this isn't helping -- ex!michael robinavitch x fem!reader
A Pitt fanfic from K?? Oh the obsession has gone too far already (Yes I know it's the middle of kinktober and this isn't at all smutty, and what abt it??)
Summary: Robby knows how to treat you right, you know he does, but he hasn't in some time, and you have to choose yourself. You leave the door open for him, though, just in case he ever has a day that he can't be alone after. You think he'll never take you up on it, and then, PittFest happens. ["This Isn't Helping" by The National ft. Phoebe Bridgers]
Warnings: ANGST, literally all of it is angst, slight comfort but things are still uncertain, maybe this is messy idk, somehow also mostly robby's pov just go with it ok, past + present timeline shifts, reader has a sister who is married + expecting
WC: 7.4k
Robby shouldn’t be at your door.
He really, really shouldn’t be at your door.
It’s been months since he’s spoken to you. Even longer since he’s deserved to speak to you, or to be spoken to by you. This he knows.
He was an ass to you. A complete jackass in a way he’s not proud of and will probably never forgive himself for.
He shouldn’t be at your door because he doesn’t have the right to be near you anymore. He lost that the day you started to think he hated you, and he didn’t even notice.
He shouldn’t be here, and yet, he is.
He is, and he’s toeing the mat to straighten it out. He is, and he’s reaching up to knock, knowing you could look through your peephole and see it’s him and turn him away. He is, and he’s knocking, realizing that he might even be disturbing your sleep.
He knows all of this, and still, he is here.
Because the day he’s had? Oh, it’s been the worst he’s ever had. It’s been rock bottom in a way he didn’t even know existed. Forget scraping the bottom of the barrel-- the barrel has a hole in it and there’s dirt and blood under his fingernails that won’t ever come out. It’s been absolute hell at every turn ever since his shift began, but really his life has been hell ever since you packed your things and left. Ever since he drove you away. Ever since he let you walk out.
And he couldn’t do it tonight, he just couldn’t face an empty, quiet apartment tonight. He thought he had adjusted to it again -- he lived without you once, after all -- but the thought of going home tonight and you not being there, waiting for him, well, that--
His eyes flick upward when he hears the deadbolt slide, the chain unhook, the doorknob twist. All happening so swiftly, as if maybe you’re glad to see him, maybe he’s reading into it, but none of that matters because the point is you open the door.
And you look-- Jesus, you look just as beautiful as the day you left. And you’re wearing his hoodie.
His hoodie that he didn’t even realize he had left here, or maybe you were wearing it when you walked out, but he doesn’t remember because all he remembers from that night are the tears in your eyes and the hurt on your face that had been there for weeks that he didn’t even notice it until it was too late.
“Robby?” you ask, your voice so, so soft and so, so tired.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” he says quietly. “I can go--”
“No,” you say quickly. “You can come in.”
“But--”
“I saw the news,” you say, not accusing, not guilt-tripping, just there. “Come in,” you say. And then: “Come here.”
+++
four months ago
It was meant to be a sweet gesture, but as soon as you stepped into the Pitt, you worried you were going to do more harm than good.
Robby was in a mood that day. Scratch that-- Robby had been in a mood for the past month. Maybe longer. It seemed particularly bad when he left for work at the crack of dawn (he left his coffee on the counter), so by ten you thought you’d bring him a fresh one because you knew how much he hated the hospital coffee.
You weren’t going to stay for long, you just wanted to make sure he was okay. Give him a hug, if he would let you.
Part of you just wanted to see him at the Pitt so you could see if his bad mood transferred over to work. Or if he just had a bad mood when he was with you. If you were the cause and you just didn’t want to admit it to yourself.
Thankfully, though still unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be in any better spirits in the ED.
You headed straight for the hub when you walked in, tray of coffees in hand, spotting Dana with a soft smile.
“Hey, kid,” she came around to squeeze you in a hug, thanking you for her coffee. “What’s got you in here today?”
“Peace offering,” you joked, gesturing to the cup that you wrote Robby’s name on. “He left his on the counter this morning.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Dana grinned, walking back around to her computer, perching her glasses on her nose. “I’m sure he’ll come over soon, it’s a madhouse today. You can just hang here.”
“When is it not?” you sighed, leaning onto the desk, trying not to watch Robby like a hawk. “How are you?”
