hospital policy | II. the date
mrxf!slp!reader
Pairing: michael robinavitch x f!slp!reader
Not long after meeting Michael in the hospital, he asks you on a date. You agree.
WC: 4.5k
Warnings: My blog is 18+, MDNI, female reader, language, pining, kissing, alcohol consumption, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of Alzheimer's, no use of y/n (reader is a pediatric speech language pathologist), reader is described as shorter and younger than Robby, and hair is long enough to be put up, but there is no other physical description of reader
part i.
Author’s Note: i got like hella depressed,,sorry for the delay pookie bears,,, i hope it's worth the wait tho!
Robby sat in a lowly lit restaurant at a two top table across from an empty chair. Slow, dreamlike keyboard notes sounded throughout the building while his right leg practically vibrated under the table. Usually, he finds music to be comforting, calming, an anchor in his ever-present chaos threaded life. But at this moment, as he sat alone in a room full of people, he found the soundtrack to be haunting rather peaceful.
God, he thinks to himself, what is he doing?
He swiftly wipes his slickened hands on his pants and reaches to pull out his phone from his pocket. Opening the screen to his messages, he scrolls through his contacts without thinking. He wasn't entirely sure why he had clicked on his texts; it wasn't as though he needed to send anything to anyone.
Sighing, he clicks on Jack's contact, rereading the thread that was sent back and forth the night before.
Mike: I think I should cancel. I asked her out over the phone, what if she thinks that was rude? What if she just said yes because she didn't want to turn me down.
Jack A.: If she didn't want to go on a date with you she would've said no
Jack A.: And it'd be rude if you canceled the night before
Jack A.: She gave you her number first so she basically made the first move
Jack A.: Younger people are weird too they don't care about like stuff like that a lot of the time
Mike: I don't know, man. The last person I went on a date with was Heather, and she kind of took the reigns on the going out kind of dates. She certainly never would've asked me on a date over the phone. With her schedule, we didn't have time for many dates.
Jack A.: Dude you need to calm the fuck down
Jack A.: It's just dinner and again she made the first move
Jack A.: Good thing too because you would've never made the first move
Mike: Thank you for your opinion on who made the first move. It was really necessary.
Jack A.: Look man you already committed to the damn dinner date so just follow through
Jack A.: If it stresses you out too much then think of it as a dinner between friends or a potential colleague
Jack was always good at talking Robby out of his bullshit excuses—most of the time, at least. He was grateful he texted Jack the night before, though. It did well to ease most of his anxieties, particularly about you and the anticipation of the date. He wanted it to go well so badly, it was the only thing he thought about yesterday and last night. Though, Jack did make a good point; you gave him your number. Why would you have given him your personal number if you didn't want him to reach out? And when would he have asked you in person? It's not like he saw you every day.
Robby exhaled, realizing he wasn't exactly breathing normally. He squeezed his eyes shut, giving a quick shake of his head, hand reaching for the glass of ice water in front of him. If this were a dinner with Jack or, hell, even Heather or Janey, he would've probably went ahead and requested a drink or an appetizer. For some reason, though, he couldn't bring himself to order ahead of you. Robby wanted to wait for you first and see what you wanted to order. The last thing he wanted to be was presumptuous. You seemed so well poised and sure of yourself. He wanted to appear so to you as well, despite what the tightness in his chest and the hot chills on his exposed skin was telling him.
Glancing at his watch, for what seemed to be the thousandth time, he admitted maybe getting to the restaurant 20 minutes early was too early. In what was an attempt to quiet and soothe his nerves only resulted in riling him up more.
Ten minutes of his knee running a marathon, and you walked into the restaurant. Incandescent glass bulbs hanging from the ceiling reflected light your eyes, the once polished energy was now replaced with something more undone, more human. Your hair wasn't done up either, you had let it loose, framing your face as if it were a painting displayed in a gallery.
While you were just as put together as he had seen you before, you seemed more…you. You had switched out your slacks for a skirt that brushed against your calves. Instead of loafers, you were in simple, but pretty, kitten heels. And a brown leather purse was slung over the same shoulder that once held your brown messenger bag before.
You looked nice—more than nice—you were breathtaking.
