tw: sudden medical emergency, stroke, panic, hospital/ambulance, medical procedures
part two part three part four
The restaurant isn’t fancy in the intimidating way. It’s warm. Intimate. The kind of place that feels like it’s meant for people who already know each other well — low lights, soft music, tables close enough that you can hear quiet laughter from strangers without it feeling intrusive.
Michael sits across from you, jacket slung over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. He looks relaxed in a way that still sometimes surprises you, like he’s forgotten to keep his guard up because he doesn’t think he needs it tonight.
Three years does that.
You’re midway through your second drink, ice clinking softly as you set the glass down. He watches the condensation slide down the side, then looks back up at you.
“Hard to believe we’re here,” he says, not loud, not trying to make a moment out of it. “Three years.”
You smile. Not big. Not dramatic. Just real.
“I know,” you say. “Feels like we blinked and suddenly… here we are.”
He hums, thoughtful. “And somehow we didn’t kill each other.”
“Yet,” you add, deadpan.
That gets a laugh out of him — an actual laugh, head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. God, you love that sound. You always have.
“You know what’s wild?” he says. “I still remember thinking you hated me.”
You snort. “I did hate you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says, smiling into his drink.
“I absolutely did.”
“You were intrigued,” he corrects. “Which is different.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “Okay, maybe. Slightly intrigued. Annoyed. Confused about why you kept showing up.”
“And yet,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “here we are.”
Here we are.
You let the silence stretch for a second, comfortable and full. The candle between you flickers, reflected in his eyes.
“You were such an ass at first,” you say fondly.
He pretends to look wounded. “I was reserved.”
“You were emotionally unavailable.”
“I was cautious.”
“You ghosted me for three days.”
“I was busy.”
“You were scared.”
That one lands.
He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles a little, softer now.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”
You reach across the table without thinking, fingers brushing his. He lets you take his hand, thumb pressing gently against your knuckles.
“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say.
“Me too,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think I would’ve forgiven myself if I had.”
You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You would’ve survived.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have you.”
That still hits, even three years in.
You talk about everything after that — your favorite memories, the moments that feel small until you say them out loud.
The night you stayed up until four in the morning talking about nothing and everything.
The first time he fell asleep on your couch.
The way he always pretends he doesn’t care which movie you pick but absolutely does.
The way you hum without realizing it when you’re focused.
“I love that you do that,” he says at one point, smiling.
“Do what?”
“That thing,” he says. “When you’re concentrating. You hum. Like you’re tuning yourself.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“You’re lying.”
He laughs. “I swear. It’s my favorite thing.”
You shake your head, embarrassed but pleased, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love that you notice dumb stuff like that.”
“It’s not dumb,” he says. “It’s you.”
The waiter comes by at some point — you barely notice — refilling water, asking if you want dessert later. Michael says yes without looking at you, already knowing the answer.
Eventually, conversation drifts the way it always does when you’ve run through the past and lingered there long enough.
Michael leans back slightly, studying you.
“So,” he says, casual again. “Hawaii.”
Your face lights up immediately. “Oh my god.”
“We keep saying we’re going to do it,” he continues. “I feel like if we don’t actually plan it, it’s just gonna stay hypothetical forever.”
You nod enthusiastically. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”
He smiles. “So when?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“Okay, so if we go in October instead of September—”
The words come easily at first. Familiar. Comfortable. You’re leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands moving as you talk.
“—it’s still warm, but not like… unbearable. And it’s less crowded. Plus flights are cheaper.”
Michael watches you the way he always does when you get excited — fond, amused, completely present.
“Because then we’d have more—”
You pause, just barely.
“—more—”
Your mouth stutters on the word.
You don’t stop.
“Oh jeez,” you mutter under your breath, waving it off, already pushing forward. “Anyway—”
Michael’s smile flickers, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t interrupt.
You keep going.
“We could stay near the—uh—the place with the—”
You gesture vaguely, fingers circling as if the word might appear if you coax it hard enough.
“And then we could do, like… the whole island thing from there.”
You laugh lightly, automatically, the way you always do when a thought slips away.
Michael nods, but his eyes don’t leave your face.
“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”
Encouraged, you continue — because talking has never been something you’ve had to think about before.
“And if we do it when the—”
You stop.
It’s subtle. Just a hitch. But it’s there.
“If we do it when the…”
The sentence doesn’t finish.
You blink, frown slightly, then try again.
“We could, um—if the—if we go when the—”
Your brow furrows. You shake your head once, like the thought is right there and you just can’t quite grab it.
Michael leans forward a little.
“You good?” he asks, gently.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just—”
The word catches.
“—I’m just—”
You trail off, laugh softly, a little breathless. “Sorry. My brain’s just jumping ahead.”
You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then set it down and try again.