Dana raised an eyebrow, clearly catching onto you already. “I’m good. And how are you?”
You nodded, drumming your fingers on the side of your coffee. “Good.” And then added, quietly, “Just worried.”
She smiled sadly, putting her hand on yours.
Robby whizzed around the ED and passed by you a few times, none the wiser to you standing there. You tried not to take it to heart. You knew how busy the ED could get, especially for him as the senior attending. You knew he didn’t always have time to stop.
But you wanted him to. Just for five seconds. Just to soothe the anxiety that’s been practically ripping through you since you heard him get up and leave for work that morning and he didn’t even kiss you before he went. He always did. But not that day.
It just felt like everything was spiraling and you didn’t know how to stop it. What you thought was just a bad mood that started a few weeks ago was quickly turning into you questioning if he even liked you at all anymore.
His own residents and nurses stopped by for a quick few seconds to say hello to you before he even did, each one asking if Robby had seen you yet. You tried each time to hide the hurt behind a smile and a quick “Oh, he’s very busy, I’m just keeping Dana company.”
And then, he finally stopped by, locking eyes with you and startling, as if he had just seen you for the first time when you swore he had seen you before that -- but in hindsight maybe he had just been looking through you.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asked, head still on a swivel as he checked on the department. His hand reached for your arm and squeezed in what you hoped was a loving way, but it was all you got.
Not even a kiss. He always gave you a kiss on the forehead when you came to say hello. Always.
“She brought you a coffee,” Dana said, raising her eyebrows at the doctor. “I think that warrants a thank you, Dr. Robinavitch.”
Robby finally smiled then, but you didn’t like it. It felt like it was just to appease Dana, not actually because he wanted to smile at you.
Still, it earned you a thank you and a kiss on the cheek.
But he didn’t touch the coffee.
His head still whipped around, even though things seemed under control, and would be fine without him hovering for a few minutes. It just felt like he was looking for a reason to get away. From you.
“Everything okay?” you asked, and you knew you weren’t going to like the answer because lately you never liked how he answered that question.
“Yeah, sorry, just,” he scratched the back of his neck. You could tell Dana was trying not to listen too hard. “Wish you had called first.”
“You’ve never told me to call before,” you blurted, confused, hurt starting to creep in. “You told me I could always just drop by for a few minutes.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been here a bit longer than that.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. You glanced at Dana. She was staring him down, eyes narrowed.
“Right,” you said, nodding once, already starting to back away. “Never mind. Enjoy the coffee. Or give it to someone else,” you shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Robby tipped his head back with a sigh that lifted his shoulders. “Please, don’t do this right now--”
This being one of the many bouts of bickering the two of you got into lately that usually devolved into him shaking his head and saying I don’t know what you want from me.
“See you at home,” you cut him off with a tight smile, turning on your heel and high-tailing it out of there.
You knew, obviously, that you needed to go back through the chairs and then out the front door because you are not an employee. But in your rush to just get out and away from him, you left through the ambulance bay. And because this wasn’t your first time visiting, because you had become well-liked by everyone as the sweet girl Robby was dating that finally got him to see sense, no one batted an eye as you left through those doors.
No one except Dana, who watched Robby sigh again before spinning around when his name was called. No one except Dana, who used an excuse of a smoke break to follow you through the ambulance bay.
You knew she was following you and you knew she couldn’t be far from the ED for long, so you tried to offer a reassuring smile when you turned around.
She didn’t buy it. “What’s going on, kid?”
You shook your head, chin wobbling no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You were embarrassed. Because not only had he seemed less than pleased to see you, but it was in front of everyone, in front of Dana.
“It’s-- It’s him. He’s being so-- I know it sounds ridiculous, but he’s been so mean. And I’ve tried talking to him about it, and he apologizes, but he just does it again and again. He’s not listening.”
“Shit,” Dana sighed. “I didn’t realize he was taking this home, too.”
“It’s fine,” you muttered, wiping at your face. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, I know you two are close--”
“Hey,” Dana scolded gently. “I love him like hell, but if he’s not treating you right-- honey, that’s on him. Not you.”
“It’s not that, it’s just--” You sighed, looking up, eyes stinging. “He does treat me right. He can. He has.”
“But he’s not right now.”
