Work Text:
“64-year-old male with episodes of hematemesis. Heart rate in the 150s, BP 62 over 38–”
“Let’s get him into trauma two,” Robby prompts, falling into step with the paramedics and guiding the stretcher.
“Wife should be walking in any second, reports getting home from work and finding the patient covered in blood and unarousable.”
As if on cue, a woman comes rushing into the trauma room, understandably panicked as she shouts, “I couldn’t wake him up! Not even when I splashed water on him! Is he still alive? Oh, Jesus, please let him be alive…”
“He’s alive,” the paramedic tries to comfort her, and Robby has to fight the urge to add ‘barely’, isn’t entirely convinced that the man is alive and probably won’t be convinced until he hears a heartbeat for himself.
Then, as they transfer the patient from the stretcher to the bed, Robby is hit with a hope so fucking desperate it nearly knocks him over.
He knows this man—has shared beers over football games, thanksgiving dinners and Christmas Eve celebrations, very nearly became part of his family.
“Jonathan?” Robby questions mindlessly, then much louder, “Jonathan—fuck, come on, man!” knowing damn well he won’t be getting an answer any time soon.
A team of doctors and nurses move around him in a flurry, and it takes Robby a solid five seconds to shake himself out of his shocked state and start moving again.
“Let’s get some lines started. Princess, pull pantoprazole—”
“Panto, got it!”
Robby starts to palpate Jonathan’s stomach, still calling his name as cold dread slithers down his back. He hasn’t seen the man in seven years, and this is how their paths cross again?
A resident is slapping EKG electrodes onto his chest, clipping the leads in place, and Robby curses at the tachycardic rhythm he sees. Still, 175 beats per minute is better than zero.
Only when he shoves two knuckles into Jonathan’s sternum does he come to. He’s obviously altered, groaning at the noxious stimuli as his face scrunches up, but his eyes flutter open, roll from side to side until they land on Robby at the sound of his voice.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Robby sighs. They’re not out of the woods by any means, but Jonathan’s state is at least slightly better than Robby had originally thought.
The man blinks slowly, expression twisting into one of pain, but he still manages a weak, “Robby?” before his body jackknifes and bright red begins pouring from his mouth.
“Alright, we’ve got you, okay? It’s gonna be fine—you’re gonna be fine.”
Perlah gets the bed inclined so that Jonathan doesn’t aspirate on the blood he’s vomiting, but it isn’t long before he passes out again.
By some miracle, they’re able to stabilize him, but it isn’t without the help of a PPI and a round of CPR. Jonathan’s wife sobs the whole time, but she stays out of the way which is more than Robby can say for most family members.
It’s only when Robby is tossing his bloody gloves into the trashcan that someone (Princess) asks, “you know him?”
“Yeah,” he nods, shoving his hand under a sanitizer dispenser and rubbing the solution into his already dry skin. “Came pretty close to being his son-in-law once upon a time.”
Princess’ eyebrows shoot up high, a slew of questions written out on her face, but before she can ask any, Robby cuts her off— “and, speaking of, I need to make a phone call.”
One he wishes with every fiber of his fucking being that he didn’t have to make.
Robby’s hands are shaking as he slips into the viewing room, completely empty for the first time in what feels like days. He unlocks his phone, thumbing through his contacts, and the mere sight of the nickname ‘Honeybee’ that he never brought himself to change makes his heart stutter. Hopefully, you haven’t changed numbers. Fuck, hopefully you haven’t blocked his. Robby wouldn’t blame you if you had.
Taking a deep breath, he clicks the little phone icon, the hand that isn’t holding his cell immediately settling on the back of his head as he listens to it ring, breaths coming a little quicker and then halting entirely when—
“Hello?”
And, god, he hasn’t heard your voice in so fucking long, it actually leaves him speechless.
“… Robby?”
God dammit.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out croaky, “hey, uh… shit.”
A sharp little exhale hits the speaker, either amusement or exasperation followed by, “what is it?”
“Your, uh—your dad is here,” he manages.
“Here being…?”
“The hospital. He got brought in through the EC about an hour ago,” and because Robby knows you, the way your brain works, he quickly adds, “he’s stable right now, but…”
“That could change,” you finish for him. “Who brought him in?”
“He came by ambulance, but his wife called it in. I’m guessing she’s your stepmom ‘cause I never—” Robby scratches his beard before continuing, “I never met her.” Unless he did and just doesn’t remember her face like a fucking asshole.
“Yeah, that’s Pam. They got married, like, four years ago, so you wouldn’t have,” you affirm, sounding about as awkward as Robby feels, then quickly getting back to the matter at hand. “Why’s he there? What’d he come in for?”
Robby squeezes his eyes shut, scrubs a hand down his face. “Vomiting blood. A lot of it.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, wife said she found him when she got home from work and couldn’t wake him up. Do you—I mean, do you know what might’ve caused it?”
He hears you sigh, and it’s like he can see exactly what you’re doing right now, twirling a lock of hair before brushing the ends over your lips, a self-soothing habit that always used to make Robby smile to himself.
Then, he wonders if your hair is even long enough to still do that, or if you’ve picked up any other habits. Do you still rock back and forth whenever you get restless? Do you still twist your mouth to the side when lost in thought? Do you still cock an eyebrow and pop a hip when you’re gearing up for a fight?
It doesn’t matter, and Robby really has no business thinking about it.
You derail his reminiscing anyway, punch the air right out of his lungs when you tell him, “it’s probably the cancer.”
Fucking hell.
Before Robby can ask, you elaborate, “he hit stage four a few months ago. For a while it was just the decrease in appetite and nausea and fatigue, but we knew it’d get worse.”
“Gastric?” Robby doesn’t know why he even bothered questioning it when he knows the fucking answer.
“Yeah, but, ya’ know… metastasis.” You sniff, and Robby’s heart breaks a little, and then you recompose yourself, “I’ll catch a flight tonight. Let me know if anything happens, please.”
All serious. Clinical, even.
“Yeah, I—of course I will.”
“Thanks.”
The line goes dead immediately after, but Robby keeps the phone to his ear for a few more seconds.
He doesn’t know what to do, what to think, how to feel.
But, his chest aches and his legs feel numb and he needs to talk to Dana immediately otherwise he’ll be the one vomiting blood.
A couple steadying breaths and then Robby is opening the door and stepping back out into the organized chaos of the pitt. He dodges bodies left and right until making it to central where Dana is staring down at a tablet.
“Got time for a smoke break?” he asks.
Head still tilted downward, Dana peers over her glasses at him, one eyebrow raised as she mutters, “this doesn’t sound good.”
Robby just sighs and jerks his head toward the sliding doors, starts to walk in that direction only to stop and poke his head into the exam room that Jonathan has been moved into to free up trauma.
The man is still asleep, but his vitals are stable, and he’s been cleaned up.
“Are we doing okay in here?” he asks the wife—Pam, you had said.
She looks up with bloodshot eyes but still forces a smile while nodding her head, “no, we’re… I’m okay.”
Robby fakes his own smile, “great,” then tells her that you’re on your way and, “should be here sometime tonight.”
Pam looks at him curiously, probably because of the familiar way in which he says your name which prompts her to ask for his.
“Sorry, yeah, I’m Dr. Robinavitch—Michael Robi—Robby. Everyone just calls me Robby.”
Her mouth thins, a glint of recognition in her gaze, and Robby braces himself for whatever kick in the teeth she’s about to serve him.
“I was wondering where I knew your face from,” she hums, “all the pictures.”
Robby shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet. Which pictures? The holiday photos with the whole family? The countless couple’s selfies you always wanted to take? All the shitty Polaroids you thought were charming (they were)?
“Yeah, that… that would make sense, I guess,” Robby responds, still staring at his shoes until finding the courage to meet her eyes again and transition, “well, if you need anything, just—”
“I’ll call for the nurse,” Pam interrupts, voice just a little too clipped to be casual. She has definitely been told things about him, that’s for fucking sure.
“Right. Good. That’s…” What is he even trying to say? “Someone will check back in soon.”
Robby backs out of the room, pulling the door shut as he goes. When he turns around he’s just about face to face with Dana.
“That looked fun,” she smirks. “What’d you do—kill her dog?”
Letting out a weak chuckle, Robby locks his fingers at the back of his neck, waiting until they’re stepping through the sliding doors to the ambulance bay before answering, “that is a certain ex-girlfriend’s stepmother. Never met her, but I’m guessing she’s not very fond of me.”
“You mean…?” Dana packs the carton while watching him. She doesn’t have to finish the question for Robby to know what she’s asking—if the ex he’s referring to is you.
“Yep, that one,” because he can’t bring himself to say your name out loud. Not yet.
“And, the guy who threw up half his blood volume?”
“Dad.”
Dana shakes her head as she passes him a cigarette, then holds out her own when Robby procures a lighter from one of his many pockets.
“I assume she’s flyin’ in,” she comments.
“Yeah, told me she’ll be here tonight.”
This gains Dana’s complete attention. “You talked to her?”
Robby takes a long drag then slowly blows the smoke out through puckered lips. “Be kinda fucked up if I didn’t call her, don’t you think?”
Dana tilts her head from one side to the other as if considering, “better hope she’s on his list of emergency contacts.”
Robby has no fucking doubt in his mind that you are. Should he have double checked? Sure. But, he can’t imagine what you’d say or do to him if you got here, saw him, and realized he hadn’t relayed the information himself.
“How long’s it been?” Dana switches topics without actually switching topics.
Robby exhales more smoke. “Seven years next month.” Not that he’s been keeping track; he just hasn’t forgotten.
The silence between the two of them stretches, though the gap is still full of the typical ruckus of the ER plus the not-so-distant roar of traffic from the surrounding area. Robby can pick out a siren from somewhere far off, and he hopes that it’s coming here and that whatever it brings will be grizzly and complicated enough to take his mind off the ache in his chest, the churning in his stomach.
“You call Abbot yet?” Dana suddenly asks.
Robby glances at her, a little confused. Unlike Dana, who was around from the start, Jack only saw the bad—the stress that led to the break and then the aftermath of it all.
“I’d think you’ll wanna be here when she gets in, yeah?” Robby makes a face but nods. Dana knows him too fucking well. “Well, I sure as hell won’t be, not if she’s hoppin’ on a plane tonight. You’ll need someone from second or third shift to keep an eye out.”
Scratching fingers through his hair, Robby swears to himself then mutters, “that’s a good point.”
“I’m full of ‘em,” Dana snorts.
“You’re full of something.”
She gently swats him before stubbing her cigarette out on the wall, slides the remaining half back into the carton.
“Hey—” she waits for him to look at her again, “it’ll be okay. It’s been a long time.”
Robby doesn’t bother to mask the bitterness in his little chuckle. “Not so sure about that. You weren’t there for that last fight.”
Fight is maybe the wrong word. It wasn’t a fight as much as it was a nuclear meltdown. No violence, no swearing, no shouting. Just hysterics.