You looked out over the floor of table settings, looking for the tall, brown cow-eyed emergency medicine doctor. It didn't take long for you to locate him. As your eyes settled on him dressed in a dark, coffee brown button up, you felt the air suspend in your air way. If he was attractive in his scrubs and jacket, then he was stunning in a button down and dress pants.
Don't fuck it up, don't be too much, you chant the phrase, turning it over in your head as you slowly make your way to the table he was seated at. Your grip on your bag tightened to counteract the layer of sweat that lined your hand.
The first, and only time, you had seen him in person, you were practically at his throat. It wasn't necessarily uncommon for you to instigate, to pick a fight when you needed to. You did not want to do that with him here and now. He was kind enough to even ask you to go to dinner with him after that day in the hospital. He had every right not to.
Approaching the table, he stands up, pulling out a chair for you.
"A gentleman, who would've thought?" You remark with a smirk, not a moment of hesitation. 'Thank you.' Just say 'thank you', you internally cringe. You try to not show any falter to the taller man to offset any perceived offense and sit down, placing your purse in the empty chair to your right.
"Contrary to popular belief, I can be gentlemanly," his smile reaches his eyes, crinkling in the corners, "when I want to be." Relief rushes your head, and you feel a bit of tension release from the muscles in your back.
"So there's no desire to be 'gentlemanly' in your ER?" Jesus Christ, at this rate, you're going to actually piss him off, what the fuck is wrong with you? But he just chuckles. You like his smile, it's genuine and kind.
"I don't think there's room for me to be 'gentlemanly' there."
Oh, good, he can banter. Maybe this won't be a total dumpster fire, then.
"Not really much time to be, either."
"Isn't that, like, against all the professionalism training you have to go through?" you ask, smoothing out your skirt.
"Ohoho, one hundred percent," he leans back in his chair, arm settling on the table.
"Hey, I don't judge. My professionalism isn't what it should be, for sure. I can't tell you how many times I get in trouble for 'going against the rules' or whatever my boss is upset about."
Robby raises a brow. "A pediatric SLP who breaks the rules?"
"Well," you trail, a quiet huff of air escapes you, "I mean yes and no. Sometimes the therapy my superiors promote doesn't work for some of my kiddos. They're older and pretty traditional, and some of the ways they think are just outdated. But I can't leave my clients hanging, I have to think outside of the box." His eyes were trained on yours, taking in every word you said. The intense attention veers your eyes to look down at the silverare and napkin at your place. You reach to mess with the fabric. "And my students always have me changing things up too. I swear, they keep me young."
"Amen to that," he raises his glass slightly to you before taking a sip. "Every new set of students and interns I get, there's a new way I have to communicate with them. Especially in more recent years, I just find myself more lost" he sighes, "Just goes to show that an old dog can't be taught new tricks."
You giggle at him, actually giggle. What are you? A school girl with a crush? Jesus Christ.
"I hate that saying," you raise your head to look at him again. His head cocks to the side like an intrigued puppy.
"'An old dog can't learn new tricks?'"
"It's incorrect," you shrug.
"You a trainer for geriatric dogs on the side?" He jokes. You laugh again, your cheeks are beginning to ache.
"No, no—"
"May I get you two started with something to drink?" You're interrupted by a young man in restaurant black attire. Both you and Robby look over to him, before looking at each other and then down to the menu that you had both neglected to overview before the waiter got to your table.
Hastily, you try to find something on the menu that you recognize, that you knew you like, and suddenly, you find yourself unable to read properly. Scanning up and down, left to right, you settle on the words in the middle of the page.
"Uh, I'll have a blueberry lemon drop and a glass of water, please," you rush out before there's too much awkward silence. You close your menu with an unhurriedness that shocked your pounding heart rate back to normal. It was then you noticed Robby had pulled on some thick rimmed, round glasses while reading over his menu. God, and when you thought he couldn't get any more attractive.
"Bourbon, and some more water, as well."
The waiter jots down a note or two before nodded and walking back to the glass exposed kitchen.
"Now, back to dogs and tricks," Robby's attention rested itself back on you.
"Ah! Right," you shake your head, trying to call back your train of thought, "Old dogs, new tricks, neuroplasticity. Basically, you get older and your brain looses 'pathways.' I assume you're familiar with this concept?" He nods, a subtle gesture for you to continue. "But just because you loose pathways doesn't mean you can't make new pathways—new neural links. My old professor always said, your brain is a map of roads. But sometimes those roads deteriorate or get blocked off. That doesn't mean you can't take a detour, or buid an overpass.