You shook your head again, sniffling hard. “And I’ve tried talking to him, I’ve tried to give him some grace, but I just don’t know if I can keep going on like this when he’s just-- He’s so mean when we’re at home, he’s mean when I try to bring him a fucking coffee because he left his and I was just trying to be fucking nice--”
Dana reached out to you, rubbing your arms. “Do you have anywhere else you can go?”
You nodded. And you realized at that moment how serious it was, for Dana to ask if you had another place to stay, somewhere away from him. Because being with him was no longer the safest place. “Yeah, I um-- I renewed my lease last week. But I didn’t tell him, so.” You snorted, rolling your eyes, bitterly, tiredly. “Don’t tell him.”
“Hey, this stays between you and me, got it?” Dana said, waiting for you to nod. “Now, go home. Relax. And don’t worry about him. Worry about taking care of yourself.”
You nodded slowly, and you knew she was right, but you hated it. “I love him, Dana.”
“I know you do, baby,” she said softly, sadly. “But you need to take care of you.”
+++
You’ve been, unfortunately, glued to your phone for the past few hours ever since you heard the news of what happened at Pitt Fest. Survivors’ guilt creeps in when you think of the lanyard sitting dormant on your dresser. You had bought a pass just last week, wanting to do something fun and impulsive -- read: just wanting to do something -- but when today came, the last thing you felt like doing was leaving the house.
And you’re so glad you didn’t, even though it is a nightmare to witness. A nightmare to even think that that could’ve been you.
You hear that everyone is being treated at PMTC and your heart aches a little, knowing Robby is probably working. Probably witnessing all of this tragedy.
But, then again, you know that everyone being treated there is in good hands -- great hands, in fact, because one thing you’ve never doubted is that Robby is a good doctor. One of the best. But you’re biased.
You watch the news for updates even though a part of you screams at you to look away. Police catch the shooter and you think that’s enough, and you almost turn it off. But when you hear there’s going to be a press conference at PTMC, you keep it on, foolishly hoping to catch a glimpse of Robby, even though you know you won’t. Press isn’t exactly something he does willingly, let alone after a tragedy like this.
When Gloria steps up -- a woman you’ve heard many things about -- you turn the volume down, but still listen absentmindedly.
You shouldn’t worry about him so much. The two of you aren’t dating anymore -- your choice, you always need to remind yourself. You left because you couldn’t take being treated like that anymore, like he didn’t even want you around, like you were just frustrating him every single day. Even if that wasn’t the truth, it felt like it, and he did nothing to convince you otherwise.
You left. You had to take care of you, as Dana told you. As your sister told you. And so many friends when you saw them at your sister’s wedding and they all asked where’s the doctor?
It’s been a painful few months without him because in the almost ten months that you dated, you just got so used to having him around. To seeing him for a few minutes at work to drop off a coffee or snack. To seeing him for a late dinner when he finished his shift. To seeing him through bleary eyes at 6am when he’d kiss you before he left for work.
Going back to being completely alone was hard, and it’s hard worrying about him when you haven’t heard a word from him, but it’s still better than staying at his place and wondering if he even wanted you there at all, and listening to him sigh at you or snap at you any time you tried to help.
You stare down at your navy blue sleeves. The sleeves of his hoodie that he left here ages ago. Probably the night of your third or fourth date, whichever one it was that you tugged him up after meeting him for a late dinner after his shift. He had meant to walk you home and leave you at your door, but you had other plans. You didn’t realize at the time that he had to work the next morning, but you don’t know that it would’ve stopped either of you if he had mentioned it.
You smile softly, thinking of that night. The early days with him. When the two of you were so in love, though neither of you admitted it yet. When you were all over one another. When it didn’t matter if he had a bad day or not, he was always happy to see you.
You’re so far in your head thinking about him that when you hear someone knocking on your door, you jump.
And when you look through the peephole, you think you summoned him somehow. You think you’re seeing things. You rush to open the door, almost convinced that when you do, he won’t be there. That you will have made him up.
But he’s there. He’s standing right outside your door. And he looks like he’s had the worst day of his entire life.
+++
three and a half months ago
When Robby got home, the house was quiet. He almost thought you weren’t there, or maybe asleep, but then he heard the faintest movement in the kitchen.
He said a soft “Hey” when he spotted you from the doorway, not wanting to startle you.