Begging.
And, Robby being too fucking broken to realize what a huge mistake he was making.
“You’ve grown a lot. I bet she has, too,” Dana muses, “chin up, kid.”
She raises a hand to pat Robby on the back, three taps and a squeeze, and then she’s walking back into the pitt, leaving Robby to ruminate and reminisce and, eventually, text Jack.
•
Jack Abbot, 21:34
MICU 915?
Me, 21:35
Yes
Jack Abbot; 21:35
Roger. Sending her up
Robby feels sick, but there’s also a teeny-tiny part of him that’s a little excited.
That teeny-tiny part is fucking stupid, though, because it’s not like this reunion is going to go well. The last time he saw you was with fat tears running down your cheeks, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and now your dad is probably, unfortunately, dying. It might not be right this second, but both you and Robby know that this is the beginning of the end.
He’s sitting in the lobby of the ICU, assumes nobody—you, Pam, or Jonathan himself—will actually want him in the room (has no right to be, anyway), but Robby can’t just go home like everything is fine.
At the edge of his chair, elbows braced on his thighs, Robby lets his head hang low, fingers digging into his scalp. He barely even hears the elevator doors open.
Then, a shadow slides into his field of vision, and Robby takes a deep breath before looking up.
All he can do is stare.
A little rounder in the face, a little thicker in the thighs, you look… perfect. Healthy. Grown.
Even with the dark circles under your eyes and the lazy bun on top of your head. Even with the leggings and threadbare sweater. Even with that pained expression.
Absolutely fucking perfect.
“Hey,” Robby tries, short and scratchy.
He probably should’ve gone home—showered, changed clothes, combed his goddamn hair. Instead, he’s in his typical cargos and white undershirt after having peeled off his scrub top, probably smells like he just spent 12 hours trudging through sweat and blood which isn’t inaccurate, and fuck knows what his hair looks like. He’s raked his fingers through it so many times, there’s no way it isn’t a complete mess.
Your mouth ticks up on one side, not exactly a smile but still amused when you ask, “is that gray I see in your beard?” and out of all the things you could lead with, Robby never would’ve guessed it would be teasing.
Rubbing a hand over his chin, Robby huffs through his nose, “sure fucking is.”
All you do is hum before looking toward the closed ICU doors, the sensor to the side of it.
“Can you badge me in?”
Robby blinks a couple times then quickly gets to his feet, “yeah, of cour—yeah,” does his best not to brush up against you as he leans over to scan his ID but still standing close enough to get a whiff of cocoa butter and vanilla, so familiar it’s painful.
“915,” he says even though Jack told you upon your arrival. “Straight down and—you already know, I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
The doors start to open, and you both stand still, waiting. When there’s a wide enough gap, you step forward only to pause and look over your shoulder.
“Are you comin’, or…”
Not what he expected.
Robby knows you can see the shock clearly written on his face when he asks, “do you want me to?”
You shrug, a forced show of casualness that he can read through. Casual is not in your nature. Never has been.
“I don’t care, Robby—” fuck, hearing you say his name in person makes his gut twist, “—I just figured you’d want to since you’ve probably been sitting out here for, like…” you check your phone, do the math, “two and a half hours.”
You’re not wrong.
He draws out the first syllable, “I…” and eventually finds an explanation, “—just wanted to make sure you got in okay,” and then an excuse, “plus, I don’t think Pam likes me very much.”
Rolling your eyes, you scoff quietly, “don’t know why, it’s not like she actually met you.”
Robby just shoves his hands in his pockets, letting you grumble until you shake it off and sigh, “would you mind grabbing me some coffee? Is The Corner still open?”
He checks his watch and feels a sense of relief when he’s able to tell you that, “yeah, for another 45 minutes,” and recites the order he memorized over a decade ago: “iced vanilla latte, almond milk and an extra shot?”
Emotions flicker across your face like a slideshow, and it hurts Robby a little that he can still recognize each one of them. Surprise, mild irritation, dejection, capitulation.
“Good memory.”
“Yeah, well, I used to order it every day, so…”
Only when it’s out of his mouth does Robby realize that he shouldn’t have said it. He guesses that you don’t actually want to address it while you’re here, and he was planning on doing both of you the favor of tiptoeing around the issue, but—
Listen, Robby is smart. Some might even call him a genius (a little much, but okay). People in the field know his name. He’s the head of his department, he’s written commonly cited research papers, and he is good at what he does.
He’s also sort of a dumb fuck.
And, he’s always had this problem with you—not being able to think clearly. He gets ahead of himself, and he says things he doesn’t mean, and while it’s what charmed you at the beginning, it’s also what broke your heart in the end.
“Yeah, I’ll just—I’ll go grab that, then,” he stutters. If anyone from the pitt was around to see this, they probably wouldn’t even recognize him.
“‘preciate it,” you click, suddenly looking very tired. “I’ll let you know if Pam wants anything, but I doubt she will.”
Robby grasps the back of his neck like he always does when he’s stressed. Or angry. Or embarrassed. Really, just whenever he’s conscious. Head down, he hears more than sees you walk through the open doors to the ICU, waits for them to close, then makes his way to the elevators and shoves a knuckle against the button.
Fuck.
Fuck.
•
It’s late enough that the ICU is dark. There are small lights above each nurse’s station that still shine a low yellow, the neverending flashing on various monitors, but aside from those, it’s pretty dim.
You don’t go straight to the room, choosing to duck into one of the three single but public restrooms you know to be on the floor. Your oversized backpack looks fucking ridiculous as you stare at yourself in the mirror but not nearly as ridiculous as the tears welling up in your eyes—tears that should be for your father but aren’t.
Robby.
You’ve spent the last seven years hoping to never see him again while simultaneously wishing that you’d run into each other, that you would see him, stay with him, never fucking leave him. He’d sunk his claws straight into your heart at the very beginning, and the wounds left behind still haven’t healed. You think they might be infected, actually, hot to the touch, irritated, and oozing. It would make sense, especially with how feverish you feel.
The hours you spent preparing for this were not enough. You knew they wouldn’t be. If that initial phone call had left you at your kitchen table with your head in your hands, you were pretty positive that actually seeing him would be nothing short of insanity-inducing.
Maybe it’d be easier if he didn’t look like—like that.
Broad shouldered and tall (god, you’d forgotten how fucking tall he is), with those brown eyes that have the ability to look so soft and so lost and so mean. His hair is messy as always, still completely dark unlike his beard which shows a sprinkle of silver right over his chin.
Even after a decade since meeting him, Robby is still so fucking handsome. It makes you want to hit him. It makes you want to kiss him. It makes you want to crack your skull against the concrete walls around you.
Why did it have to be Pittsburgh Trauma? Why did your dad have to be brought to this particular hospital, through this particular emergency department?
You stew on it for a few seconds before realizing that you should actually be thankful that it was this hospital and this ED. Doesn’t matter how much you may or may not hate him, Robby is a fantastic doctor, and both you and your father are fucking lucky that he was here.
Splashing cold water on your face doesn’t do much to screw your head back on straight. Between your dad dying—a fact you’ve been well aware of since the diagnosis—and the possibility of your ex being just around every corner, you have a feeling you won’t be thinking straight for a while.
Face dried, hands washed, you step back into the hallway and make your way to the end of it. A sharp right, and then you’re nodding a greeting at the RN just outside of the sliding door before slinking inside.
Pam looks up from her phone, and it must take a second for her eyes to adjust from the blue light to virtually no light at all because her smile is delayed.
“Hey, hon’,” she greets, pushing herself off the small couch with a grunt. You meet her in the middle of the room for a hug that’s tight on her end and weak on yours.
“How’s he doin’?”
Both of you look over at where your dad is resting. His vitals are decent, but you know a lot of that has to do with everything he’s hooked up to. No ET tube yet, but it’s only a matter of time, you think.
“He’s okay, mostly just been sleepin’,” Pam tells you, “the couple times he woke up, he was still pretty confused.”
“Yeah, not surprising.”
You set your backpack down in the cabinet under the TV, still stacked with a couple of blankets and flat pillows that Pam likely didn’t even know were there. You know, though, used to run to different floors to steal linen whenever they ran low down in the—
Your stomach twists and cramps, and you have to rest your forehead against the cabinet for a couple beats before turning back around and asking about the coffee.
“Robby is grabbing some for me, but I can text him if you want anything.”
Pam makes her way back to the couch, crossing her legs and bouncing her foot as she reaches for her phone again. Her eyebrows are high on her forehead, mouth thin as she muses, “so that’s Robby, huh?” in a certain tone.
“The one and only.”
Her little, “hm,” is short and unimpressed, managing to pull a snort from your throat, gone as quickly as it came when your phone vibrates in your hand.
Robby, 21:47
Does she want anything?
You don’t even have to verbalize it. Pam is watching you closely enough to figure it out.
“Tell him I’m just fine.”
Me, 21:47
No. She said she’s ‘just fine’.
What the hell did you say to her before I got here?
Robby, 21:48
I just introduced myself. She said she recognized me from pictures and then clammed up. It’s okay. I get it.
On my way back up.
Oh, god, you’re about to have to see his face again.
Looking back at your stepmom, you try, “look, it’s been a long time since Robby and I…” a nebulous hand gesture explains enough, “and I really just do not need you two going toe-to-toe, so play nice. Please.”
“I will, I will,” she insists, but her pitch and the way she draws an imaginary halo over her head comes off as more sarcastic than anything. “Best behavior for the jackass who broke your heart. Got it.”
You rub your temples and wince at the sound of a soft knock on the glass behind you, Robby having enough sense not to step inside without a clear invitation despite the door still being halfway open.
Walking up on him in the lobby was already hard, but it pales in comparison to seeing him with your coffee, long fingers wrapped around the full cup with a familiar logo stamped on the side.
For a moment, all you can do is drown in the deja vu that crashes over you. How many times has he done this before? How many times did he come up to the lab with the very same order? How many times did he bring a cup home to help you stay up and study?
The memories are so warm and wholesome and nauseating—fuck, you think you might throw up on his shoes.
“Thanks,” you choke, taking a sip in hopes of it clearing your throat, but all it does is burn, just like the brown-eyes that are watching you so fucking closely.
“You have Venmo or anything?” you ask.
When Robby just cocks an eyebrow like he’s never heard of it (he probably hasn’t), you can’t help but snicker, handing the cup back to him so you can get into your backpack in the cabinet.
“What is that, like, a money app?”
“Yeah,” you grab a ten from the side pocket, “but I also keep a little cash for anyone who hasn’t joined us in the 21st century.”
Robby glances at the bill you’re holding out then back to your face, his own expression blank as he rumbles, “absolutely fucking not—are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” With a narrowed gaze and a tense jaw, you tell him explicitly, “you are not paying for my coffee, Robby.” The ‘not anymore’ goes unspoken.