"In grad school, I had an elderly woman who was a chef before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. We worked on a lot of different ways to keep her in the kitchen as long as we could. We ended up using lots of labels, memory and recipe books, things like that. She picked up crochet too, it ended up being transferable, somehow. I think once she started therapy, she ended up plateauing at a level 3 or 4 for a long time," you smiled at the thought of her—Wendy Limee. She was a sweet, older lady with bright eyes and snow, white hair. There was never a session she walked into without a smile on her face, and a story at the tip of her tongue. She was one of your chatterbox clients, you were always sure to schedule her at a time you didn't have anything after. "A year or two ago, her daughter reached out to me to tell me she had passed."
Robby hung on to your every word as if it were the last thing he'd ever hear, "I'm so sorry, she must've meant a lot to you."
"Yeah, she did. She's one of the reasons I kind of swore off adult therapy for good. It made me too sad knowing the eventual outcome. Kids stick around a lot longer, and they're usually less frustrated, or at least frustrated in a different way," you bring your hands to your lap, toying with the beaded bracelet that hugged your wrist, sliding the beads along the string, one-by-one. "Anyway, you can teach an old dog new tricks, it's just a little different from teaching a puppy."
"I like that way of thinking," Robby murmured, letting out a soft breath. It wasn't often he found himself so entranced in someone else's words. Listening to you speak, though, he found was as easy as a simple suture.
"Me too," you glanced at him, and the hand rested on his water glass. You couldn't help but wonder what that very hand would feel like on your skin, caressing your face, soft touches wandering up and down. What are you doing? You yell in your mind, shaking the fantasies away as fast as they entered your train of thought. Heat creeps up to settle in the apples of your cheeks, making you quickly divert your eye contact from him. Hopefully, he didn't catch on to your gaze or any inkling of what you had been thinking.
Thankfully, the waiter brought your drinks to the table, setting each down gently. You both mutter a quiet 'thank you'before ordering your entrees. Robby takes off his glasses and puts them in his left breast pocket of his shirt.
"You know, I'm gonna be honest with you, Robinavitch," you pick up your drink to sip from it. "I'm surprised you asked me to dinner after I nearly bit off your head—and your resident's too at that."
His eyebrows twitched up. "To be fair, that resident in particular needed a good humbling."
The Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat as he took a sip of the brown liquor in his glass. He lopsidedly shrugged his shoulder, as if he was in agreement with you. "In all honesty, I deserved it too. The policy was—is—stupid."
"How's that going, by the way?"
"You haven't heard anything from Gloria?" He seemed surprised.
"No, I haven't. I thought I was going to hear from Dr. Underwood before I was going to ever hear from you. I thought I was going to have to track you down in the hospital again to ask you on a date myself." Robby's face flushed red as he looked down from you to his hands. He cleared his throat, regaining composure. You find his flushed complexion endearing.
"I, also, have not heard from her about a policy change. But, regardless, I have instructed my staff that anyone who is conscious and unable to speak, or hear, gets a speech or audiology consult—with or without cognitive criteria."
Your spine straightens at his words, your breath, once again caught.
"Really?" You whisper airily. He nods deeply, giving you a 'yep', popping the /p/. "That's wonderful!" You exclaim excitedly. Your sudden shift in demeanor from well composed to practically a kid on Christmas morning made his breath hitch. But a heartbeat later, and you were once again collected, clearing your throat. "I mean, really, the bare minimum. I'm surprised you haven't gotten a complaint before me, but I'm glad you've changed things. This really will help so many of your patients in so many ways." You rambled.
"Can I ask you something about your mother?" He shifted the topic. Something that was in the back of his mind.
"Of course."
"Your mother signed to me. Is she Deaf?"
"Oh, no," you chirped, before thinking for a moment. You open your mouth to amend your previous statement. "Well, no, she's not Deaf, but she is a little hard of hearing. And you're right. She did sign, my whole family knows sign to an extent. My aunt—mom's sister— was born Deaf."
"Ahh," it clicked into place for Robby. "And how is she doing—your mother, I mean? Well, I hope?"
The fact that he still thought of you and your mother, and seemed genuinely curious about her wellbeing, warmed your heart. "She's doing very well, thank you. She's still recovering, but I've got a former colleague out here who was willing to take her on to help facilitate the process."