You turned around from where you were loading the dishwasher. It smelled like you cooked dinner, but you were quickly cleaning up any evidence of that. You never did that, not that fast.
“Hey,” you said. And then you opened your mouth to say something else, but you stopped, closing your mouth and turning back to the dishes.
You were acting strange. You had started acting strange last week. But he had a long day. So he didn’t know if he should or even wanted to ask you what was going on with you.
“I’m gonna…” He trailed off, nodding down the hall. On a normal day, you’d ask with a smirk if he wanted you to join him. But your face was hard, solemn.
You nodded slowly, opening your mouth again, the words finally escaping that time. “Can we talk first?”
He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jacket. “Sure.”
You didn’t hesitate at all. Looking back, it makes Robby wonder how long you had held the confession inside. “I think we should take a break.”
Robby knew it wasn’t medically possible, but hearing that sentence, he swore his heart stopped.
“What?” His voice was quieter than he meant, and the word was not at all what he intended to start with.
You wrung your hands. “You’re dealing with something right now that I can’t touch and--”
“Oh, not this again--”
“Yes, this again, Robby,” you cut him off with a tone he had never heard you use with him before. It somehow wasn’t angry like he expected. He couldn’t figure it out.
Later he realized it was defeat.
“I don’t know what’s going on and I can’t keep asking just for you to keep telling me you don’t want to talk about it,” you continued. “And then you turn around and you lash out at me, you lash out at work--”
“Who said that?”
“Everyone, Robby, every time I visit, that’s what I get told,” you continued evenly, brushing past his scoff and snark. “It’s not like you.”
“Oh, it’s not like me?” he countered, anger always quick to rise. “We don’t work together. You don’t know what I’m like, what I deal with--”
“Michael,” you glared at him, but there was barely any real heat to it, tears swimming in your eyes. “I’m not-- I don’t want this to be an argument. I need a break. I need some space. Because you--” You shook your head. “I don’t know what happened. I know that it was bad, I know it tore you up in some way and you can’t shake it, but none of that is an excuse for how you’ve treated me recently. It’s not like you. You haven’t--” You sniffled then, and it cracked something inside him. The laugh you let out was bitter. “God, you haven’t kissed me in a week.”
That couldn’t be true. He thought, there was no way for that to be true.
But it was. He was working more shifts, getting up earlier, staying later after. You were almost always asleep when he saw you. And while that used to not stop him, for some reason it had. For some reason a week had passed and he hadn’t kissed you once.
The fact shook something loose in him, on top of everything else. He took a step closer to you, freezing immediately when you took a step away from him, pressing your back into the counter.
“Listen,” you said quietly, broken. Another sniffle. Like it was hurting you just as much to say these things as it was for him to hear them. “You need help. And I know you don’t want my help, and that’s fine, but you need help from someone. You need to talk to a professional.”
He opened his mouth to protest like he always did that he was fine, but you kept going.
“I’m going to go stay with my sister,” you said.
“What about after?” he asked, listening to his worst nightmare unfold and there was nothing he could do because he caused it. Fuck.
“I renewed my lease a couple weeks ago.”
That nearly brought him to his knees. “But--”
“I know what we talked about, but with how you have been acting, I wasn’t sure moving in together permanently was a good idea for us yet,” you explained, even though you didn’t need to. “I wanted to just give us more space and time, but then you--” You stopped short, shaking your head.
“What?” he pressed, but his throat was tight, his eyes stinging. “What did I do?”
You just shook your head again, a watery smile on your face. “It doesn’t matter. I need to get going anyway.” You wiped at your face, taking a deep breath. “I made dinner, it’s in the fridge. Should last you a few days. Please eat it,” you said, and he couldn’t believe his ears. That you still cared when, by god, he didn’t deserve it. “If I forgot anything here just, text me. I’ll be back in town next week.”
Back in town? His eyebrows furrowed. “Where are you going?” Your sister lived here, in Pittsburgh, in a house not that far from his apartment, actually.
You smiled sadly. “Her wedding. It’s this weekend. Don’t worry about it, I told them you were too busy with work.”
His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, either in frustration or a failed attempt to stop tears from building, he didn’t know. Maybe both. “Fuck, why didn’t you remind me?”
The sad smile never left your face. “Because I shouldn’t have had to.”