You watch as his lips part then curl into an incredulous smile as he holds his hands up, one empty and open while the other is still mostly wrapped around the cup, only his fourth and fifth fingers lifted from the plastic.
“Right, okay. I surrender.”
The coffee is traded for the ten, and the whole time Robby is pulling his wallet from his pocket and you’re sucking on the straw of your drink, you’re both still staring. Challenging. Begging for something, a fight, a hug, both.
It is mind-boggling that after everything that happened, after what he fucking said to you that day, you still just want to curl up next to him in one of his old college t-shirts, head on his chest, tapping out the rhythm of his heartbeat as he reads and plays with your hair and—
“You should probably go,” you tell him, voice suddenly hoarse, bottom lip trapped between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
His expression goes soft like he understands. You pray that he doesn’t, that he can’t read you like he used to be able to.
You swallow, sniffle then quickly brush the back of your hand under your nose while repeating, “you need to go, I need you to go.”
He’s nodding, and you see him start to raise his right hand to touch you before thinking better of it and shoving it back into his pocket.
“Okay, yeah.” Barely even in the room, all he has to do is take a few steps back. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
You offer a thumbs up, the only thing keeping you from tipping over the edge being the coffee you’re sipping.
Robby glances behind you toward Pam who is no doubt glaring daggers at him, then back to you, offering one more sad-eyed stare before finally sliding the door closed and leaving.
As soon as he’s out of sight you’re setting the drink down on the counter, tilting your head back, and pressing your palms against your eyes.
“God,” you croak, hiccup on a sob then choke it back down.
There’s a hand rubbing soothing circles right between your shoulder blades, and you let out a wet laugh at how fucking pathetic all of this is.
Your dad is dying, came in vomiting blood, and you’re crying over your ex-boyfriend like some high-school girl.
He wasn’t just a boyfriend, though, a little voice reminds you. You’d never cared for anyone the way you cared for Robby—still care, if the current heartache is anything to go by. The love you had for him was all-consuming. You were convinced you were going to marry him, even thought he had a ring stashed somewhere toward the end, but…
Robby may have been the love of your life, but you obviously weren’t his.
“I’m fine,” you mutter, reaching over for a paper towel and wiping your face. “I’m good, I promise.”
“I know that’s not my daughter cryin’ over there.”
Quiet, creaky, but still present. Still alive.
Both you and Pam are at your dad’s bedside in an instant, you crouching for him to see you better while your stepmom grabs his hand, careful not to jostle the IV.
“Hey, dad,” you show a genuine, wobbly smile, “have a nice nap?”
He laughs, then coughs, and you frown at the specks of blood that land on his hand. Not the bright red he was likely spewing earlier, but still worth some worry.
“Lord…” he examines the tiny splatter across his knuckles, “like a damn horror movie.”
Pam hands him a damp paper towel, motioning to his mouth when he’s finished wiping his fingers. “Should’ve seen what it looked like when they brought you in.”
“That bad?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, just pulls a plastic chair up to the bed to sit down before taking his hand again.
“Thought we were gonna lose you for a minute there. I really did…”
Your dad looks apologetic, as if it’s his fault that his disease is progressing.
“I’m not done just yet,” he states, eyelids already starting to droop again. “Still got some fight left in me.”
You grab his other hand, “we know,” hold it between yours as you stare at him, finally noticing how fucking weak he is, how small he looks.
Still— “the only way you’re goin’ down is kicking n’ screaming, right?”
He flashes a grin, squeezes your hand, “‘til the very end.”
“Here, I got it.”
“O-oh, no, you don’t have to—”
Eyes lock for the very first time.
Robby’s stomach flips, his heart rate increases, and he’s pretty sure his pupils dilate.
Yet he still somehow manages to chuckle through it. “I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to anyway. Now, scooch before the line gets longer.”
You fail to hide a bashful smile. Robby doesn’t even try to hide his, just hands you your energy drink and granola bar once they’re paid for.
“Those things’ll kill you, ya’ know,” he says while popping the tab of his Red Bull.
As if you’ve got it locked and loaded, you easily quip, “I’m here for a good time, not for a long time,” and Robby can only grin wider.
“Cute and passively suicidal—be still my heart.”
“Your flirting needs some work,” but it comes out alongside a giggle, so his flirting can’t be all that bad.
Still, Robby’s cheeks heat up some as he turns to walk backwards toward the elevator bank, “I’ll make sure I’ve got some new material ready for next time,” and because he’s watching you instead of where he’s going, Robby backs into the corner of one of the short lounge tables, has to slap his hands down on it to keep it from toppling over entirely. When he looks back at you, bangs hanging in his eyes, red from the tips of his ears all the way down into his scrub top, you’re covering your mouth with just the tips of your fingers, shoulders shaking with poorly concealed laughter.
“Ya’ know, the slapstick comedy makes up for the bad flirting, actually,” you manage to say through your amusement.
Still holding onto the table, Robby knows he must look ridiculous with his wide eyes and dopey fucking smile, but he’s gotten this far, so what’s the harm in going just a little bit further?
“I’m Robby,” he introduces, standing up straight now and wiping his palms on his pants. “I work down in the EC.”
“They let you treat patients?” you tease, and when he starts walking toward you, you hold out a hand, “watch out–these tables will get ya’ if you’re not careful.”
Robby rolls his eyes, “very funny.”
“Yeah, well,” you make a face as you crack open your energy drink, “you’re not the only comedian around here.”
“Clearly.”
He gives every table a wide berth as he makes his way back over to you, over-exaggeratedly looking over his shoulders like something really is about to jump out at him.
By the time he’s shaking your hand, you’re chewing on your bottom lip and peering up at him through pretty lashes, and Robby’s head is spinning with possibilities.
•••
Aside from the drowsy state that is technically N1 sleep, you don’t get any real rest overnight. Staying hunched over your father’s bed the whole time probably doesn't make things any easier, but mostly, your brain is just too busy.
You think about Pam, how scared she must’ve been when she got home to find your dad soaked in his own blood. You think about the alarm he must’ve felt when he initially started throwing up. It had to have been a lot if it kept him from getting out of bed and calling for help. Maybe he tried to and simply couldn’t, too weak and dizzy from his usual meds, not to mention the fact that his blood pressure had probably tanked.
You think about the paramedics and how they might have calmed Pam down—incredible she was able to drive herself to the hospital. Maybe there wasn’t enough room in the rig. Maybe they wanted to keep her from seeing any more blood. Maybe they just wanted to make sure she wasn’t around in case he died en route.
Then, of course, you think about Robby. What it was like to hear his voice again for the first time in so long.
You’d nearly dropped your phone when you saw his name lit up on the screen. Answering it was a Herculean fucking task.
Unfortunately, the reason for the call was not surprising. Devastating, yes, but not surprising. The whole family knew that, at some point, this or something like this would happen.
Still, seeing your father laying in a hospital bed now, hooked up to two IVs and telemetry is jarring. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve tried to prepare yourself. It’s different when it actually happens.
Soft, gray light starts to peek through the thin curtains, and you realize just how long you’ve been curled over. Your back pops in a couple different places simply from sitting up straight, the movement making the ache behind your eyes a little more pronounced.
You need to sleep, haven’t for about 24 hours, but you want to be awake when the doctors round. Your father and Pam are plenty smart, but they don’t know to ask the questions that you know to ask, and that leaves you with one option: more caffeine.
Walking around the hospital is strange after so many years, mostly because it seems as though nothing has changed. The walls are still the same shade of tan. The phones at the nurses station are the same model with the same, shrill ring. You quickly find that the staff bathrooms even have the same code from back when you were here, something you absolutely will be taking advantage of in the coming however-long-you’re-here-for.
Pittsburgh Trauma had felt so fucking big when you’d gotten the tour all that time ago—24 years old and starting what would be three years of research for your doctorate. It had been so easy to get turned around, completely lost, sometimes stuck in a stairwell.
Now, you know that all the floors have the exact same layout, know that you can’t get anywhere without a badge or a code, and know that it’s not nearly as endless as you’d originally thought, a fact that’s very clearly proven when the elevator doors open to the third floor and you are immediately met with Robby.
“There is no way it’s past seven AM,” you greet, voice scratchy from disuse.
His smile is familiar, the close-lipped one that reads like a warning (brace yourself for smartassery) and, just as you predicted— “good morning to you, too.”
If your voice is scratchy, you don’t know how to describe Robby’s. Rough, like a low rattle, and so annoyingly fucking comforting.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, moving to the side to let you off the elevator.
You’re quick to counter, “did you?” and Robby’s responding chuckle is answer enough.
Starting for the cafeteria, you’re not even a little surprised when he falls into step beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours before you curl your shoulders inward.
It’s still early as hell, probably just after six judging by the lack of people on the skybridge that you have to cross. ‘Get your shit together hour’, you used to call it, finish any overnight charting, start reading routed notes, send whatever emails need to be sent, etc.
“I had a reason to stay up,” you grumble toward the tall windows, at the downtown traffic that’s starting to thicken.
“And, I didn’t?”
You don’t want to challenge him, and you don’t want to assume. Who knows what kind of shift he had yesterday before you arrived? He could be losing sleep over a patient (one that isn’t your dad), here early to check in on them.
“Figured you’d be on your way to the cafeteria right about now, so I grabbed you this from downstairs,” he quickly derails your theory and, in fact makes, it so much worse when he reaches into one of his stupid cargo pockets and pulls out a small, sealed container of dry Frosted Flakes, the same single-serving bowl you used to grab from the EC galley.
“Not your Honey Bunches, I know, but it’s still got the sugary flakes, so…”
You can see the fatigue in his eyes, but right there with it is a little sparkle of hope, a tiny plea ‘don’t be mad, I’m just trying to help’ and, honestly, fuck him.
Fuck him for doing this to you. Fuck him for still having the ability to do this to you, to make you feel cared for and thought of and needy.
After everything.
“Robby,” you sigh, slowing to a stop and using your middle fingers to rub the tension from your temples.
Still holding the little bowl, Robby speaks to you through body language alone, dips his head (“please look at me.”), raises his eyebrows (“I’m being serious.”), shrugs his shoulders (“I’m doing my best.”).
Then, he actually says out loud, “come on, it’s just cereal. Not even gonna charge it to the room.”
“Funny.” Your resolve crumbles as you take the container from him, using it to motion in the general direction of his lower half— “you happen to steal some milk along with this decadent breakfast?”
Robby opens his mouth, “ah,” as his cheeks take on a red tint, and he looks away from you while admitting, “that I did not.”
“Poor planning,” you deadpan.
This chuckle is more self-deprecating than the last, “yeah, well, I didn’t sleep.”
“Knew it.”
You start toward the cafeteria again, and he falls into step with you again, and you are too fucking fragile for this right now.
But, this is Robby who has always had a certain talent for getting you to spill your guts, and you know that’s exactly what he wants you to do right now. He’s checking in, yeah, making sure you’re still holding it all together, but he’s also digging, and he’s only gonna keep digging, so you may as well just hand him the shovel.
