you into the passenger seat of his car.
"What?" You say, a bit taken aback. "I can just call an uber or something. You don't have to drive me home."
"It's late, and it's not a bother," he said pointedly, already disputing your next argument.
You part your lips wanting to argue the point but with just a tilt of his head and a raised brow whatever fight you had in you left as you pressed your lips firmly together. "I live a bit far though," you say quietly.
"I know, Santos gave me your address," he said, reaching over to pull the seat belt across you.
The drive was quiet save for the sound of the engine and indicators. Silence never really bothered you, having craved it for years. But now, in the quiet of his car, it was deafening and awkward. You weren't sure if you should say something; you shifted in the passenger seat every few minutes, unable to stay still for long enough.
You stared out the window, fiddling absentmindedly with the seat belt. The building passing by in a blur as your head lolls against the window, your eyes fluttering shut.
•♡•
"We're here," a gentle voice said, pulling you so sweetly out of sleep.
You rub the sleep from your eyes, stretching as much as you could in the passenger seat. You glance out the window, and there it was, your rented townhouse on Ophelia street that you had lucked out and rented for below market price.
"It's late," you said, you eyes still fixed on your house. You could feel his eyes on you, burning a hole through you. "You probably shouldn't be driving when the roads are wet or if you're tired."
"Probably shouldn't," he replies with a heavy exhale.
"You could crash on my sofa if you want," you suggest without thought. You didn't want to examine why you made such a suggestion, it was too late and you were too tired for that. "It wouldn't be a bother."
Doctor Robby shook his head with a laugh. "Okay," he said easily enough, pulling his keys from the ignition.
As you walked up to your front door you dug through your handbag searching for your keys, finding it after a moment. You let Doctor Robby in first, shutting the door behind you. "Tea, coffee?" You ask as you turn around to face him after exiting the entry hallway only to bump into him, not realising how close he had been.
A startled gasp leaves you as you take a stumbling step back. "Sorry," you mutter just as he reaches out to stabilise you— out sheer habit, you were certain. Your hands settling on his forearms without a thought, a state that you were seemingly always in when faced with him.
His hands didn't leave their perch on your waist and— fuck.
What the fuck?
Maybe you were still a bit tipsy, drunk? You could've sworn that his hands tensed on your waist, pulling you barely an inch closer. You chanced a glance up at him and he was already looking down at you with look in his eyes that you had only ever read about or saw in movies. But, surely, there was no way he was actually looking at you like that. It was just your overly active imagination.
And in a blink of an eye, his lips are on yours, stealing your breath from you as your brain short circuits.
Again, what the fuck?
You couldn't find it in yourself to make sense of this, to find some logic to reason away about why Doctor Robby was kissing you. Actually kissing you. Your hand, without your say so, drift to back of neck, his hair tickling your fingers as a surprised moan leaves you as his arm fully wraps around your waist pulling you you in closer.
This wasn't how you thought your first kiss would happen; you didn't even think you would ever have a first kiss, it just never seemed like something attainable to you. But, you did think it would be more... tender. Robby's kiss, though not tender, had the startling ability to put your at ease— all the tension you carried throughout your life like Atlas and the celestial spheres.
You weren't sure if you were doing it right, silently wondering if the kiss was a good for him as it was for you; it was a struggle to breathe with every bit of air he stole from you, the lightheadedness was a delightful feeling as you back hit the wall of your living room. Robby's lips leaving yours, catching his breath as he stared down at you, his hands going to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he cushioned it from the wall.
"Wow," you murmur, not really feeling up to forming any meaningful commentary.
A small laugh— more of an amused huff in all honesty— left Robby as he moved his hand to caress your cheek, the softness of which surprised you but nonetheless lulling you into a state of calmness; his touch acting as a dam for the flood of thought that would sweep you away with its currents if you were allowed a singular inch of space to think, to reason with yourself, to convince yourself that this was all a meaningless drunken mistake.
"Let's get you to bed," Robby whispered, his breath a ghost against your lips. His hands travelling down the length of your arm to take your hand in his.
No more words were said, you weren't even sure if something needed to be said. Robby had left you in your bedroom, letting you change into your nightdress— you didn't feel up to going through your nightly routine— and get into bed.
You didn't hear the sound of your front door closing, assuming with a flutter that he was perhaps on your sofa trying to find a comfortable enough position to fall asleep in. You wouldn't go out to check— you couldn't— knowing that if you did and he decided to do more than just kiss you, you would let him.