He hated that sentence at the moment, but later he understood it. The Save The Date! was pinned to the fridge, just like it had been for the past year. Right next to the invitation that joined it six months ago, and if Robby hadn’t been so deep in his head, he might’ve noticed you going to appointments with your sister to help her get everything ready for the wedding.
“Take care of yourself, Robby, please,” you had practically begged, finally stepping close enough to him for him to almost touch you, but he didn’t. “And if there is ever a shift -- please look at me -- If there is ever a shift that is so bad that you can’t be alone after it, my door is open, okay?”
He nodded. He said, “Okay,” but he wasn’t sure he meant it. Wasn’t sure he deserved it, all this kindness coming from you when you were breaking up with him because he drove you away. He hurt you so bad that you were here, removing yourself from his life so quietly, and still telling him to take care.
You hugged him then, and he let himself hug you back, but had to force himself to let go when you did and not a second too late. He had to choke back the words please don’t go as he watched you grab your purse and leave. As he realized you already had your car packed, and you were just waiting for him to get home from work so you could talk to him face to face.
As he realized you were ready to leave probably weeks ago, and he was too deep in his head to notice.
+++
Robby steps into your apartment as if it’s the first time he’s ever been inside. It doesn’t remind you at all of the first time he came over. That night he was confident, and you were, too. Tonight he’s timid, unsure if he belongs, and though you extended this open invitation to him, you’re unsure, too.
“I have some leftovers from dinner,” you say when he shuts the door behind him softly, almost unbelievingly, that you’re allowing him inside again. “If you’re hungry. Did you eat today?”
“I’m fine,” he says because he doesn’t want to eat your food that you cooked for yourself.
“Michael,” you say, voice stern, and it makes his eyes snap to yours because -- it feels so wrong to admit -- he’s missed you being stern with him. “How many protein bars did you eat today?”
He chokes out a small laugh. It’s only been a few months, but you still see right through him. “One.”
Your expression melts into sadness. “Come eat. I always make too much, anyway. It’s hard cooking for just one person. You’re doing me a favor.” You wave him into the kitchen.
He knows he is. You told him this before when the two of you practically lived together. You said you could only eat something so many times in a row before you couldn’t take it anymore. So, it either went bad and you’d feel guilty for it, or he’d eat it. (He usually ate it; he hated seeing you upset with yourself.)
“What’d you make?” he asks, still sheepish as he follows you into the kitchen.
Coincidentally, you made his favorite.
“Help yourself,” you tell him. “Everything’s still in the same place.”
You’re excusing yourself from the room and he doesn’t know why until he hears silence. You had the TV on. More specifically, the news. Still.
When you return, he’s waiting by the microwave, warming up a generous but not too generous helping of dinner. He really doesn’t want to eat all of your food, but fuck. It smells good, he’s missed your cooking, and he's starving. His cooking hardly holds a candle to yours on a good day even though you used to tell him he’s great.
He realizes as he watches the bowl spin that it all comes back to one thought: he misses you.
You talk about random things while he eats, leaning against your counter in the same easy way he used to. It feels good, it almost feels like no time has passed, but it has. Oh, it has.
He hears it in your voice. It’s worn out now, tired. Maybe you just had a long day. Or maybe you’ve had a long few months, processing what he put you through, dealing with how he treated you. Picking the pieces back up.
Your sister is expecting. It sends a rush of joy through him. You once told him, tearfully, that she didn’t think she’d be able to have children after wanting to be a mom for so long, and that you didn’t know what to do because it was always you who fixed things, always you who made her feel better, righted whatever had wronged her. But you couldn’t touch something like this, couldn’t even come close.
It sends a wave of sadness over him, too. Wishing selfishly that he had been there with you when you found out, or at least had been present in your life so that you might’ve called him with the good news.
Instead, he’s here. Hearing it months later, standing in your kitchen, eating your food, after he’s had a day so bad that he’s not even certain he’s alive right now.
You graciously wait until he’s finished eating, has washed his bowl, and is setting it on the drying rack before asking him about his day.
He bristles. He doesn’t want to talk about it. But not talking about it is what got the two of you into this situation. Him shutting you out is what made the two of you like this. You were nothing but kind to him and he turned his nose up at it.
So, he talks. Or rather, says one sentence, the one thing weighing heaviest on his chest right now. “Jake’s girlfriend died in the shooting and I uh--” he clears his throat, shakes his head. “I couldn’t save her.”
