Undone
Michael Robinivitch x Reader
Summary: Robby and you are happily married, or so you thought. Everything changes when you come home to no husband, divorce papers on the counter.
Warnings: BIG Angst, Smut, PIV sex, breakdowns, break-ups, and the awkward parts of moving on. Written as Plus size! Reader, but ambiguous enough! The reader is Robby's Wife. The Reader has hair.
No Beta, minimal editing, we're getting this one live guys.
4.5k words
Part 2 // Part 3
Meeting Robby was the start of the best years of your life. He was, without a doubt, your better half. You spent months pining over him, a stranger who frequented the same bar as you, but you never imagined he’d be yours. Your romantic life had never been overflowing; you kept to yourself in hopes that the right man would eventually sweep you off your feet.
That had all paid off when a frosted winter storm brought you together. His bashful attempts at flirting were all you needed, that was the man you were going to marry. So two years later, eloped, moving into a newly renovated town-home within walking distance of the hospital, you thought the bond shared was unshakable. Michael had promised you the rest of your life, and you had every intention of following through on that.
It was hard to pinpoint an exact moment when he stopped looking at that same goal, when he stopped looking for you in every room he walked through. It was slow at first, plenty of overtime at the hospital hides the truth, but by the time you had noticed that he had begun pulling away it was too late.
Michael was an expert at deflection. He left hundreds of words unsaid on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the moment to unleash its concern.
I’ll be back tonight, we’ll talk then.
Then it’s-
I’m sorry Honey, I’m dead on my feet, let’s talk this weekend.
And then it’s- nothing. He’s nothing, he stops asking how you are, stops inquiring about your hobbies, your work, everything. He’s a machine now, wake up, go to the hospital, come home, collapse. It was brutal, the pressure he was under, something you couldn’t seem to understand no matter how many times you asked him to let you in.
You should’ve seen it coming, but you were younger, naive, blind with hope that eventually he’d take a deep breath and spill his feelings to you. You were the forgiving wife, letting him process how he needed, in hopes that the rubber band would snap soon and bring him back to you. It was supposed to be the monthly date night, he always had the first friday of the month off to spend with you, it was tradition.
You should’ve suspected when he hadn’t answered your call earlier in the day. You should’ve just taken a half-day and come home. You should’ve caught him moving boxes of his clothing into the bed of Jack’s pick-up. You should’ve-
You should’ve done a lot of things, but nothing had prepared you for a dark home, all traces of your husband sterilized, and a thin folder of divorce papers sitting on the counter. He already signed them too. Your brain loves to remember the loopy illegible chicken scratch at the bottom of the page.
And then it was the world falling out under your feet. He had promised the rest of your lives and he broke that promise as easily as he had everything else in your life.
You’re not sure what happened next, not clearly at least. Just the feeling of your chest caving in and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness you had greeted like an old friend. The world was spinning, you're not sure how the world could possibly keep spinning, but it had.
The first night was spent curled up on the floor of your newly renovated kitchen, one you had planned to fill with light and memories. You had hoped this space would bring him back to you, ironically serving as its final resting place.
The thoughts swirling around you were drastic, how could he do this to you? How could he just leave like that? What had you said to him this morning? Was there someone else?
Your brain ran through every detail picking at the past five years for clues of nefarious incidents. All you found was your husband had left you a long time before he placed those papers on the counter and you, as always, were left trailing behind begging him to understand the jagged pieces piercing through your chest.
The first night was completely unbearable, only the uncontrollable emotional release and a threadbare kitchen rug to comfort you. It was completely pathetic, and borderline insane. It was incredible darkness, and you hadn’t felt this small in years.
The cruelty continued with a sunrise peaking through the curtains of the bay window. In your distress you had wished for time to stop, to take away the pain and relieve the crushing weight of abandonment even for a moment.
The world had responded in its own savage revenge, the world continued turning until the sunlight spilled over the horizon. Time passed and cemented the new reality, and whether you were ready it was pulling you alongside it.
It’s a testament that you’re able to survive the fall from his grace. The feeling that lingered was hollow, echoes of pain radiated through you. Your body resisted the urge to move, waiting for someone to come out and shout that it was all some sick joke, that your life hadn’t been cut to pieces with the precision only a certain emergency room doctor possessed.