"I'm glad she's doing better. It's not often at the ED that we get to see our patients fully recovered."
"That's gotta be really hard. That's one thing I love about therapy, the relationships I get to build with my patients," you pause. "Does it ever bother you? That you constantly see people at what is probably at what is their lowest moments?" You ask him, taking a sip of your drink, furrowing your brow at the thought.
He hesitates, how much does he tell you? How much should he tell you?
"Uh," he starts, trying to formulate his answer in a way that wasn't too Debbie Downer. "It can be hard at times. I mean, you can't always save everyone. The ones you loose are the ones that stay with you," he inhales, brushing his thumb across the condensation on his glass. For a moment, you worry if you shouldn't've even asked him this question. Before you change the topic, he opens his mouth again, and his bearing becomes a little lighter.
"We save a lot of lives, though. Save more than the ones we loose, and we end up saving their families too, by proxy," he swallows, flickering his eyes up to you before sniffing and clearing his throat. "It's hard, but it's so, so rewarding seeing a parent hug their child in relief after what is probably the scariest moment of their life. Seeing the joy and the gratitude.
"I mean, it's not always a dream, but I keep going back," he chuckles thinking of all the times he and Jack end up on the literal roof of the hospital. Every shift is an utter hellscape. So why does he talk about it so optimistically with you?
"That's really beautiful," you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, resting your head in your hand. You know, if your mother saw you, she'd be scolding you for 'elbows on the table.' For some reason, though, you couldn't be bothered to remember what was and wasn't 'polite.' How could you think about anything other than the well-spoken, attractive older man that sat before you.
Before you or him could say another word, the waiter returned once again, setting down food in front of you and your date. The food looked delicious. Genuinely, you think this is the nicest restaurant you've been to in a good long while. Between bites of food and sips of liquor, the conversation flowed naturally, changing from topic to topic.
People flowed in and out, music played quietly in the background, outside city dwellers dwindled as the night dug deeper. By the time your meal was finished, guests had trickled out, leaving the two of you some of the few people left on the floor. You might have felt guilty for holding up a table for so long, but you were having such a wonderful date with Robby that you didn't even notice the passage of time around you.
Robby seemed to have the very same thoughts woven in his head, scratching his beard as he said "I guess I should pick up the bill."
"Are you sure? I can pay for my half," you offer, reaching over to dig through your purse for your wallet. But just as you find it, you feel his hand, large and callused, settle heavily on your forearm. Stopping your search, you look up at him. He seemed almost offeneded at your suggestion, appalled the mere thought of paying crossed your mind.
"Sweetheart, I'm sure. I asked you on the date, I'm going to pay."
'Sweetheart.' He called you 'sweetheart,' and you swear you can almost hear your heart tripping over itself in your ears. The nickname caused heat to rush to your face, which is weird because you're not one to enjoy being called pet names. But hearing it from him? It's as if the world stopped in its place and faded away.
"Of course, no, yeah," you breathe, reluctantly retracting your hand from your bag shortly after he lifts his own.
Robby flagged down the waiter, taking care of the check. A slight shiver runs down your back, and warmth radiates throughout your body. You shift in your seat a bit, reorienting yourself and crossing your legs, hoping for subtlety.
As he signs with a quick flourish, he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses. A tiny smirk etches itself onto his mouth, which he quickly tried to smother, hoping for subtlety.
Together, you walk out of the restaurant stopping after exiting the building. The nighttime, Pittsburg air is uncharacteristically nice. Warm enough to not warrant a jacket, but a breeze brushing itself softly against your skin and through your hair.
"I'll walk you to your car," he offered, looking down at you. The kitten heels didn't do much to offset the height difference. And fuuuuck…
"Oh, uh," you smile sheepishly, "I didn't drive. My mother lives about a block or two away, so I walked here."
"Let me take you home then," he offered, his hand instinctively reaching for yours. He didn't want you walking home alone at night, the very thought was enough to make his anxiety spike. Hopefully, you would say yes, and, in addition to making sure you were safe, he could also spend more time with you. He waited for your answer with bated breath.
"Okay, yeah, I'd like that," your smile reaches your eyes as your hand reaches for his.