“Oh, Robby.”
You don’t say it pitifully, because you’re not and you never have pitied him. You’ve always known how he hates it.
But you say it with just enough sadness that he can’t fight the tears that sting his eyes, or the raw feeling clawing its way up his throat.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. “He blames me for it and I-- I blame me for it, so I can’t even fault him for being upset with me, but I tried, I swear, I tried to save her.”
“I know,” you whisper, and you sound so close, but he doesn’t dare open his eyes. “Robby, I have no doubt in my mind that you did everything you possibly could to try to save her.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” he cries, tears falling and he can’t stop them, he’s not even trying. “It felt like nothing that I did was enough today.”
He doesn’t open his eyes but he doesn’t need to to feel you pulling him into your body, cradling his head, pressing his face into your neck. Once, early on in your relationship, Robby had cried in front of you after a bad day. He had buried his face in your neck just like this. And it healed a part of him, felt so good that he was scared to feel it again.
Everything about you felt so good that he was scared of it. So scared of it slipping away that instead he did the pushing. Unconsciously, maybe. Or maybe that’s his excuse because he doesn’t want to believe that he was intentional about the way he hurt you.
He doesn’t even wrap his arms around you now, still afraid that he doesn’t deserve it. He just stands there, quietly weeping into your neck while you hold him there, fingers gently scratching his scalp.
“I still have some clothes of yours here,” you say softly. “If you want to change into something that doesn’t…have today on it, you know.”
He nods into your neck, says, “Thank you,” and tries not to think about the fact that you’re wearing his hoodie right now, or the fact that he practically kisses your neck as he speaks.
You nod against him, giving the back of his neck one last scratch. “I’ll go get them. You can shower too, if you want. If that would help.”
He lifts his head, lets you see his red-rimmed eyes, his damp cheeks, but mostly just so he can look at you. So he can see the sincerity in your gaze. “I’m okay.”
You leave without another word, and when you return, you tell him the clothes are on the bathroom counter, that he can change his mind about the shower, and that you’ll be on the couch whenever he’s ready.
He doesn’t end up showering. Frankly, it’ll require more energy than he has right now. Changing into new clothes and splashing water on his face seems to do the trick of releasing him from the fogginess of his brain.
You’re on the couch just as you said you’d be, curled up under a blanket, scrolling on your phone. Robby’s heart aches at the familiar sight.
When you look up, your smile is soft. And just as sad as he feels. You lift one edge of the blanket and usher him over. He fights himself to not run over to you.
He sits comfortably by your side, under the blanket, but still checking that it’s covering you the most. He doesn’t need the blanket now, never really has when he’s sat with you under one, but it’s the closeness. The warmth. Sharing it with you and always reaching over to make sure you’re tucked in. He does it unconsciously even now, hands pausing when he notices that you’ve caught on.
“Sorry,” he whispers, moving his hands back into his lap.
“It’s okay,” you tell him through a little smile, propping your elbow on the arm of the couch. “How’s Jack?”
Robby startles for a moment, having expected to come back from the bathroom and find you wanting to have another serious conversation about his day. But instead you’re…asking how Jack is doing.
“He’s good, he was supposed to be off today, but he came in to help,” Robby says, then runs a tired hand down his face. “Which was good. He’s experienced in combat medicine, and that…that’s basically what the last few hours were.”
You grimace. “I can’t imagine. I’m glad he was there to help, though. It’s sad but he’s a great resource to have for that.”
Robby smiles despite himself. Because you don’t work in medicine, so you don’t really get it, but you try. You always try and you do understand, sometimes more than he ever gave you credit for, purely because of who you are as a person.
He looks over at you, your features illuminated by the lamp light. “How are you doing?”
You talked a lot earlier about random things, but nothing directly about yourself or how you’re doing these days. He noticed.
And he notices right now, the way you scrunch your nose and turn your gaze to your lap. And he thinks, I did that.
“We don’t have to--” he starts.
But you shake your head. “No, I mean, it’s only fair, I asked you how your day was.”
“Yeah, but--”
“I’m fine, Robby, genuinely,” you say. “Better than I have been, but I don’t want you to guilt yourself, so don’t worry about it. I’m okay.”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. Maybe he shouldn’t say it, maybe you two shouldn’t get into it, but he didn’t think you’d answer the door, let alone invite him in, and now it’s the first time he’s seen you in months and all he can think is I’m so fucking sorry for all of it.