Passively, a quieter voice, wondered if he was alright, if he was already working or if he was holed up somewhere shattered to pieces. If he was hunched over the on-call bed thinking of the memories he’d tainted with an exit so swift he forgot to leave his wife’s dignity behind.
The first movement had been to reach for your phone, flipping it over. Part of you had hoped for something truly pathetic, maybe a missed call or even an I’m sorry.
The lack of notifications had been a mockery.
Would anyone notice if I was gone?
You had to push the thought from your mind, selfishly he wasn’t allowed to be the reason. He was the selfish one here, he was the one in the wrong, and you needed to pull yourself together.
You couldn’t help the thought from passing through your mind- what was it about me that made it so easy for him to leave?
The first few weeks had been an exercise in relearning. Relearning how to be a singularity. Relearning how to stand on your own two feet. Relearning to trust yourself.
Michael had done a wonderful job in making you feel like you were blowing everything out of proportion. Ironic isn’t it. He had made everything steady so questionable, and now it was up to you to rebuild what was destroyed so spectacularly.
It was empty days and emptier nights. It was the feeling that crossing paths again would be agony, would be suicide. Reprieved only by sleep and the occasional visit from the closest friends and family.
He doesn’t deserve you.
He’s an idiot, you just need to move on.
It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.
Well meaning words, but none of them know the beauty that was being known by Robby. None of them had ever felt the warm foamy bubbles of making him blush over candle lit meals and the dizzy way he’d kiss you until he’d run out of air and then kiss you some more anyways. He was an all consuming wildfire lover who had burned you inside out, there wasn’t anything about deserving the love he gave you, it was about preserving it.
It was cheap, the way people had explained moving on, like it was something that just happened. Or, it had felt that way until one day you looked up and it was happening before your eyes.
The first month, leaving the house meant looking out of the corner of your eye for ghosts. A single ghost really, a poltergeist slinking just out of reach from your eye, plotting the ways to finally kill you off. Everywhere was a place where he had been, and every sense was on fire searching for another clue to where he’d been. In the absence of your husband your body seemed to cry out for relief, a relief that would simply never come.
The frame of a stranger that looked a little too similar at the gas station could set off a spiral. It was better off avoiding everywhere that was a shared place, better rip the chance away. It wasn’t worth it anymore, you couldn’t spend the rest of your life chasing after a ghost that didn’t want to be caught.
The isle of the grocery store a few blocks out of the way had become somewhat of a safe haven. Pursuing the ice cream pints like it was life or death without the looming thought that he loves the produce selection here- it was reassuring.
You hadn’t hardly thought twice about the slight breeze of antiseptic alcohol smell when you turned in, and you could’ve walked by if the slightly familiar voice hadn’t called out your name.
The blood in your head rushes out, making the world seem dreamy, and your body rivals the freezers that line the isle for icy temperature. The first thing that strikes you is that it’s so unfair for him to be reaching out, to be calling out your name. He should be hiding his head deeper in the ice cream stashes and hoping you didn’t see him. He shouldn’t get to stop you, to disrupt the equilibrium you’d only just seemed to find in your new routine.
Jack looked tired, he stood with a painfully obvious lean, and every movement seemed to grate against his skin. The bags under his eyes seemed to rival the inky scrubs that still wrapped his frame. His hair was disheveled wild, in a way that contradicted the tense regimented posture he usually sports. He looked surprised too, to see you, and it seems like he’s surprised by his own action. He hadn’t really made a move towards you, and you wondered if you could pretend you hadn’t heard him.
“How are you doing?” He asked gently, moving to close the chamber to the fridge.
It’s a fair enough question, one you’d been asked more times in the last month than you had your entire life. It was the first thing anyone always asked, but it hadn’t made responding any easier. It’s a non-question, really, because if you’re asking it usually it means- you look like you’re not doing well, let’s talk about that.
And suddenly it’s a completely unfair question. It’s a completely unfair question for your soon to be ex-husband’s best friend to ask you in the middle of the day in an ice cream aisle. It’s completely ridiculous to even be asking, and it sparks something that had been dormant inside for a long time, anger.