“We didn’t catch it until stage three,” you begin, “late stage three.”
Robby sucks his teeth, eyes squinting in a cringe, and he tries to tell you that, “you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t,” you cut him off, “but I might as well.”
Because he knows your father. The two of them got along really well, actually. Pirates games and backyard barbecues, fishing trips that Robby admitted to finding extremely fucking boring but that he went on anyway simply because he liked spending time with your dad.
Everyone was ready for him to be part of the family. Everyone except Robby, apparently.
“The doctors kept brushing it off as long-Covid.” You do not bother to hide the venom in your tone. “He lost his taste and smell, but when he was recovering, he had the whole—shit, what’s it called when, like, everything tastes rotten?”
“Parosmia,” Robby answers, “olfactory disorder, but it’s not always that bad.”
“Well, it was for him, but anyway. He had parosmia, and they figured that’s why he was nauseous all the time, that the fatigue was because of Covid, and like, I get the reasoning. I really do. The symptoms matched up.”
“But, no one thought to do any imaging,” Robby supplies, shaking his head in disbelief and disappointment. “Lazy motherfuckers.”
You take a deep breath, tapping the cereal against your hand in a restless beat. “Wasn’t until I flew in and maybe made a little bit of a scene—”
Robby stops dead, and his fingers, softly wrapped just above your elbow, feel like a brand.
It’s hard not to yank away from him, but then you see how furious he is—“wait, did all this fucking happen here?”
And, you can’t move anything except for your mouth, “Presby.”
“God dammit,” he swears again, lets go of you in favor of running a hand over his hair, and you immediately miss his steadying grip.
Stupid.
“We ended up in Houston, though—MD Anderson. They tried chemo, radiation to see if they could shrink the tumor, and like, technically, it worked, but not before it metastasized.”
“Esophagus?” Robby asks, and it makes you laugh through your nose.
“And, spleen and pancreas and liver and who the fuck knows where else. It’s been—” you pause to count back in your head, but the silence grows into something longer, and you stop walking altogether when you realize just how little time it’s actually been since your father was diagnosed.
When you speak again, it’s with clenched fists and a tightness in your throat, “it’s been six months. Six months, Robby. And, it’s done…” your voice cracks into what some might call a whimper, “—so much fucking damage.”
Robby stays quiet as you pluck your t-shirt away from your collarbone and use it to soak up the tears that have suddenly beaded at your waterline. There’s a heat at the back of your neck, a presence, but all it does is hover until you hear Robby, hushed as he asks, “can I touch you?”
A small part of you breaks at the idea of him asking for permission. At one point in time, Robby didn’t have to ask, would just wrap an arm around you, pull you against him, hold your face in his hands and tilt your head back. He’d kiss you so thoroughly, sweet or hungry or both. He’d take you, claim you, and you happily let him. Fuck, you might let him now if he tried.
Robby doesn’t try to kiss you, though. No, what he does is so much fucking worse.
Warm hand settling on the back of your neck, Robby slowly guides you until your face is pressed to his jacket, fitting just below his left clavicle like it belongs there. He uses the same detergent he always has, you realize, the same body wash too, and it feels like you’re drowning when the hand at your nape moves to the back of your head, his other curling over your shoulder as his forearm traps you against his chest.
Your fingers shake where they clutch his hoodie, dropping the little bowl of cereal so that you can hold onto him.
So tired—you’re so tired from everything. It isn’t just your dad; it’s your job and your research and the world and Robby. It always comes back to Robby, and that is as infuriating as it is painful. Pathetic.
“He’s fucking dying,” you sniff, grateful that your nose has started to clog up because it means you can’t smell him anymore.
Robby sways from side to side, chin resting on the crown of your head and stilting his, “I know,” like he’s saying it through gritted teeth. Then, he shifts to press his mouth to your hair, and it comes out muffled instead, “I know, baby, I’m sorry.”
You stiffen, consider shoving him away, but you don’t have it in you. Not right now, anyway. Once you get some caffeine in you, you might put up more of a fight, but for now, you’re too weak—physically, mentally, spiritually weak.
You pull back so that only your forehead is against him. The breath you take is deep, resigned, “and, you are making it all so much worse.”
Robby clenches his jaw so tightly you can hear the squeak of his molars as they grind against one another. He doesn’t respond at first, but he also doesn’t let go.
When he does open his mouth again, it’s only to repeat himself— “I know. I’m sorry.”
You never do make it to the cafeteria, just return alone to your dad’s room where you ask the nurse for some milk from the patient refrigerator, glad that Pam isn’t awake yet to ask you about your tear-stained cheeks.
•
“Shit, Robby, you look—”
“Radiant?” he interrupts before Dana can say what he’s already well aware of: he looks like garbage. Eyes sunken and dark, skin dull, pale. “I’m trying out a new face wash. Results have been astounding.”
“What’s that, Neutrogena No Sleep?”
Smart as a whip, as always. Robby doesn’t know why he still thinks he can outwit her. Naive hope perhaps.
“Very nice,” he nods, clapping quietly as he rounds the hub to get to the patient board. Already packed, or, more accurately, still packed from overnight.
“Seriously, though,” Dana comes to stand beside him, “when’s the last time you got a full eight hours?”
Robby snorts and hangs his head. “I don’t know. 1996?”
“‘96?” Jack joins in, looking even more exhausted than Robby after what must’ve been a long 12 hours. “Try ‘75.”
“I hadn’t been born yet,” Robby shoots him a confused look.
“Exactly. Last time you slept any longer than five hours was probably in the womb.”
Starting just under his eyes, Robby rubs down his face, already feeling wrung out before the day has even begun.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck off and run it down for me,” he nods toward the board.
“Can’t have it both ways, brother,” Jack huffs. “Do you want handoff, or you want me to fuck off?”
“Honestly?”
Jack’s expression is unimpressed, and Robby feels that, spins his index finger in a circle as a way to prompt the other man to get to it.
Manic delusions in one of the behavioral rooms, MVC in trauma two (still critical), an overdose, a femur fracture, gallstones, a deceased, and several others.
When Jack finishes, he pauses for a few seconds before asking, “how’re things up there?” with a simple nod toward the ceiling that would be vague to anyone else but is clear as day to Robby.
Shrugging, Robby doesn’t hesitate to tell him, “I brought her cereal yesterday, and she ended up fucking crying and telling me I was making everything worse, so…”
“Not great, then.”
“Nope,” he pops. “I’m trying not to be overbearing, but… fuck, man, I know her, and I know she’s trying to shoulder everything by herself ‘cause she’s too fucking prideful to ask for help.”
Jack smirks, and Robby is rolling his eyes before his friend can even finish— “now, why does that sound familiar?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
Jack doesn’t stick around for long, just claps a hand on Robby’s shoulder before making his way to the locker room.
Robby gets through the morning huddle, supervises rounds and supplies any forgotten questions as well as constructive feedback. If his voice is a little more clipped than usual, no one mentions it.
He makes it to eight AM before shooting you a text.
Me, 08:11
Anything overnight?
Like he’s getting handoff the same way he did from Jack an hour ago. Keep it clinical. Concerned but detached.
It takes 45 minutes for you to reply. Robby hopes it’s because you were sleeping, not because you were fretting over your answer or pissed at him for asking.
Honeybee, 08:52
Took him to surgery at around 5 this morning.
Robby doesn’t think before hitting the call button because what the actual fuck?
You answer with a sigh—like you’re fucking annoyed—but you also begin explaining immediately, “he started throwing up again and wouldn’t stop. Didn’t full-on code, but he was definitely crashing by the time the RRT was called.”
“Jesus Christ.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I don’t have to. You’re under no obligation here, and he is not your fucking patient.”
Your words are laced with anger but under a layer of exhaustion, and Robby should back down, but, “that’s bullshit, and you know it. I’m not some fucking stranger.”
“Robby,” and that anger is much louder now, not in volume, but in over-pronunciation. “Drop it.”
Deep breath through his nose, exhale through his mouth. It should calm him down enough to think straight.
It does not.
“I’ll be up there as soon as I can be.”
A noise of frustration filters through the speaker, a squeaky growl that would make him chuckle if he wasn’t so aggravated. Hurt, even.
“God dammi—fine. Fine. Do whatever you fucking want.”
He does exactly that. As soon as there’s a slight lull, just after two PM, Robby grabs two of the catered sandwiches from the break room, tells Dana to call his cell if he’s needed down here (he will be), then sets off to the MICU. When he finds Jonathan’s room empty, Robby turns right back around and heads down to the PACU instead.
The only raised eyebrows he gets upon entering are from the handful of nurses who recognize him. None of them question Robby, and he doesn’t blame them. He can only imagine what his face might look like—anxious, irked, maybe a little frantic.
Taking long strides around the unit, Robby peeks past curtains, bold and frankly inappropriate, but he really could not give less of a fuck right now.
You’re tucked away in the back, naturally, and when Robby steps into the little space and pulls the curtain closed behind him, the only thing you offer him is a wayward glance before you look back to your unconscious father and cross your arms.
“Brought these,” Robby holds up the sandwiches, not surprised when neither you nor your stepmom show any sign of interest, and drops them on the wobbly tray table next to the bed.
You don’t offer any information, so after roughly scrubbing a hand down his face, he just goes for it, “any complications?”
Silence. He sees a muscle jump in your jaw as you grit your teeth, feels Pam looking back and forth between the two of you, and though she sounds displeased, she at least tells him, “not that we know of, but we haven’t been able to speak to any doctors.”
“Nurses say anything?”
“Just that it may take a while for him to wake up, don’t be afraid to call if we need anything, that kind of stuff.”
Robby hums. The fact that no one has had a full conversation with you doesn’t bode well, means they’re waiting for someone with authority—with answers—to round and actually sit down.
He assumes you know this. You may be more research driven, but you’ve still gone, might still be going, through residency. You’ve seen the strategies of delivering sensitive news. The preparation.
“Well, I’m glad to see he isn’t intubated,” Robby says. Small mercies and all that. “He’s still protecting his airway and satting well,” looks toward the vitals monitor which shows decent numbers.
Your lips are thin, fingertips digging into your arm, and Robby knows what you're holding back, what you’re keeping hidden behind clenched teeth.
For now. He’s satting well for now. That could change at any moment.
Robby doesn’t ask any more questions, already on extremely thin ice as he stands next to you and pulls out his phone. No missed texts or calls so far, but it’s only a matter of time, and the longer it takes for the surgeon to swing by, the harder Robby’s heart pounds, the more his palms sweat.
Every day is an adrenaline rush in the EC, and his cortisol levels are always off the chart, yet Robby isn’t sure he’s been this unsettled and antsy over a patient in years. There’s a reason you’re not supposed to treat friends and family, and it’s that it is fucking impossible to do so with a clear head. He learned that the hard way during Covid when—
“Alright, how are we doing in here?” as the privacy curtain is suddenly pulled open.