You just frown. “We don’t need to have this conversation right now.”
“Can we?”
“Depends on if you’re going to change or not, I guess,” you reply honestly, with a little shrug.
He nods. He deserved that. “Jack gave me his therapist’s number.”
Your eyes widen a little. “And you took it?”
Your pure surprise makes him laugh. It’s the same look of shock that Jack wore when Robby asked him to send the number. Jack texted it to him right there. “I did take it.”
“And you’re going to call?”
You sound so hopeful that it breaks Robby’s heart all over again. “Yeah, I am. I’m off tomorrow so I’m…” He sighs, almost afraid to speak it out loud and commit to it, especially in front of you. But he has to. “I’m going to call tomorrow.”
Your soft smile is enough to make him not regret the decision. Your foot lightly kicks into his thigh under the blanket. “I’m proud of you. Really.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, looking down at his lap. He doesn’t deserve that from you, not really. Still, he says, “Thank you.”
“I’m serious,” you press gently. “I’m glad you’re going to be getting some help.”
He still stares down at his hands. They at least look like his hands now, which is more than he can say they did when he was having a breakdown in pedes earlier. At least his body now feels like his, like he occupies it. Like he occupies this space next to you.
“I am sorry,” he says again.
“I know,” you murmur. “I know you never really meant to hurt me.” You pause, turning your head to look at him with that same sad, little smile. “Or at least I hoped it was never intentional.”
“It wasn’t,” he’s quick to confirm. “But that doesn’t change that I still hurt you.”
You crack a small smile. “Now you sound like my therapist.”
He knew you saw a therapist. You started seeing one before he and you got together. Only twice a month then, though. He wonders if you see them more often now, because of him.
“We can talk about it later,” you tell him. “After you’re set up with a therapist.”
He chuckles. That sounds fair. “You’ve got a deal.”
The silence you share is comfortable. And then he hears you yawn.
He glances at the clock on your wall. “Shit, I’m sorry, it’s so late, you need to go to sleep--”
“It’s fine,” you wave him off. “I have tomorrow off.”
“But still,” he says, moving to get up. “I’ll go--”
“Robby.” Your voice stops him, your hand circling his wrist. “Do you want to stay the night?”
You’re not asking it with the look in your eyes that he remembers, but still he worries. “I don’t think that’s a good--”
“You know just as well that I’m not asking for sex, Michael,” you reply, not unkindly, but you’re being stern again. It lasts for only a moment, though, your voice going soft again. “Please stay. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”
He nods, not putting up any more of a fight. Maybe he should. But he can’t bring himself to argue. If he goes home to his empty apartment right now, he probably won’t sleep. He might have another breakdown. Or worse.
“Okay,” he finally says. “I can take the couch.”
You release his wrist with a little nod. “You can share the bed with me if you want, but there’s no pressure.” You pause, cracking a smile. “I know how bad your back is.”
He gives you a look, that playful little glare that the two of you used to share before things got bad. “Alright, you.” He laughs quietly, weighing the options, knowing that the couch will be hell on his back, but worried about the bed. About being so close to you. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve shared a bed before,” you remind him, the silent implication of and nothing happened tacked on at the end. All the nights that you were sleeping when he came in and sleeping when he left. “But it’s genuinely up to you.”
Somehow that doesn’t help him decide. “What do you want?” he asks.
You hesitate. He can see it in your eyes. And then you let out a tired laugh. “Honestly? I haven’t slept right since I left.”
“Me too,” he confesses. He wasn’t sleeping right or long enough before things ended, but it got infinitely worse when it was him all alone. Suddenly he was wandering his apartment at all hours, napping on his couch, halfway on and off his bed, pumping coffee into his body at such an alarming rate that he wasn’t even shocked when Dana told him to cool it.
You stand then, leaving the blanket on the couch as you hold out your hand. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”
He takes your hand and lets you guide him down the hall to your bedroom, as if he doesn’t know the way.
When steps inside your room, it’s just as he remembers. The same bedspread, same lamp, same setup.
And then his eyes land on your dresser. On the yellow lanyard.