He leads you to an old school motorcycle, handing you a helmet. You struggle to pull it over your thick hair, but after a moment or two, and with a little help from Robby, it's secured in place. He straddles the seat, and assists you behind him. Silently, you thank yourself for putting on some shorts underneath your skirt (as if you don't always wear shorts under your skirts and dresses).
As he starts the engine, you frown. "Wait, what about you?"
"Don't worry about me," he says, which only makes you frown deeper. Before you can protest though, he asks a quick "now where did you say your mom's place is?"
"Um, just down that way," you rattle off your address. He simply nods and pulls off in that direction.
Robby wasn't usually one to follow most traffic laws, but with your hands held tightly around his abdomen, he followed every single rule of the road with the utmost caution. His own life? It didn't much matter to him if he risked it. But you? You trusted him with yours, and that was not something he took lightly.
You squeezed your eyes shut, holding onto Robby for dear life. The poor man was probably going to wake up with bruises where your arms were in the morning.
As he approached the apartment complex, he slowed down, parking the bike as close to the door as he could. You let out the largest sigh of relief when he killed the engine, your death grip on him finally relenting.
"Oh, thank god. How do you do that?" He turns to look at your exasperated face. Your widened eyes shone under the street lights. Beautiful, he thinks.
You cock your head to the side, "What was that?"
It was his turn to widen his eyes, only it was in embarrassment and not awe.
"Nothing, I didn't—" he clears his throat, "Um, do you want me to walk you up?"
"Yes, I do," you claim with certainty. He helps you off the bike and takes the helmet off of your head. Gently, you take a hand to push your frazzled hair back and out of your face, and for what felt like the thousandth time tonight, he felt his heart pick up.
You take his hand and pull him behind you into the building, almost tripping over his own feet. He follows you with a grin spread on his face, suddenly aware that he didn't know when the last time he let himself be so carefree.
There was something about you—your smile, your eyes, the way you spoke and carry yourself—he didn't know, but it made him feel like a weight was taken off of him, like he could breathe again.
You stop suddenly at a door, panting a little, just as he was. Despite neuroplasticity and all that, he was still an old dog and he was well aware that he can't move like he used to.
"Well, this is me," you jab a finger over your shoulder to a door with a green wreath in front of it. From a branch sat a small faux brown and yellow bird. "Michael, I just want to thank you for such a wonderful night."
"It was my pleasure," the use of his name sparked something in him, made him feel weak in the knees almost.
You smile at the shared sentiment, and reached up to press a soft, chaste kiss to his jaw. His eyes flickered shut at the feeling of your hands that now on his shoulders. Pulling back, you look up at him through your lashes. He threw caution to the wind, taking his chance to pull you in by the waist, his mouth on yours. The kiss wasn't intense or hungry by any means, but rather sweet, gentle. It was slow, every movement with intention.
The taste of whiskey on his lips was intoxicating, the weight of his hands on your body sending lightning strikes through your veins. Withdrawing from you, he opened his eyes to see your chest rise and fall with more intensity than before.
"I—um—" you start. Holy shit, he's a good kisser. Gathering yourself, you look down and smile. "Goodnight, Michael. Text me when you get home?"
"I will," he brings a hand to the underside of your jaw, lifting it so he could see your eyes again. "Promise, 'kay?"
"Okay," you nod. A beat. You didn't want him to leave, but this wasn't something you wanted to rush.
"Goodnight," he finally says, stepping away. You watch as he walks back the way you had came, as you open your door steadily. When he disappeared from your line of sight, you pushed into the apartment.
You sigh, falling back on the closed door, bringing a hand up to your lips. You could still taste him on you, overwhelmingly so. God, you couldn't believe this man had you acting so juvenile. It was ridiculous.
A moment passes, and you decide to go to your room and turn in for the night. All you could think as you undressed and did your nighttime routine was him—his smile, his laugh, the way his eyes lit up in the light. Everything about him was sincere, and it made your heart flutter.
It wasn't till you were in bed, the covers already pulled up around you when your phone screen lit up. You turn to look at it.
michael r: I made it home. Thank you, again, for an incredible night.
You moved to type a response when another message appeared.
michael r: I have work the rest of the week. I'm off next Sunday. Do you want to grab coffee?
A grin splits your face ear to ear.
You: yes!
You: id love to!
michael r: michael r sent a pinned location
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