Robby knows that voice well and would laugh if the situation wasn’t what it is.
Before anyone can answer her, Emery Walsh clocks his presence and lifts an eyebrow, “Robby?”
“Em,” he acknowledges, “long time, no see.” (She was in his EC about three hours ago).
“Why the hell are you here?” Incapable of cushioning anything or censoring herself.
“I’m asking myself the same damn question,” you pipe up for the first time since Robby arrived.
Emery’s eyes move from Robby to you then back again.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” he holds his hands up. “Pretend I’m not even here.”
“You’re six feet tall and radiating negativity,” Emery states blandly, “in no world would anyone be able to ignore you, no matter how much I’d like to.”
“Save the animosity for Jack and just do your fucking job, please.”
You huff in your seat, and though you’re not looking at him, Robby can still see the annoyed pull of your eyebrows.
Emery, unfortunately, doesn’t back down, quickly picking up on your body language and asking point blank, “do they want you here?” Then, once more while staring at you which Robby finds interesting considering Pam is obviously the spouse. “Do you want him here?”
Robby balls his hands into fists in his hoodie pockets and shakes his head, already knows the answer.
So does Emery despite you remaining quiet, and when she steps in front of him as if to protect Jonathan, Robby glares at her.
“You need to leave. Now.”
“Em—”
“Robby, I’m not fucking around. I don’t know who they are to you, but it’s pretty obvious you’re overstepping, so leave.”
God, she can be such a bitch sometimes. It’s no wonder she and Jack butt heads so badly.
Can’t say Robby doesn’t admire the way she advocates for patients, though. If there’s one thing Emery Walsh doesn’t do, it’s back down. Robby may loom over her, but she’s still looking at him like he’s about two feet tall, no indications of intimidation.
“Robby, I swear to god, I will call sec—”
“Fuck, it’s fine. He’s fine,” you wave, both defeated and irritated in the same breath. “Let him stay. I don’t care.”
Emery leans past Robby to see you better. “Are you sure? ‘Cause I have absolutely no issue getting someone to manhandle him out of here. In fact, I’d love to.”
It earns a snort from you, and Robby is overcome with so much jealousy, it makes his skin hot. Why can’t he put you at ease the way Emery clearly can? Years ago, he was the first person you would come to for comfort.
Of course, that was before he destroyed your relationship well beyond repair.
“Yeah, I’m sure. He’ll be able to look it all up anyway.”
“Not if I make your…”
“Dad,” you tell her.
“Yeah, not if I make your dad a ‘break the glass’ patient.”
“Oh, come on,” Robby grouses, “he came through my EC. I treated him. I’ve already been in his chart, so I have every right to pull it up again. It’s called continuity of care.”
“It’s called fucking HIPAA, Robby!” Emery hisses, trying not to raise her voice, “and, you’re obviously in violation of it! You know better. You’re the chief of the department for fucks sake!”
Robby glances down at you just in time to see the surprise on your face. The promotion is news to you, and why wouldn’t it be? There’s been no reason to mention it.
“Chief?” you question, “Jesus, no wonder you’re acting like you own the place.”
“Can you please just tell me how the surgery went?” Pam finally cuts in, an icy reminder that there’s one more person here witnessing an argument that Robby has no fucking way of winning.
Emery’s eyes are dark. Livid. “Yeah, can I, chief? Do I have your permission?”
“Fuck, fuck. Okay, I’m leaving—Christ.”
He spares you one more glance, furious and pleading all at once, then steps out in a flurry of dramatic clicks from the curtain sliders, pulling the material back almost violently as he goes.
When he gets back to the EC, Dana actually takes a step back at the sight of him. Radiating negativity, Emery had described.
“Geez, I know the ICU ain’t a fun place to be, but I didn’t think it was that bad. You look like you’re about ready to go postal—what happened?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it right now,” Robby snipes, dropping his head into his hands. “Nothing good.”
“He doin’ okay?”
Robby straightens, gripping the back of his neck now as he shrugs his shoulders and forces a tight-lipped, helpless smile. “I don’t know. Fucking Walsh kicked me out before I could hear anything.”
“Emery Walsh?” Dana makes sure she heard correctly, and when Robby nods, she sighs and offers him a pitying look. “Sorry, boss. That’s just bad luck.”
•
Robby refrains from texting you for the rest of the day. It’s difficult, maddening, but he hopes that you’ll appreciate the space and see that he’s capable of giving it to you.
And, it pays off.
Just as he’s finished his charting for the day, he senses it. Senses you. A prickle at the back of his neck, a warmth that blooms in his gut, an inadmissible feeling of knowing that he developed years ago.
He’s here an hour past the end of his shift, but Robby can tell that you’re here for him and knew damn well you’d still be able to find him at eight o’clock.
Night shift has already rolled in, and you nod politely at Jack when he passes, but in the end, you settle in front of where Robby is sitting, crossing your arms on the counter then bending at the waist to rest your head on them.
You look so goddamn tired, and Robby so wishes he could gather you close to him, tease playfully, ‘poor baby, you need a nap?’ because you always did like a little condescension. Robby would take you to bed where he would thoroughly wear you out, then read next to you as you slept like the dead.
He shouldn’t be thinking about anything like that right now, but it’s hard not to when you’re looking at him with those hooded, sleepy eyes.
Still, Robby stomps all over the ill-timed, inappropriate reminiscing and gives you his undivided attention. He doesn’t ask anything, just waits, and after a while you lift your head enough to run a hand down your face, a habit you picked up from him that you obviously haven’t been able to shake.
“He’s back and stable, but he hemorrhaged when they removed part of the tumor they think’s been causing the bleeding. Said it could’ve been worse and they got it under control pretty quick, but, like…” you exhale through your lips, forceful enough that it puffs your cheeks out. “I don’t know. They were gonna try to remove more just, like, while they had him in there but didn’t wanna push it after that.”
All Robby can really do is stare thoughtfully and consider what you’re telling him.
Emery, vexing as she may be, is not the type to throw in the towel when it comes to surgery (or ever). There are only two reasons that she would have: one, the hemorrhage was worse than she let on, and she was at risk of losing her patient, or two, she saw the extent of the cancer and deemed it a lost cause.
Judging by what you’ve told him, Robby is willing to bet it was the latter. Jonathan is just too far gone to save at this point.
As if reading his mind, you continue, “a social worker stopped by a while ago to talk to us, but the second she mentioned hospice Pam fucking lost it.” Your own eyes are puffy and bloodshot, but Robby figures it’s best not to point that out.
“I assume she’s got medical power of attorney.”
You chew on your lower lip, and the way you gaze at him can only be described as helpless.
“Shit.” Robby leans back in his chair as it hits him, “you have it.”
You blink a little too quickly before swiping a finger under your eyes and clearing your throat. “He knows I’ll follow his directive, but—” your voice breaks, and then you’re turning around to hide your face.
Robby logs out of his computer with a long press of his badge, gets up and rounds the counter. He brushes a hand over your back, a fleeting action to get your attention more than anything, and suggests, “let’s go outside. I need a cigarette anyway.”
The only thing you say on your way to the sliding doors is a quiet, “you said you’d quit.”
You should know by now—Robby’s never been the type to give up on anything.
Aside from himself, that is.
You smile around the cocktail straw in your mouth when you meet his eyes from across the bar.
It’s lame and cliché, sitting at a high table with two residents and one other med student, hoping that the only slightly familiar man will make his way over to flirt with you again. He winks at you, and the way your cheeks flare with heat is downright embarrassing, but it’s not like you can help it.
You met the guy once and have maybe seen him from afar on one other occasion (really can’t be sure if it was him or not. You just know he was tall, with dark hair, and cargo pants). That doesn’t mean you haven’t still thought about him from time to time, though, hoping that your paths might cross again.
Of course, you sort of doubted he’d remember should you have run into one another a second time, but that’s obviously not the case because here he is, walking toward you with two fingers wrapped around the neck of his beer, all sideways smile and fluffy hair.
Cocky. Dreamy.
“Hope you’re not imbibing on an empty stomach,” Robby says, motioning toward your fruity drink.
“I’ll have you know I ate two whole granola bars and a mac n’ cheese cup today.” You puff your chest out, exaggerating your silly bragging, definitely not trying to draw his attention to your tits. Definitely not.
Robby bites his bottom lip, but his mouth still curves up into a smirk, and you see deep, brown eyes flick down for just a second before they’re on your face again.
“Granola bars and macaroni and cheese?” His hand splays over his sternum in mock surprise, “Look at you go. I’m impressed.”
You giggle—giggle—and take another sip of your drink without looking away from him. It doesn’t seem like Robby wants to look away either, but he has to eventually when you introduce him to the table, “y’all, this is Robby. I know nothing about him except that he works in the EC and bought me a granola bar once, like, a month ago. Robby, this is Sam, Ryan, and Basma.”
“Nice to meet you,” Robby offers, “all residents?”
Sam and Ryan both nod, but Basma corrects, “still a med student,” then nods toward you, “same boat as her.”
Robby chokes on the drink he just took, has to wipe his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, and you come very close to laughing right in his adorably flushed face when he looks at you and repeats, “med student?”
“First year of research for my PhD, so I guess that technically makes me, like, a third year…?” You look back at Basma for some kind of confirmation, but she just shrugs. The timeline is wonky. You already knew that going into all this.
“Well, that’s one fucking way to spend your twenties,” Robby considers and takes another swig of beer. “Specialty?”
You beam, “neurosci,” and intend to elaborate because it’s one of your favorite things to talk about, and maybe, just maybe, you’d like to actually impress him.
Before you can say anything else, though, Sam cuts in, “wait, Robby from the EC—are you Dr. Robinavitch?”
“Dr. Robby’s fine,” he says easily, like a habit, then follows up with a not quite as smooth, “that’s what everyone calls me. I mean—there, at work. That’s what everyone calls me at work, but here, it’s cool if—just fucking call me Robby.”
The blush on his cheeks has spread to his ears by the time he stops stumbling, and you can’t help but tease, “you always get this nervous around student doctors?”
Robby covers his face with a hand “no,” still holding your gaze through the spaces between his fingers. “Not usually, no.”
At least he’s owning it, you’ll give him that.
“My cousin is down there right now, in the ED,” Sam continues, throwing Robby a lifeline, though you aren’t sure if it’s because Sam feels sorry for him or because he wants to be part of the conversation, which, fair. “She’s a senior resident—Joy.”
“Ohh, Dr. Li, yeah—she’s great. Fucking stubborn, but great.”
They make light small talk about Sam’s cousin, then Ryan asks Robby what it’s like to work in emergency medicine.
“Never a dull moment. Nine AM this morning, we get a 16-year-old playing hooky, joyriding in dad’s BMW—arm almost entirely degloved.” The entire table erupts into various noises of shock and/or disgust, and Robby just laughs, continuing, “two PM, I’m covered in piss, and at six I’m talking to cops about a shaken baby.”