“The flying—no—the car—when we—”
The words come out wrong.
You stop mid-sentence.
This time, you don’t laugh.
You open your mouth again, determined — and what comes out doesn’t sound like what you meant at all.
Michael’s chair shifts quietly as he moves closer, concern sharpening behind his eyes.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him, relief flickering through you, and try to answer.
Your voice betrays you.
And somewhere deep in your chest, something cold begins to spread.
Michael doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. He leans in instead, forearms resting on the table now, his voice dropping until it feels like it’s meant only for you.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me for a second.”
You do. Of course you do.
“Can you squeeze my hands for me?”
You blink at him.
There’s a flicker of irritation, instinctive and sharp, cutting through the fear. This feels like too much. Like he’s being dramatic. Like he’s slipping into work when you need him to just be him.
“C’mon,” you say — or you try to. It comes out mostly right. Close enough. “Really?”
You give him a look, half exasperated, half pleading. Not now.
Michael doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue.
“Squeeze them,” he says, quiet but firm.
Something in his tone makes you do it.
You reach across the table and curl your fingers around his hands. His skin is warm. Solid. Familiar.
You squeeze.
You don’t notice anything wrong.
Michael does.
His thumb presses gently into your knuckles, like he’s confirming something he already knows. His face doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Good.”
That alone makes your stomach twist.
He lifts his gaze back to your face.
“Smile for me?”
You just stare at him.
Flat. Unamused.
He gives you a look — not annoyed, not panicked. Just steady. Waiting.
You sigh, a sharp breath through your nose, and humor him.
You smile.
Only one side of your face moves.
You feel it immediately.
The wrongness of it. The pull that isn’t there. The way your cheek doesn’t answer the command the way it always has.
Your smile drops.
Your breath stutters.
You try again — smaller this time, tentative.
Still wrong.
Your hand tightens around his, fingers trembling now.
“Oh—” you try to say.
Nothing coherent comes out.
Your chest tightens, panic slamming into you all at once, hot and suffocating. Tears spring to your eyes as you shake your head, like you can physically undo whatever is happening if you just try hard enough.
Michael is already moving.
He reaches for your wrist, grounding, firm but gentle, thumb pressing into your pulse.
“Hey,” he says immediately. “Look at me.”
You do. Desperately.
“It’s okay,” he continues, slow and controlled. “I’ve got you. Don’t try to talk.”
You try anyway. Instinctively. Fearfully.
It only makes it worse.
Your breathing turns shallow. Fast. Your vision blurs.
Michael squeezes your hand once — a promise, not a test this time.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He lifts his head just long enough to catch someone nearby — a waiter, a stranger, you don’t know.
“Can someone call an ambulance,” he says, calm and unmistakably serious. “Now.”
Then his attention is right back on you.
“Stay with me,” he says softly. “Just stay with me.”
Michael’s hand is still on your wrist when the room begins to rearrange itself around you.
Chairs scrape back. Someone’s voice rises, sharp with urgency, then another, quieter, trying to soothe. The candle on your table wobbles as the surface vibrates with movement, the flame guttering but refusing to go out.
You’re aware of everything and nothing at the same time.
Michael keeps his body angled toward you, like a shield, his thumb pressing steady into your skin — a rhythm. A tether.
“Look at me,” he says again, low, deliberate. “Just me.”
You try to nod. You’re not sure if it works.
Your mouth opens. Something broken spills out.
Tears blur your vision.
“It’s okay,” he says, immediately. “You don’t need to talk. You’re doing great.”
The sirens arrive before you realize someone actually called. Distant at first, then too loud, then suddenly right there — red light bleeding through the restaurant windows in uneven pulses. The noise slices through the haze in your head, sharp and wrong.
Michael squeezes your hand once.
“They’re here,” he says. “You’re okay.”
Two paramedics move in quickly, efficient, already assessing before they even speak. One crouches beside you, eyes kind but focused. The other looks to Michael.
“What’s going on?”
Michael doesn’t hesitate.
“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” he says, voice steady despite the way his jaw tightens. “Acute onset aphasia. Started with stuttering, progressed to word-finding difficulty, then nonsensical speech. Right-sided facial droop. Right hand weakness.”
You hear yourself described like a case. Like a chart.
You want to interrupt. To say you’re right here. That you can hear them. That you’re scared.
Nothing usable comes out.
“No known allergies,” Michael continues. “No prior medical history. No history of strokes. Only known family history is maternal grandfather — single ischemic event in his seventies.”
The paramedic nods, already slipping a blood pressure cuff around your arm.
“When did symptoms start?”
Michael glances at his watch. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago.”
You feel the squeeze on your arm, the tightness, the pressure. Numbers are exchanged above your head. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger. Someone shines a light in your eyes.
You flinch.
