I have seen some folks struggling with the idea that Robby wears a Star of David and considers himself Jewish, but doesn't believe in God, has tattoos, and doesn't seem to have had any significant dating relationships with Jewish women.
How can this be?
For starters, there is Judaism, which is a religion, and there is Jewish culture. Jewishness is an ethno-religious identity. You can be Jewish in terms of your ethnic background, upbringing, and religious background, without ever going to synagogue or engaging in other Jewish religious practices.
The other thing to understand is that Jewish culture is thousands of years old, and there is a wide diversity in the ways religious Jews practice their religion. In the United States, there is a spectrum of religious adherence, represented by Hasidic (ultra-orthodox) Jews on the one hand (who strictly follow rabbinic laws and as a result live in tightly-knit communities somewhat separate from mainstream US society) and Reform and Humanist Jews on the other hand, who practice a progressive form of Judaism that prioritizes Jewish principles of culture and ethical practice over strict adherence to rabbinical law.
In my opinion, as someone roughly Robby's age who grew up Jewish but didn’t go to shul (synagogue) for years, Robby is what we would call a non-practicing Jew.
His Jewish culture, background and history are central to his identity (as it is to mine), but he struggles with his belief in God. I imagine that Robby went to Hebrew school and had a bar mitzvah (in my headcanon I can tell you what I think his Torah portion was), but he drifted from religious practice when he went off to college.
Sure, he has tattoos. Sure, he's had romantic relationships with women (and men, depending on your own headcanon) but few if any of them have been with fellow Jews. He doesn't keep a kosher home. He doesn't go to synagogue. But that Star of David means something to him, just like the chai pendant I wear means something to me.
Jewish people and Jewish culture are complicated. We aren't all one thing.
In my opinion, The Pitt does an amazing job of bringing that complexity to life.
pacific rim fucks severely for a lot of reasons but my favorite is that it opens with "the lizard aliens are unionizing so we built robots running on the power of love to fight them you got all that right" and before you have time to really process that concept bam gunshot body on the floor and the movie goes "now consider the vast power of grief in this setup" it never really stops considering
Robby slowly, with zero fanfare or discussion or even much thought on his own part, starts adapting his home and his life around Jack. Shower stools appear in both walk-in showers, and eventually grab bars, too, bc why not. It’s a simple thing to do, and then Jack can shower at Robby’s without hassle or the risk of a fall. Makes sense, he thinks. It’s what friends do.
Jack’s got a pair of spare crutches at Robby’s place, but Robby notices the balms and creams Jack likes best. Might as well keep some on hand in the bathroom, and maybe over by the couch, too. Just for convenience, of course.
Robby calls ahead to restaurants to be sure they’re appropriately wheelchair accessible—not just a ‘check the box’ ADA activity—bc maybe it’ll be a wheelchair kind of night out, and if he can help it, Robby will never let Jack relive the experience of having to use an outdoor freight elevator to reach second floor seating.
It’s a myriad of little things Robby does instinctively, because it’s for Jack, who’s always on Robby’s mind. Who Robby believes deserves the world. Who sees something in Robby that is hard for Robby to see in himself.
Who rolls his eyes fondly when Robby hands him a packet of research Robby’s done on phantom pain relief, before pulling Robby into a wildly unexpected, but desperately wanted, kiss. A soft thank you pressed against Robby’s lips.
part of being an adult is figuring out what eveyone else's definition of "going crazy" is. to you it is not sleeping for 60 hours, writing 80k words in one sitting and expiriencing enough anxiety to kill a horse. to beth from accounting its buying a ticket to Columbus, Ohio. and to your friend its consuming so much ketamine you lose all of your posessions and wake up with five broken bones in a ditch somewhere and then proceeding to do it again the next day. to your other friend its writing a letter to their favourite actress about how much they appreciate her work. to your neighbour its laughing loudly in a grocery store whilst in pajamas. maya from uni hears the voice of her dead father making jokes with no punchlines and she considers that to be quite normal - to her going crazy would be hearing her husband instead. your downstairs neighbour will take night walks naked sometimes and claim there is nothing weird about him. there are literally no rules to life and all meaning is in the eye of the beholder.
had a free afternoon and decided to dive head first into the deep end of omegaverse and pitt porn. I present to you, dennis getting clobbered by a stress heat mid-trauma and robby + jack helping him through it. part one of a few, eventual hucklerabbot! part two posted here :)
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The patient was gone before she even reached them. No pulse, no respirations, too much time passed. It’s something that they had all registered the instant they saw her— a body that small can’t come back from that much blood loss.
They all still try.
God, Whitaker still tries.