“Hopefully, you weren’t still covered in piss for that,” you add, which lightens the grim ending some but not by much.
Still, Robby rolls his head to the side to look down at you, expression wry but with a certain warmth in his eyes when he replies, “I’d rinsed off and changed by then, thank you.”
The idea of him taking a quick shower in one of the staff-only bathrooms floats to the forefront of your mind, a lovely mental image. You have no clue what Robby looks like without so many layers, but what you can see is hot. All broad shoulders and long limbs, then add in the beard and the boyish smile and the big, brown eyes? Criminal. Should be illegal, actually.
His grin melts into something smug when he catches the way you’re staring at him now, and it’s probably easy to guess where your mind is (the gutter); subtlety has never been one of your strengths, but it doesn’t seem like it’s one of Robby’s either as he shifts closer to you, so close that his arm rests against yours on the tabletop.
“Just what are you thinking about, hm?” he questions, voice too low for anyone else to hear but rolling like thunder between the two of you.
You glance down at his forearm, corded with with muscle, dusted with hair, then let your eyes trail up to the t-shirt sleeve stretched over his bicep, to his throat that bobs when he swallows, the lateral incisor barely out of line with his other teeth and the delicious point of the canine beside it.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
•••
One of PTMC’s best kept secrets is the small laundry room on the 16th floor.
You are privy to said secret, of course, after working at the hospital for the three years that you did, you remember exactly where it is and how to get there. Unfortunately, you need a badge to access the floor, which seems pretty fucking illogical considering the amenities are there specifically for patient and family use.
It’s this little conundrum that has you texting Robby on the fifth day of your stay.
Me, 16:23
Are you working today?
It does not take long for him to reply. Less than a minute, in fact.
Robby, 16:23
Yeah. Is everything okay?
Immediately in panic mode. Typical.
Me, 16:24
Everything’s fine. I just need to wash clothes, but I can’t get to 16 anymore.
Robby, 16:26
I’ll come by when I’m off.
Robby, 16:26
Is that okay?
You sigh, torn between being annoyed and being touched by his trepidation.
Me, 16:27
I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t okay.
Robby, 16:30
K. I’ll finish up down here as fast as I can.
It’s not that it’s getting easier to be around Robby because that’s not the case at all. Your stomach still knots up at the thought of having to see him, still churns uncomfortably when he stands too close and you get a whiff of familiar cologne, still flips and flutters when he levels those soft eyes at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
It hasn’t gotten easier.
But, it has become slightly less jarring. You don’t feel the need to peek around every corner anymore, have more or less resigned yourself to the fact that running into him here is unavoidable. You’re in his territory, and, as much as you resent him for it, Robby has done whatever he can to make it a bit more comfortable for you.
Lunches and dinners delivered to the hospital and, subsequently, up to the room, a box of your favorite cereal brought in by a very confused nurse— “I was told you wanted this?”, stolen linen from the labor and delivery/postpartum ward because it’s not the same, scratchy material that the other departments use (“I would literally rather freeze to death than use these fucking blankets,” you once told him).
It’s thoughtful and it’s irritating and it reminds you of how fucking good Robby is 99% of the time.
At half past seven, Robby pokes his head into the room, looks at your father who is, once again, asleep in his bed, then to you, asking, “you ready?” in a way that’s so casual and so normal, the same way he used to ask if you were ready to leave for a date or to see your parents—eyebrows raised expectantly, looks like he’s about to fall on his face as he leans forward too far into the room only to catch himself on the doorway and rock backwards again.
All of his restless habits squeeze at your heart and take you back to the times you’d tease him for not being able to sit still, unaware of the way your own leg was bouncing or of the hair looped around your finger, the little things you loved about each other.
You stare at him for a beat too long, and it’s to remind yourself of that last tiny percentage of Robby that was not good, the weak, selfish part of him that cut you open and never bothered to sew you back up.
He says your name, pulling you from your own head, and you stand up, grab the two, blue plastic bags full of dirty clothes, and follow him out of the room, through the unit doors, and into the staff elevator where he swipes his badge.
“How is he today?” Robby asks.
“Okay, I guess. Sleepy but more aware when he’s awake,” you shrug. “They started him on morphine last night. Small dose, enough to keep him comfortable, but… I know what it means.”
He’s already staring at you from over his shoulder when you turn your head to look at him, sympathy written all over his face.
“And, how are you today?” The same question now directed at you, but this time it feels less like a reasonable inquiry and more like a loaded gun.
“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly. “It’s like—like I have so much shit going through my head at any given time and I can’t even, like—I can’t pick out any one feeling, ya’ know? I’m just… trying to prep myself for all the fucking damage control I’m about to have to do. Like, I’m just on autopilot right now.”
You hadn’t meant to divulge so much, but you can’t say you’re surprised. It’s not like you’ve had anyone to talk to about it. Pam is here, but she’s unraveling more and more every day, which is exactly why your brain is so goddamn busy.
You’re the one who has to listen to the doctors and translate so Pam understands what’s happening. You're the one who has to make sure nothing falls through the cracks, that every team is working together for the benefit of your dad. You’re the one who has to think about the eventual but inevitable funeral arrangements.
And, one day soon, you’ll be the one who’ll have to decide if you should keep your father alive by way of extraordinary measures or let him die with dignity.
Given his condition, letting him go when the time comes is the right thing to do. He knows this, and he wants it, and you want it for him—to call the fight, end the pain, let him rest.
But, he’s your dad.
He’s your dad.
Even with hundreds of miles between the two of you, you remained close. With absolutely nothing in fucking common other than blood and mannerisms, you’ve stayed bonded at the soul. You love the rest of your family, would die for your aunts, walk through fire for your mother, but your dad would do all of that and more for you.
You’ve spent your whole life being told that you are your father’s daughter, and it’s true. So much of who you are is because of him. So much of who you are is him.
And, you’re just supposed to say goodbye? Supposed to let him go, to live with it, without him.
“I don’t know how I feel,” you repeat to Robby.
His hand finds yours, steady where you shake.
“That’s okay,” he tells you. “You don’t have to know.”
The elevator doors slide open. Robby reaches around you to take the laundry bags you’re holding, then guides you out of the car and to the cramped, humid room where you evenly distribute your clothes among the two empty washers.
You could go back downstairs. The cycle lasts 45 minutes, and you have no reason to stay the entire time, should just set a timer, return to the room, hold your dad’s hand while rubbing circles on Pam’s back.
You don’t, though.
Instead, you take a seat in one of the plastic chairs that line the wall, regrettably grateful when Robby does the same.
The spin of the washer fills the room, a low, rhythmic white noise that sets you at ease. It takes a few minutes before you finally break the near silence with a murmur you’re not even sure can be heard over the hum.
“Sorry for all the mood swings.”
“Don’t apologize,” Robby immediately says, soft in tone but firm in belief.
You don’t have to be sorry. You both know it, and you especially don’t have to be sorry for him.
“You’re allowed to be moody,” he continues, pauses again like he’s thinking, and then you hear a breathy chuckle, “plus, it’s not exactly new territory for me, so…”
Any reference to your relationship feels like a fresh cut. You’ve tried to keep the blood loss to a minimum, but this time you just smile sadly, let yourself relax, release the pressure you’ve been applying to the wound.
“Yeah, I guess it isn’t. Used to say you liked when I got fighty.”
Robby rests his head against the wall behind him, his own mouth lifting on one side, eyes shiny with nostalgia.
“I did like when you got fighty. Still do.”
You don’t respond, letting the drum of the washer fill the silence again as you lean over and lay your head on Robby’s shoulder.
•
You get back to the room with clean clothes and itchy eyes. Robby passes you the laundry bags, scanning your face the whole time. Whatever he sees makes his forehead wrinkle with a frown, and then he’s squeezing your arm and promising, “I’ll be right back,” before stepping out into the hallway.
With a buzzing brain, you go through the motions of folding clothes, neatly stacking them in the cabinet under the TV, able to feel Pam’s suspicious stare on you the whole time.
It doesn’t take long for you to get annoyed, however, and once the last shirt is put away, you turn to your stepmom and answer whatever unasked questions you think she might have:
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want from him, and if I think about it too hard, I might throw up.” You try to rub away the grit in your eyes, only succeed in making it worse. “Also, I think my sinuses are about to explode.”
Pam sighs, heavy and exasperated. “Is it easier—having him here?”
“Maybe? I can’t tell. He’s fucking with my head.”
“Who’s fucking with your head?” your dad pipes up in a hoarse whisper, clears his throat and adds, “do I need to use these wires to strangle someone?”
You snort as you make your way over to him. “I think you’ve been too groggy the last few days to notice, but Robby’s here.” He glances around the room, and you clarify, “here in the hospital—ya’ know, the one he works at.”
“He’s been stopping by a lot,” Pam tells him now, moving to sit in one of the bedside chairs, “as much as I hate to say it, he’s been doin’ a good job of taking care of us.”
“He’s gotten us food a few times and stole us some of the good blankets. Don’t make it seem like he’s some kind of—”
“I come bearing gifts,” Robby announces as he enters the room, first passing Pam the iced coffee that she likes then handing you a cup of hot tea while procuring a tiny, clear bottle from his pocket. “Eye drops.”
“Doctor Robby, you’re my hero,” you mimic the John Hughes line, reaching for the bottle only for Robby to gently swat your hand away and focus on peeling away the plastic seal wrapped around the lid, knowing damn well it’s something you’ve always struggled with. (There’s a reason you’re not interested in surgery: shaky hands, shitty fine motor skills.)
“Need me to administer?” he asks, completely serious and nonjudgmental.
“No,” you glare at him, try to take the bottle with trembling fingers and are reminded of the fact that you haven’t eaten since early this morning. “Okay, yes.”
He hums, a little too smug for your liking as he motions to the other cheap chair in the room, commanding, “lean back,” once you sit in it.
There’s a sort of domesticity to it, upside down as you watch his jaw work, his beard and the gray patch over his chin, his bobbing throat as he hunches over you and mutters, “c’mon, you know the drill. Roll those eyes back.”
Both drops make you flinch, cold on contact then spreading with a slight burn.
“‘Atta girl,” Robby chuckles, and you don’t think much of his touch until he’s cradling the back of your head in his long, laced fingers, thumbs brushing away the tears that leak from your lateral canthi.
There’s a cough to your left, and it sounds real, not just something to get your attention, but it still does a good job of pulling you out of the oddly intimate moment.
You’re too drained to try to defend anything, though, just sit up straight, wipe the remaining liquid from your face, and thank Robby before looking to your dad and Pam.
“What do y’all want for dinner?”
Like they didn’t just witness how tender he can be and how fucking pathetic you are for still trusting him. You have nothing to say for yourself.
Robby is obviously more self-conscious about it, though, unsure of what to do with his hands as he moves them from his jacket pockets to his hips until they settle on the back of your chair, gripping hard enough to bend the plastic.