His eyes snap to you, his hand tightening in yours, tugging you back toward him. You stumble slightly, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him, confusion swirling in your eyes because there are tears in his.
“What?” you ask, voice rushed. “What’s going on?”
“Did you go today?” he can’t ask fast enough, even though he’s terrified of the answer. “Did you go to PittFest?”
“Oh,” you deflate, glancing at the lanyard, shaking your head. “No, Robby, I didn’t go, I bought it on resale and was planning to go but just…” You pause, grimacing. “It sounds stupid but I think I had a gut feeling. And I just didn’t want to leave the house today, so I didn’t--oof!”
The wind is knocked out of you with the force of Robby’s hug, his arms holding you against him with no room to escape.
You let out a small laugh, returning the hug, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. But the gravity of it hits you all the same.
“I’m so fucking glad you didn’t go,” he says into your neck. “So fucking glad.”
“Me too,” you whisper, leaning your head against his. “As soon as I heard about it on Twitter, I-I just got so nauseous. I just kept thinking that could’ve been me.”
His breath hitches, grip tightening. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had-- It was bad enough wondering about Jake and Leah, and then losing her, if you had been there too, I-I don’t--”
You shush him gently, still holding his head. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry.”
He lifts his head then, cheeks wet, eyes narrowing, as if he still can’t believe you’re in front of him. “What are you sorry for?”
You shake your head. “That you had probably the worst day of your life today,” you say, thumbing some of the tears away. “I know it’s not my fault, but I’m sorry today happened. I know it’s also--” You cut yourself off, but he knows. “I know it’s a hard day in general already.”
He nods, just staring at you still in grateful disbelief. He can’t believe he ever had you. He can’t believe he ever took you for granted and let you walk out. He can’t believe you’re letting him back in right now.
“Let’s get some sleep,” you whisper. “You’re exhausted.”
“That easy to tell, huh?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “With you it is.”
The two of you climb into bed with tentative familiarity, settling beside each other like no time has passed. You turn the lamp off and roll onto your side facing inward, which means you’re facing Robby, and he can’t help but turn his head, smiling at you.
You smile back. “Go to sleep.”
“We just laid down,” he argues, laughing through it as he looks back at the ceiling. “You know it’ll take me an hour.”
“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “Anything I can do to help?”
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, a smirk playing on his lips before he can stop it.
He almost regrets it, but then you’re laughing loudly, lightly smacking his chest, and saying, “Anything other than that, you perv!”
He laughs with you, a genuine rumble in his chest for the first time in months. “I don’t know,” he admits. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
You shrug, further sinking into your pillow, and he knows it won’t be long before you’re sleeping. “We could get coffee.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod, then open your eyes to fix him with a look. “Not as a date.”
“I figured,” he says. “I didn’t think it’d be that easy.”
He hears your little laugh, the one that mimics a scoff. “Winning me back won’t be a walk in the park, Robinavitch.”
“Good,” he says, surprising even himself. “Make me work for it.”
“Oh, I will.”
Your eyes are closed now, but he smiles at you. Because you aren’t saying no. You aren’t telling him he has no chance. You’re telling him it’s possible, that he might have you again one day. But first he has to work for it.
And he can do that. You deserve that. He’s frankly a little giddy at the prospect of dating the hell out of you again, maybe even harder than the last time, since he has a lot to make up for.
“Therapy first,” you add quietly, sleep starting to cloud your words. “Then we can talk.”
“Deal,” he says softly. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
He hears that little laugh again. “Night, Mikey.”
Maybe it’s wrong, but he’s glad he came to your door tonight. Before he even made the decision to come here, he knew he needed to call Jack’s therapist, but after tonight, after hearing you say that you’re willing to let him back in only if he goes to therapy, well, now he’s absolutely going to make that phone call. It’s not the first time you told him, and he knows he should’ve listened sooner, but he can’t change that. All he can do is make it right now. All he can do is go to therapy and get better so he can be with you again.
Because he needs you. Jesus, he needs you something bad, and it’s stupid that it took losing you for him to realize it, but it did. And now he can’t bear to be without you again.
So, maybe he shouldn’t, but when you fall into deeper sleep and curl closer to him, he lets you. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he opens his arm, scoots a little closer to you, lets you rest your head on his chest, reaching your arm over him, anchoring him to you. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he lets it happen.
And he sleeps better than he has in years.