Jack had really made you nervous when you first met. He was the first person Robby had asked her to meet, the only person he really cared about. He’d been around the bar when you met Robby, but he was always more interested in nursing his beer then walking home. You were convinced he was going to hate you.
Robby, for all his reassurance, was convinced of the opposite. He spent days dispelling your anxiety leading up to the dinner he had planned for the only night off they both had all month.
“He’s going to love you, Honey.” Robby placed chaste kisses across your hairline and down your jaw. “I’m pretty sure he already loves you.”
“You have to think that Michael,” Your nose scrunches, and he leans in to kiss it, “You’re blinded by the honeymoon phase.” He silences you with a kiss. The wired tendrils of his beard brush softly against you as you melt into him. He tilts your head just right until he can deepen the kiss, just the way that made your stomach flip.
He brushes the hair out of your face, savoring the taste of your sweet hums of approval. The grip of breathlessness creeps up your neck until it wraps its way across the base of your skull. You grip Michaels shirt, he squeezes you to him just until you think you might become dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Then, as suddenly as he was there, he pulls away and the pleasure of airflow is euphoric. It wraps around you like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer and you find a home in the crook of your boyfriend’s shoulder.
“Jack’s going to love you because I do.”
Your breath caught, a heat creeping up your spine, he loves you. He loves you.
You love him back, so much it hurts. He smiles at you and it feels like finally, everything in the disorganized chaotic rotation of the stores makes sense. You were absolutely meant to spend the rest of your life with him.
Jack did love you. Jack, over the years, became a friend. You conspired with him for Michael’s birthday gifts and confided in him when things at the hospital had been hard for your husband. He was always going on about how you two were a team, because ‘we both want what’s best for him’.
You wonder now, what had changed, because you suddenly realized you were no longer on that team. Another identity stripped. It pricked at the back of your eyes, and talking was silenced. You were thankful for the cart between the two of you, perhaps the distance would disguise the urge to suddenly lay down and cry.
“I’m…” Is all you can get out before you have to look away completely. “I’m fine.”
You don’t attempt to elaborate. You know any information will only trickle back. You attempt to steel yourself to look him in the eye again.
“That’s good,” It sounds patronizing and you glare at him “I’m glad to hear that.” He gives you a pathetic smile, and you consider walking away entirely.
“I’ve been, um, meaning to call-” You can’t help but let out a humorless laugh, “to see how you’ve been holding up.”
“I’m sure you have Jack.”
“Seriously, we-I’ve been worried about you.” He scratches the back of his head in shame, he looks like a kid being sent to the principal's office.
His stumble didn’t go unnoticed. The anger that had finally- finally- unsheathed itself was indiscriminate. It doesn’t matter what he, Michael, or anyone else thought about you anymore. You were in the middle of building your life when Michael came crashing into it, you hadn’t asked him to come up to you in a bar, you hadn’t begged him to take you out to dinner after, nor did you throw grand gestures of forever at him.
He had done this, he had made that choice. The fact of the matter is Michael had made his choice, he was in your life and now he chose to leave it. He didn’t get to have anything to do with you. So for Jack to earnestly stand here in front of you asking how you were was ridiculous.
Your arms repositioned the cart so there was even more distance between the two of you. You could see his jaw set, the hackles in him rising, he takes a step back, and for the first time he looks away first.
“I’m not having this conversion-” You gesture wildly around you, “In a freezer aisle.”
Jack raises his hands up in defense.
“Fair enough.”
Neither one of you move to say anything else. The burning fire, seeming less of a wildfire and more of a flash paper, dissipates in the silence. Indignance slips away leaving the evidence of a poorly healing wound, freshly opened by the proof of Robby’s existence.
Until now, the memory of your husband felt similarly to death, he was here and then suddenly ripped from you. Your brain, in a sick attempt at comfort you’re sure, had almost detached reality from the truth that sat heavy in the back of your head.
Michael was still out there, living, breathing, existing, and he wants to do it without you.