“Good to see you awake, Jonathan,” he tries. You can hear the nerves in his voice.
“I thought I saw you down in the emergency room,” your dad replies, “wasn’t sure if it was some kind of hallucination or not.”
“Nope, that was definitely me.”
“Did I get any blood on your shoes?”
Robby cocks his head to the side, draws out a curious, “nooo.”
Sucking his teeth, your dad curses quietly, “damn,” then adds, slightly more chipper, “welp, there’s always next time.”
“Dad—”
“Jon—”
Robby’s laugh is low and warm, not a hint of upset in it, and for some reason you want to cry.
They used to get along so well. So well, in fact, you never told your father the whole story, the true extent of the pain Robby had caused you. If you had, you’re pretty sure you would be prying the two of them apart right about now.
“I’ll make sure not to wear any white around you,” Robby plays along, flashing those almost-perfect teeth before wiping the smile away with his hand.
“Can we stop joking about you throwing up blood?” Pam tries, looking at you for some kind of backup.
Both Robby and your father recite, “we laugh so we don’t cry,” at the same time, a line you picked up from Robby and used to say to your dad whenever you’d make morbid jokes about the awful things you’d seen here, a line that was later appropriated when you walked in on the two of them in near hysterical laughter after the Steelers lost some big game you didn’t care about.
Men are strange.
Thinking about it makes your lungs ache, breathing becoming more difficult as you remember all the hugs and stupid, manly back slaps they’d greet each other with, so in an attempt to distract yourself and cut through the blooming tension, you suggest once again, “dinner? Anyone?”
“You know me—not hungry for much of anything these days,” your dad tells you with an apologetic grimace.
“Is there anything you will eat, though?” You give him time to think, but when he doesn’t come up with an answer, you tack on, “you gotta try something, dad. Please don’t make me force feed you Jell-O.”
Robby is looking down from where he’s still standing over you. You can feel his eyes, two burning coals at the top of your head like he’s trying to transmit his own thoughts via telepathy.
Not that he needs to. You already know what he’s thinking, mostly because you’re thinking it too and just don’t want to say it out loud.
Decreased appetite isn’t just a symptom of your father’s cancer; it’s a sign that his body’s shutting down. Has been for a while. For now, he’ll still eat in small amounts, but no more than once a day, and you know that, eventually, any sense of hunger will disappear entirely along with his thirst, no longer able to regulate nutrients, no longer needing them.
It’s physiology at its finest, the body doing everything it can to make his death as comfortable as possible.
Attention moving to Pam, you prompt her instead, “what about you? Anything sound good?”
She shrugs, “soup, maybe,” noncommittal and obviously more concerned with your father than with food.
You lean back to look at Robby again, about to ask if the bistro you used to frequent is still in business, but he’s already turning his phone to show you the website he’s got pulled up.
“Léonie’s?”
“Yeah,” you nod, speaking low, “just, uh, some French onion soup for Pam and—”
“Tomato Velouté, I know.”
You cringe at his awful pronunciation, mostly because he knows how to say it and just butchers it to drive you insane.
He mouths your words as you speak them out loud, ‘oh my god, it’s velouté,’ and the line from earlier runs through your mind again: we laugh so we don’t cry.
Because you think you’re pretty close to breaking down again, too full of gratitude and grief and adoration that you’re trying so hard to not fucking feel, but it’s there—squished between the hurt and the hate, it’s always been there.
“Should be ready in twenty,” Robby tells you.
He’s bone tired. You see it in the way his shoulders sag, the dark circles under his eyes, and yet, “I’ll pick it up. Cross your fingers it isn’t cold by the time I get back.”
You walk with him to the unit doors, thank him and, as always, “I’ll pay you back.”
And, after being so patient with you, sitting with you for nearly two hours in the mini laundromat, taking every pointed comment made at his expense right on the chin, staying way past his shift just to be with you—this is what finally pushes him over the cusp of exhaustion and into irritation.
“Jesus Christ, stop. Just stop fucking saying you’ll pay me back, and let me do this.”
Teeth aching to bite back, you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and swallow. You’re too empty, too hollow, nothing left inside to fight with, so instead, you blink.
The seconds feel like minutes as they stretch long and thin, close to snapping when you finally find your voice, “you don’t have to, though,” tiny, bordering on mousy, and it’s so unlike you that it makes Robby’s eyes go wide. “You don’t have to take care of us.”
“I do, though,” he insists. “I do, and I want to, okay?”
Robby pulls you to his chest, and you let it happen, taking deep, even breaths to ground yourself only for him to knock you off balance and shake the very foundation on which you stand.
“I was supposed to take care of you,” he rasps. “I was supposed to promise him that you’d—that you would be okay with me… that he could fucking trust me…”
His shirt is wet, you note, then realize it’s because you’re crying, biting down on your lip hard enough to break the skin, the taste of iron blooming on your tongue.
“He was supposed to be my family,” Robby continues, and the way his voice breaks is devastating. “I should’ve—if I had been around, maybe I could’ve seen it. None of this had to fucking happen.”
“Don’t,” you sniff, push away to look up at him, but when you see his red-rimmed eyes and the tears that are rolling down his face, you wish you’d just kept your head buried in his chest.
You understand where he’s coming from. He was supposed to be there with you. He was supposed to be at the dinners and the birthdays and the family reunions. Robby should have been there.
But, he wasn’t.
Feeling guilty about it isn’t going to change anything, though, and it sure as hell isn’t going to help anyone.
“You can’t save everyone,” you tell him sharply, “I know you think you can, like it’s your—your fucking duty or something—one you can be a real asshole about, by the way—”
Robby laughs in the back of his throat.
“—but, at some point, you have to accept the fact that you’re not, like—you’re not a god, Robby. You can’t fix or—or heal everyone, and you can’t choose who needs to be fixed. You know that, right?”
You’re not just talking about your dad anymore, and you can tell by the way Robby inhales that he’s aware of it. When he refuses to meet your eyes, you reach up to hold his face and make him. “You don’t get to choose what happens to other people.”
You feel the muscles of his jaw bulge as he clenches his teeth, both lips curled between incisors like he’s trying to keep something trapped behind them.
“This isn’t up to you. Same way it isn’t up to me.”
He keeps his wet gaze on you, nose getting redder with every fallen tear until he finally nods and steps out of your grip.
“Yeah, I know.” You raise your eyebrows—do you?—and he repeats, “I know.”
Robby doesn’t let you walk with him to the bistro around the corner from the hospital, claims it’s too dark, not safe. You have a feeling he just wants the time to think.
But, after a late dinner spent making stiff small talk with your father and Pam, he does let you join him down in the EC where he grabs his bag from his fancy (disorganized) office.
It’s as you’re saying good night, already turned toward the door, that Robby catches you by the wrist and threads his fingers through yours.
He looks at you like the saddest man on earth, swallowing thickly then stating, “Adamson died.”
No warning, no lead-up, just thrown into the space between you.
“During Covid—he… I had to make the call to… I took him off ECMO.”
And, everything falls into place.
The guilt. The care. The responsibility. It all makes sense.
Robby isn’t just trying to take care of you; he’s trying to take care of himself, too, trying to do what he thinks is right.
What he wishes had been done for him.
•
This isn’t about Robby. None of it is. It’s about you and your father and the grief that comes with looking into the eyes of someone who is still alive and knowing that very soon, they won’t be.
This is not about Robby.
So, why the fuck is he the one sitting in his office, head between his knees, struggling to breathe? Why are you the one smoothing a hand between his shoulder blades and over his neck, nails gentle against his scalp as you scratch through his hair?
Fuck, get it together. Calm down. This is neither the time nor the place for a breakdown, and you are definitely not the person who should have to clean up his mess.
“Shit,” Robby huffs, shaking his head before sitting up straight and taking a deep breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
He shoves his first finger against his closed right eye, his third and fourth against his left, scrunches his face up like it’ll put a stop to the tears, and when it doesn’t work, Robby groans and gets to his feet. The movement is quick and careless, jostles you on the couch, and he would feel worse about it if he wasn’t frantically grappling for the tissues on his desk.
“I’m fine,” he tells you, clearing his throat then reiterating, “you can go back upstairs. I’m good.”
When you don’t shift even a little, Robby raises an eyebrow and tries again, “I’m okay, I swear.”
He’s just about to fake a smile, not that it’d work on you, but before he can even attempt, you scoff at him, “Jesus Christ, are you fucking serious right now?”
“I—…yes?”
Robby tosses his balled-up tissue into the little trash bin next to his desk, then slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “Look, the last thing you need right now is me freaking the fuck out, so you go back to your dad, I’m gonna go home, and I’ll see you in—”
“No.”
Head tilting back and to the side, Robby can’t help but laugh, the sound hoarse and wet and incredulous, “the fuck do you mean ‘no’?”
You don’t actually answer, choosing instead to punch him in the gut with a different question, “have you talked to anyone about it?”
“Come on,” Robby rolls his eyes, “talk? You know me better than that.” It’s supposed to be a joke—a bad one, but still something to take the edge off.
You don’t go for it.
“I do know you, and that’s the fucking problem. You do stupid shit when you keep things bottled up. Like,” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “like really stupid shit, and I need you to not do that right now.”
Robby frowns, unsure of what exactly you want from him, unsure of what exactly you’re saying.
“So, freak out, Robby. Cry or—or punch a wall, I don’t care, just a-as long as you don’t run away again.”
It’s the crack in your voice that makes him look closer, and now that he’s at least somewhat back to himself, tears no longer blurring his vision, Robby can see the way you’re shivering. Fingers curled into fists, back too straight, jaw tight as you speak through gritted teeth, “don’t run. Not yet.”
He stays still for several seconds, aware of everything and nothing happening around him. The office feels too small, stuffy and lacking oxygen, but that could just be his lungs seizing up at the idea of you wanting him here. Wanting him with you.
His throat aches with the lump still lodged in it, raw from the postnasal drip that comes with crying. Eyes stinging, head pounding, Robby moves toward you and drops into a crouch, barely even feels the way his knees pop.
“Hey,” he starts, makes sure you’re looking right at him when he assures you, “I’m right fuckin’ here, okay? I’m not running.” His hands cover yours where they rest on your thighs. “I just don’t want you having to worry about me on top of everything with your dad.”
Your stomach spasms with a short breath of a laugh, and you stare at him as if to say ‘you should know better’ before admitting, “I always worry about you.”
God dammit, you know exactly how to break his heart. What to say to him, how to look at him, where to touch him, and it’s not even your fault. It’s his. It’s all his fucking fault.
Robby doesn’t respond. Not verbally, at least—just shuts his eyes again, curling forward to gently rest his head in your lap. His spine screams in protest, legs not faring much better, but he ignores it.
He ignores everything except for the material of your leggings against his face, the steady movement of your breathing, and the way your fingers feel in his hair, tender and trembling.