“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’m here.”
They lift you gently, carefully, onto the stretcher. The movement makes the room tilt again, nausea rolling through you, panic spiking as the floor pulls away.
You grab at Michael’s sleeve.
He’s right there. Always.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’m coming with you.”
The ambulance doors close with a final, hollow thud.
Inside, everything is brighter. Louder. Cold.
The siren starts again, vibrating through your bones as the vehicle lurches forward. One of the paramedics is talking to you now — asking simple questions, voice exaggeratedly calm.
“Can you tell me your name?”
You try.
The sound that comes out is wrong.
The paramedic glances at Michael. He nods once.
“It’s okay,” the paramedic says gently. “Just relax.”
An IV goes into your arm. You barely feel it. Your body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Blood sugar check. Oxygen. Repeated questions. The words float past you, impossible to catch.
Michael stays close, hand never leaving you, eyes tracking every movement, every intervention.
“Any headache?” the paramedic asks.
Michael answers. “No reported headache.”
“Vision changes?”
“None noted.”
“Seizure activity?”
“No.”
You want to scream that you’re still here. That you’re not unconscious. That you understand them.
Your tongue won’t cooperate.
The ambulance slows. Turns.
“ETA two minutes,” someone says.
Michael exhales sharply, just once.
The doors open.
The night air hits you like a slap.
You’re rushed through automatic doors, fluorescent lights flooding your vision as the world shifts again — this time into a place Michael knows too well.
Voices layer over each other. Footsteps echo. Someone calls out vitals.
As they wheel you in, Michael’s gaze lifts — and lands on a familiar face.
Dana.
She’s mid-step, clipboard tucked under her arm, expression neutral until she sees you.
Until she sees him.
Michael doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.
“Dana,” he says, and his voice finally cracks. “Dana… help.”
Her eyes sharpen instantly. Clipboard forgotten. She’s moving before the stretcher even stops.
“What happened?”
“Stroke,” Michael says. “I think she’s having a stroke.”
Dana’s hand is already on the rail, walking alongside you, eyes scanning your face, your chart, the paramedic relaying information rapid-fire.
a/n; as a jewish girlie myself i know the hate we can get just for existing and i dont see a lot of stuff about robby being jewish so i thought i'd write it myself! i do not condone any hate towards jewish people! the language in this fic is purely for story purposes !
tw; hate speech towards jewish people
working with the public as an ER doctor, you had heard your fair share of hate towards medical professionals.
you'd heard it said to your co-workers and directed at yourself.
comments regarding your gender, race, look. all of it.
and usually you were able to brush it off as nothing and continue with your work as normal.
but some things hit harder than others.
especially when they were directed at not only your culture, but your boyfriends aswell.
through a long shift, you had kept your head high. functioning on little sleep as you manoeuvred through chaos with practised precision. perhaps it was the fact that you were running on autopilot that the comment caught you so off guard.
an older man who came in complaining of chest pain and had been sent up for a chest x-ray earlier in the day. once the results came back down to the ED you had headed straight for his room to share the news of his tests.
' well, mr davis. i have the results of your chest x-ray, ' you ebgan as you sidled up to the computer at the side of the room, pulling up his chart with his information so that you wouldnt give any incorrect answers.
' we've spotted an opacity on the lung, which means th-' before you could even finish your sentence the patient was talking over you.
' my lung? i thought you were testing for heart issues, my lungs not the thing that's hurting here, sweetheart '
the overly affectionate name went over your head completely as you tried to continue reading his results
' as i was saying, we've spotted some fluid buildup around your lungs which would explain your chest pain. you said it feels achy and heavy constantly, which is conducive of pleural effusion '
' in english, darling ? '
another comment that simply felt like water off a ducks back.
you decided it would be easier to show him the imaging from his x-ray, so you stood from the stool by the bedside and tapped quickly at the keyboard to bring them up, tilting the screen towards him. as you began to point out the issues on the x-ray, you were interrupted yet again.
' can you just cut to the chase, kikey? '
that caught your attention. that had you freezing on the spot as you looked at your patient dumbfounded.
what had you done to warrant that language? that hate speech?
your hand instinctively went to your neck where you knew a small star charm sat below your scrubs.
except it wasn't below them, in your haste today it had wrestled its way to the surface and the gold chain and charm sat glinting atop your black scrubs.
you werent sure what to do in that moment other than just continue with your job, albiet with a bit more venom in your tone as you explained what was wrong with this man.
but even as you continued your shift, it stuck with you.
it stuck with you all the way back to your shared house with michael.
as you brushed your teeth while michael slipped into bed, your eyes kept catching on the metal hanging around your neck.
you were proud of your heritage; you'd never felt the need to hide it before. but after you spit the toothpaste back into the sink, something compelled you to slip the necklace from around your neck and drop it into the jewellery dish by the sink, where michael's watch sat ticking away.
you said nothing about it as you curled up to your boyfriends side, your fingers grazing over the biting metal of his charm where it sat on his chest.
the soft beating of his heart against your palm, along with the exhausting day, sent you to sleep in minutes.