That restless, focused energy of a trauma hovering on the brink of failure stays alive in him the longest, breathless but still not hopeless even as the rest of the trauma team begins to fade. Still urging that little heart to beat despite the fact that Robby knows that it’s beyond repair.
The kid’s already had a bad shift. Too many traumas, too many deaths that he could do nothing to prevent, three dead omegas from a multi-vehicle accident before they even hit noon. Robby’s already told him to take a break twice, and both times Whitaker managed to evade him.
The only reason they’re still working on the child on the gurney is because Robby was hesitant to call Whitaker away before he was certain it was over.
It’s over now.
Robby allows Whitaker another three compressions, four, before signaling him off. Whitaker steps back, sweating and panting with arms shaking from exertion and grim hope still in his expression, and the monitor drones in a flat, final confirmation.
“Time of death, 6:02 pm,” Robby reads quietly from his watch. The room goes still.
Then Whitaker drops.
He hits the floor hard right where he stands, crashing down beside the patient bed with buckled knees and zero warning. Perlah just barely manages to get a hand between him and the bed rail before his forehead strikes metal, quick enough to cushion the impact but not to catch him from the fall.
Fuck.
“Whitaker!”
Robby’s already moving but Perlah beats him there, kneeling beside Whitaker, keeping him upright with her hands braced on his shoulders. He’s conscious but visibly dazed.
“Hey, hey,” Robby says, crouching down in front of them. Whitaker’s pupils are blown, unfocused and wavering as Robby ducks to catch his gaze. “What just happened? Talk to me.”
Whitaker’s already shifting to straighten up despite the fact that Robby can still see him shaking. “Sorry, just lost my balance,” he says, voice thin. An embarrassed, forced little laugh shakes out of him. “I’m okay.”
Perlah frowns as her fingers press harder into the pulse point in his wrist, gentle but firm, not letting him pull away yet. “He’s tachy,” she murmurs to Robby. “Feels hot, too.”
Whitaker manages to get his knees under him, moving to stand, before he immediately goes toppling again. “Shit—”
Robby’s close enough to catch him this time and Jesus Christ.
The kid’s on fire. The heat that meets Robby’s hands is furious and intense, indicating a fever that definitely wasn’t there before this trauma began. The way Whitaker immediately sags into the hold, immediately collapsing against Robby like he’s unable to keep himself upright as soon as hands are laid upon him, is only the nail in the coffin.
Dead patient still on the table. Deeply stressful situation after an entire shift’s worth of deeply stressful situations, compounding again and again and again. A damp heat to his forehead when Robby’s palm slips under his bangs, and a new, sweet tang to the air, already strong enough to push past the scent blockers he knows the kid is religious about wearing.
Whitaker presses his face harder to Robby’s hand like he’s trying to hide in it.
Shit. Robby knows what this is.
Stress heats —and stress ruts— are rare, but they happen more frequently in environments like the ED. PTMC generally averages one or two a year. Usually when a patient or family member hits their limit, but occasionally when a staff member strikes the perfect storm of contributing factors that shove them over the edge.
There are protocols in place for this. They’ve gone through it plenty of times before.
But Christ, it’s never pretty.
Stress heats aren’t like regular heats. They’re more intense, more dangerous— fever, fluid loss, cramping that medication can barely touch. There’s little sexual about them. A stress heat is a medical event, first and foremost— a body getting overwhelmed by the conditions it’s surrounded by, instinct overtaking lucidity, shutting down in a violently physical way that demands intervention and support. Knots and scenting can help somewhat. Not much else does.
Robby had a stress rut once, years ago, in the midst of COVID. Pandemic conditions meant that the normal protocols were down, and he spent the better part of three days shaking and alone in an on-call room until the fever abated. He still remembers that misery.
Of course Whitaker would be this year’s case. Just the kid’s shit luck.
Robby’s hand settles over his hair and he can already feel Whitaker shuddering.
He keeps his voice quiet, firm. “Perlah, let’s find him an open bed, please. And—”
“I’ll get Dana,” Perlah confirms, already moving to stand. “I’ll be back.”
Dana’s the pack beta, steady as they come, and the first line of defense when it comes to secondary sex medical needs within the staff. Even Robby ranks below her when it comes to watching out for their people. She’ll know who Whitaker has designated in his files for an emergency like this, who to call, what he’s already written his consent for— she’ll be in charge of making sure Whitaker has what he needs to ride this out safely.
The heat is hitting Whitaker fast— faster than it should, even with the circumstances. The concern making a home for itself in Robby’s chest is beginning to grow teeth.
Robby watches as Perlah slips out of the room, leaving him alone with a shaking omega in his lap in a silent room gone still, and waits.
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