And that sober reality plays through on your face. It suddenly becomes useless to walk through the empty shelves to fill even emptier shelves at home. Being angry with Jack, picking fights with him, wouldn’t magically bring Robby back into your life. Even if it did, how could he possibly fix the gashes he left behind.
Michael was still alive, people saw him every day, but not you. You were still alive and people would fly in and out your orbit, but the Michael who had promised to be a bright shining star had been more of an asteroid, just passing through.
You don’t really bother saying goodbye. It really doesn’t feel like there was ever a hello, and you don’t have the energy for small pleasantries that might lead you to the new life your husband leads. So, abandoning the groceries in the middle of the aisle, you turn to leave.
Jack makes no attempts to stop you. It hurts more than you’d expected.
When you’re home that evening there’s a knock at the door, you hesitate to answer at first. You knew it couldn’t be Michael, it was before he’d be off for work. You knew that but you still hesitated, because now there will always be that ‘what-if’ behind every door. There will always be a small voice wondering if he was finally coming home.
At your doorstep was the groceries you’d abandoned in the store, a small note tucked under one of the bags. Your head shot up to look for some evidence, just as Jack’s truck sweeps quietly around the corner out of the small street.
It’s not until you’ve curled yourself in bed that you can stomach the thought of opening the letter left behind. Its edges jagged, like it was ripped from a spiral notebook, likely some sort of journal he kept for his cases. Robby had something similar, although you had never dared peak inside lest there was something far too private for your eyes. Maybe you should’ve peaked.
The note was simple, clear, very like Jack. At first you wanted to rip it, or throw it in the antique fireplace at the foot of your bed maybe. You settled for letting it slip into the drawer of your bedside, and tried not to look at the eyes of your husband framed and hidden away until you can stomach boxing it up.
You feel something lighten that night, but moving on feels a lot like lying to yourself.
I’m still here anytime, Kid.
Please keep taking care of yourself, I couldn’t handle seeing you in my Trauma room.
I’m worried t
Jack
And then time goes on. You re-learn yourself, what you like, what you want, what you need from other people to feel safe again. You go to therapy, and while it’s slow and you constantly feel like you’re drowning under the weight of your own life, it helps.
You don’t remember the last time you had this much time to yourself just to think. It leaves a lot of time to wonder about your husband. It leaves time to contemplate every option of recovery before you realize it’s all futile anyways.
The only reprieve you get is short updates from a lawyer you had, one who communicated exclusively on Michael’s behalf. One that delivered far more agreeable terms than you had expected.
At first you were upset, thinking Michael can just throw his attending money around like it would soothe any of the burn. But you knew him, you knew deep down this was the only way he’d be able to sleep at night, if he can make sure you’re taken care of in some way.
And, as much as you’d like to strike down your own vanity in favor of making a big scene, the money softens the blow slightly. Before meeting Michael, money was a precious good, hard earned, and rationed carefully. It would make you anxious, how much money was spent where and when and how and on who. Michael had shown you the benefits of attending money, he’d shown you the benefits of relaxing in it, enjoying it.
The comfort it brings to know at least you would still have your life, your home, and the luxury of time was an unexpected kindness considering the frosty exit he had taken from your life. So, while the shame of a once perfectly happy couple communicating exclusively through divorce lawyers had its sardonic upsides.
With every step forward in proceedings your friends and family made use of the financial upswings. Friends taking you out for drinks, ‘on him’ of course, and your family had encouraged you to redecorate some aspects of the shared home.
Michael’s old office that held copious medical textbooks had become a beautiful guest room for your parents to stay over. The hall closet that was storage for his old memorabilia he wasn’t sure if he wanted to display had been reorganized into a mini library of sorts. All the pictures came down from the hallway, slowly, like they melted down the walls, and replaced themselves with art.
The only room that had remained untouched was the main bedroom. You had no intention of ever eradicating Michael’s touch from this space. It would be disrespectful to the touch he’d had on you in that space. His moody blue aura drowned here and you were desperate to keep the small reminders of him perfectly intact here.
“You’re late.” Your voice called out to the figure stumbling through the hallway, his shadow silhouetted both in light and exhaustion. You can see his shoulders slump and he can hardly drop his bag at the doorway before he’s collapsing on top of you.