-----✡-----
walking in to work alone was always a bummer, ever since you moved in with michael, you'd driven in together and walked to the ER doors hand in hand until he was pulled away the second you stepped foot on the linoleum tiles.
but michael had an appointment this morning which meant he got to sleep in and you werent about to deprive this man of an hour of extra sleep just so he could drive into work with you.
so you went about the first portion of your day without the added joy of making eye contact with your boyfriend across the floor and feeling a significant lift in your mood every now and then.
but after a couple of hours, you did catch sight of him as you emerged from trauma 2, though the look from him didn't give you your usual lift.
he nodded his head towards the lockers once your eyes met and after you shed your paper robe you followed him into the slightly secluded corner of the emergency department.
‘what’s up?’ you questioned, your hands sliding into the pockets of your scrubs to fiddle with whatever you could get your hands on.
which turned out to be a lint ball and a tissue pack.
you watched as michael pulled something from his jacket pocket.
‘ you left this in the bathroom this morning ‘
your necklace. the one you had purposely left behind. your perfect boyfriend knew you never took it off and just assumed you had forgotten to put it on this morning.
‘ yeah, thanks, it got caught in my hair last night and i forgot to put it back on ‘ you rambled, reaching out to take the chain from michael, prepared to put it in your pocket and forget about it again.
but he didn’t drop it into your palm like you thought he would. instead he just looked at you. and you knew he knew you were lying.
‘ y’wanna tell me what’s really going on? ‘ he questioned, ever the loving man you fell in love with, wanting to know what was wrong so he could make it better.
‘ nothing, like i said, i just forgot ‘
‘מוֹתֶק’ (motek;sweetheart)
his nickname for you. one that he had started calling you when he found out about your shared culture. he wanted to share it with you. he always did. and it always warmed your heart.
except now the familiar hebrew word had a heat burning behind your eyes that you tried to push down.
‘ ‘m sorry ‘ was all you could say as your eyes dropped from his to the white tiles below your feet.
michaels arm around you began leading you to a more private part of the department. you ended up in a temporarily empty patient room.
once the door was shut and the curtain pulled, he moved to stand infront of you again.
‘ what’s going on, sweetheart? ‘ his voice infinitely calming as you wound your arms around your own torso.
‘ i took the necklace off yesterday. a patient noticed it and called me something im not going to repeat because it’s disgusting. i thought i was done with people calling me names because of my culture once i got out of high school. and you know i don’t normally let this kind of stuff bother me, but this wasn’t just about me, it was about you and my parents and my family and i just kept hearing his voice every time i saw it in my reflection-‘
‘ okay, come here ‘ robby’s large palm encased your forearm as he lead you to stand more directly infront of him. the warmth of his skin calmed you momentarily before he removed himself from you.
you watched as he fiddled with the clasp of your necklace before draping the material over your chest and clasping it together at the back of your neck. the charm dropped to your clavicle where it had rested every day for the last ten years at least.
‘ you cannot let one asshole decide that you don’t get to wear a part of who you are ‘ he said definitively, his hands dropping to rest at your waist.
‘ we get to be as proud of who we are as everyone else does. we wear these every day to show respect for every person who lost their lives so we could be here. this symbol is steeped in tradition and community and i will not let anyone tell you that you don’t deserve to wear it ‘
if you thought your tears had stopped, you could always rely on michael to get them going again.
‘ if anyone says anything about it to you, you come find me and i’ll tell them where they can shove their insults if you don’t want to, okay? ‘
a laugh bubbled out of your chest at his comment, while you knew the entirety of what he said was an exaggeration, you were more than thankful for the offer.
‘okay’ you replied simply, a smile twitching at the corner of your lips as your eyes met with the deep brown orbs of michael robinavitch.
his warm smile had every issue from yesterday melting into the floor and the kiss he pressed to your forehead had them forgotten about completely, even if it was just for a moment.
‘hey lovebirds! we got a MVC on route. two minutes out ‘
the voice of your charge nurse definitely broke that moment, but you were alright with that.
as you pulled away to get back on the floor you were held back by a hand on your arm.
‘ hey, אני אוהב אותך מתוקה‘ ( ani ohev otech metuka ; i love you, sweetheart )
the warmth in your chest spread down to your fingers ‘ גם אני אוהב אותך, robinavitch ‘ ( gam ani ohev otech ; i love you too )
with a quick squeeze to your arm, the two of you left the room, leaving any shame of who you were right there on the floor. long forgotten.