“M’sorry, Honey.” He murmured into your sternum. Your hands wind through his hair and soothe his scalp. His body pressing deeper into yours, the soft cotton of his hoodie rubbing against the silk of your nightdress.
“Today was just-” His hands brace themselves on your ribcage, pulling his body up until he can tuck himself into your neck instead. “Today was a nightmare.”
You hum, giving him the space to talk if he wanted to. He only tries to bring his body closer into yours.
“I’m so sorry, Honey, you were waiting for me.” He presses chaste kisses to the skin in front of him.
“It’s going to be ok, baby, you’re home.” You soothe.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, when you feel the wisps of the day start to leave him, you press his shoulder until he’s laying flat on the bed. He admires you, in the soft light of the beside lamp casting a warm glow across your skin, as you swing your legs across his hips.
His hands anchor themselves on your hips, slipping under the gathers of your nightgown that pooled at the crease of your leg. The rough callus hands sweeping over your soft skin, his feet prop up forcing you to tip forward, giving him ample view of your cleavage.
“You look so beautiful in this dress baby.”
Your hands move to unzip his jacket, to expose more of his chest underneath.
“Wore it for you Michael.” You let your fingers trace circles down his chest until your lips are hovering above his. “You’ve had such a long day, let me make it better?”
The sound that escapes him is obscene. Your kiss is bruising and passionate, his mouth moves unforgiving against yours. He wastes no time trying to flip the two of you back over so he could look at you properly. But you had bigger plans. Distracted by the feel of your tongue tangled against him you take the hands once anchored to your hips and pin them down by his side.
“Let me make you feel good.” You murmur against his mouth, before climbing off of him to strip in the lowlight of the bedroom.
Michael, propped up, already out of his mind with lust popping out of his scrub pants, can’t take his eyes off of you. Not even when you reach for him to strip his clothes, he can hardly take the milliseconds you are out of view.
Michael had always worshiped your body, he could hardly believe how lucky he was in your presence and made it known to you. The sight of his bare body propped against the large pillows of your shared bed had been so worthy of the worship.
“C’mere baby, want to kiss you more.” He admitted, one hand propped up behind his head, the other lazily stroking over his erection.
Michael kisses you reverently, pressing you into him, relishing in the sensation of your soft curves melding into his weary frame. The rough texture of his beard scraping against your skin was hypnotic, contrasted by the soft lips that soothed your aching burn. He was no stranger to using the different textures to his advantage, pulling you into him further and further. His hands trail up your legs to your ass, pressing you down, and another steady at the back of your neck, angling you just right to be worshiped with his mouth.
“Want to kiss you, Baby.” You murmured against him. “Want to kiss you everywhere.”
Michael hums against you, pressing his sturdy chest into yours, trying to catch your lips one more time. You turn your head, trailing kisses down his neck, to his chest, before you try swinging back to kiss down his stomach to where his cock sat ruddy and red against his stomach.
“Won’t last-” His voice is cut off from the feeling of your hand wrapped around his aching erection. “Just want to be in you- please!”
His desperation brings you to another level of arousal, and you can’t help but admire the sight laid out before you. Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief ER Attending, living breathing hero, laid out on your martial bed desperate for your touch.
You don’t let him wait any longer, it would be a crime to make him wait any longer for the soft warmth and safety only you can bring him. When you sink down on him, the feeling of his thick shaft stretching you open is unlike anything else. He throws his head back whether it be from relief or pleasure, his hips buck up uncontrolled, he fills you completely.
As you sit back adjusting to the feeling of being complete, of feeling completely filled, you can’t help but let out your own sigh of relief.
“Fuck, Michael!” You cry out, “Feels so good.”
He lets out his own chuckle, his hands returning to anchor your hips to his own. “Feels like forever, doesn’t it Honey?”
A/N: Guys, I'm not sure how I feel about this one, but I have about 4k more already written, and I knew if I didn't put it out, I'd never do it. So please let me know if you like it, it's my first time writing for Robby, and it's like a lot less Robby in this than I intended.
If it sucks, I can scrap! But idk I went down a huge spiral in the last month, and this is all I could get out.
Send me a message letting me know what you think!