Robby knows it’s sort of inevitable, and he thinks you know it too. Every time you happen to see one another, whether it’s within the hospital walls or outside of them, you’re drawn together, some kind of gravitational force that keeps you in each other’s orbit.
He tries to keep it in check, reminds himself that you’re a med student, 12 years fucking younger than him, he learns, but there’s no real harm in flirting, especially since you don’t work in his department.
Except every once in a while, you pop down with your mentor, a middle-aged neurologist Robby has only met a couple of times. He’d ordered an EEG on a patient, and after the tech made what looked to be a frantic phone call, the two of you appear seemingly out of thin air.
You take one look at the computer screen, the pattern that, even to Robby, seems strange—too organized, not enough squiggle, and he has the absolute pleasure of watching you whip your head toward Dr. Hampton, eyes wide when you ask, “oh my god, is this CJD?”
“Looks like it,” she grimaces, nodding toward the patient who’s a mess of nonsense and spasticity. “Won’t be long now.”
Robby gazes at you with so much fucking affection—your wonder, your amazement, your understanding and appreciation of medicine and the human body.
Monty clocks him right then and there.
He leans in close to scold quietly, “Robby, shame on you,” but there’s humor in his voice.
“What? She’s cute,” Robby defends, pretending it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.
But, Monty knows him too well at this point, a certain resignation in his gaze as he sighs and squeezes one of Robby’s shoulders while warning, “just be careful. With her and yourself.”
“I said she’s cute, not that I’m trying to put a ring on her finger, god damn.”
“Watch your language around the patients,” an actual admonishment, and Robby’s face goes hot, ducking his head in embarrassment.
“Sorry, sir.”
The older man holds his stare for a little while longer before deflating into a chuckle, “she’s going to have a wonderful time making you blush. Looks like she already is.”
Robby glances over at you to find your mouth pulled to one side, a poor attempt at masking your mischievous smirk, and after spending the last couple of months feeling like he’s in control of the situation, it dawns on Robby, “oh, I’m in trouble aren’t I?”
“I think you just might be, son. Good luck with that.”
Two days later, Robby catches you in the parking garage, and gets straight to the point, “let me take you to dinner.”
Not his smoothest opening, but you both knew it was coming.
You watch him for a while, tilting your head to the side like you’re debating, then laugh in that cute way of yours, “fucking finally.”
Robby is strategic with the restaurant he chooses, makes sure that it’s nice enough to make you feel special but not so fancy that it makes you nervous. He’s not exactly rolling in cash, still has a couple hundred grand in debt, but he has more than enough to treat you.
So, when he pulls up to your apartment and walks up to your door, it’s in nice, dark jeans and a button-down that apparently brings out different shades of brown in his eyes (so says Shelby). Robby drums his fingers on his thighs for a moment before knocking, rocks on his heels while waiting, and then his stomach somersaults when you answer. Little black dress, strappy wedges, and an uncharacteristically shy smile, Robby fights the impulse to shove you back into your home and follow right behind you.
Too much. That would be far too much. Robby can wait.
And, as it happens, he doesn’t have to wait all that long. Dinner is fun, at first just spent laughing at some of the ridiculous menu items but eventually getting into some deeper topics.
Robby tells you about being in New Orleans for hurricane Katrina and how it impacted him as a young doctor and as a person in general, what he took from it and still uses to this day. He talks about Adamson and how he’s the closest thing Robby has to a father these days. He talks about his faith that’s basically nonexistent, yet he still finds comfort in many of the traditions simply for the ritual of it all.
And, you listen, and you smile, and then you tell him about what led you to medicine and your interest in neuroscience—a cousin with an autoimmune disease that led to encephalitis, resulting in substantial brain damage. You tell him about your parents— recently (and messily) divorced, father is a notary, mother is a flight attendant.
Music and movies and books, differing tastes on almost all of them but with enough overlap to have meaningful exchanges, to share ideas and opinions and teasing little barbs.
It’s great, and it’s organic, and it’s right.
Robby walks you to your door, hooks a finger under your chin to tilt your face up, “may I?” and that feels right too. So does the way you lean into his kiss with a smile, how you card fingers through his hair, open your door and lead him inside.
All so right.
No pretenses. Just his hands on either side of you and your legs around his waist, lips swollen from kissing, hips rolling against yours as he gives you everything he has and you beg for more.
And, in the morning, when he walks out of your small bedroom into an also-small living room to find you making breakfast in the kitchenette, Robby grins so widely, he thinks his face might split in half.
He comes up behind you, chin on your shoulder as he assesses your creation— “grilled cheese…” a little burnt, “for breakfast?”
“Don’t judge. It’s one of the only things I know how to make.”
“Oh, I’m judging,” he chuckles, kissing right behind your ear and making you shiver. “Eggs aren’t very hard either.”
You make a noise of disgust, “I hate eggs,” tell him that yes, you know they’re a good source of protein, but, “weird taste, weirder texture, don’t like ‘em.”
Robby eats his slightly blackened grilled cheese sandwich while standing between your legs where they dangle off the counter top. You wipe crumbs from his mouth, and when he snaps his teeth as if to bite your fingers, you squeal and laugh and poke at his cheek so he’ll do it again.
“Fuck, you’re so easy,” he tells you, giddy and content, in disbelief that anyone could look at him the way you do, like he’s someone great, and—
Your mouth drops open, “excuse me?” and Robby goes red all the way from his chest to his hairline when he realizes how that came off.
“No, wait—fuck,” he back pedals, snorts at his stupidity, grabs your face to clarify, “I mean being with you is easy. This is easy.”
Eyebrow raised, you offer a sarcastic, “mhmm,” but your lips are still quirked into a smirk, one that you let Robby kiss again and again despite his blunder.
“You make me so fucking dumb,” he confesses, and you stare at him so fondly, toying with the hair that brushes his nape, Robby decides that as long as it makes you smile like this, he’s happy to keep being a little bit of an idiot, not that he can really help it.
•
The hardest part of Jonathan being admitted (aside from the obvious) is that Robby can’t tell where he stands with you—with any of you—but with you especially.
He understands and wants to support you through this nightmare of a situation, but Robby would be lying if he said the mood swings, impossible to predict, weren’t giving him whiplash. One hour you’re telling him to back off, that he’s making everything harder, and the next you’re texting him to ask if he still owns the hoodie you always used to steal from him.
It’s frustrating, but it’s also relieving in a way, which sounds strange, he knows—fucking masochistic, even—but the fact that you’re comfortable enough to reach out to him again after lashing out means that you trust him. He has no idea why given your history, but you do, and he isn’t about to argue it.
Still, he can’t help but be somewhat apprehensive as he makes the journey to the MICU. He’s got your coffee in one hand and the requested sweatshirt tucked under his arm, prepared for Pam to roll her eyes at him, for the passive aggressive comments that Jonathan will probably make between easygoing laughs. He’s prepared for you to scoot away when Robby sits next to you on the daybed only to follow him back down to the ED like a lost child, your small hand wrapped around two of his fingers.
What Robby is not prepared for is the sight of Kiara Alfaro sitting in the room with all of you, though she does not seem at all surprised to see him.
Stopping at the door, Robby looks to you—‘what do you want me to do? Do you want me to stay or go?’—and he feels something in his chest unwind when you nod toward the open space beside you.
“Thanks, bear,” you murmur, obviously not thinking when he hands you the hoodie first, followed by the coffee. No one else seems to notice, but Robby sure fucking does, his breath hitching at the sound of the pet name you used to call him—one that had started as a joke and then turned into a habit.
It takes everything in him not to reply the way he usually would, the way he wants to, but he somehow manages to keep his voice steady, “you’re welcome.”
Kiara had paused upon his arrival but must deem it safe to continue because she shifts her gaze from Robby back to Pam.
“I know that most people associate hospice with dying—” oh, shit. All thoughts of old endearments are immediately dashed. “—but its real purpose is to preserve quality of life and keep Jonathan comfortable.”
“I do enjoy being comfortable,” the man in question pipes up. It makes everyone in the room chuckle except for Pam.
“Jon, please, just—can you take this seriously?”
Robby feels you shift, your body getting tight, defensive. He considers grabbing your hand, but as he’s unsure of whether or not you’d actually appreciate it, simply settles for turning his own, the one closest to you, palm up and open where it rests on his knee. An invitation.
“I’m taking this very seriously,” Jonathan insists, tone still light, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes—something he’s trying to hide.
Fear.
“It sure doesn’t seem like it—”
“God, Pam, what do you want him to do?” you lash, “Start crying? Praying?”
Your father says your name, but it’s not an admonishment as much as it’s to get your attention. “It’s fine. It’s a scary topic,” he soothes you with a smile before turning to his wife, “and, it’s okay to be upset, but I promise I’m really listening to what Kiara’s saying.”
Pam takes a shaky breath, mutters an apology, then motions for Kiara to continue.
“It’s okay, and your husband is right. This is an uncomfortable conversation for most people, but it’s an important one,” she nods sagely, looks like a therapist with one leg thrown over the other, hands in her lap, thoughtful expression as she looks at Jonathan. “We all want what’s best for you, but you have to tell us what that is.”
Jonathan scratches his chin, all eyes on him, and it’s then that you choose to take Robby’s hand. He glances over at you to find you chewing on the inside of your cheek and staring straight ahead, either thinking very hard or not thinking at all.
“Can I get back to you tomorrow?” Jonathan asks, “I just feel like this is something I should probably talk over with my family.”
Kiara nods, “of course. Take all the time you need, and your nurse will know how to get in contact with me when you’re ready.”
Everybody thanks her, and Robby’s neck burns at the way her gaze falls on him then to the door. If he wasn’t so familiar with Kiara’s subtle cues, he would’ve missed it, but Robby knows what that look means.
Can I talk to you for a minute?
Right.
Robby squeezes your hand and whispers, “be right back,” before standing and following Kiara out of the room.
He doesn’t waste any time once the door is completely slid shut behind them, just explains, “ex-girlfriend, was close with her dad, it’s complicated.”
“Seems like it,” Kiara laughs lightly. “You know you can’t be involved with any decision making, right? No advice, no ‘if I were you’…”
“I know, I know.” He’ll leave the suggestions up to you. “I’m only here for support and coffee deliveries.” (and to let you vent and to hold you when you cry).
On the other side of the glass door, Robby and Kiara both hear what were once muffled voices begin to raise steadily.
“—are you really asking him to go through weeks, maybe fucking months of pain just so you don’t have to say bye?” You.
“No! I just don’t think it’s time for hospice yet!” Pam.
Robby glances back at Kiara, her eyebrows high on her forehead.
“Apparently, I am also here to break up fights,” he massages his forehead for a second, then, “if you’d excuse me.”
Nodding, Kiara taps her ID badge as a way to gesture to all the little cards that hang behind her picture— “999 star for security, remember.”
He snorts, “I think I can handle it,” before stepping back into the room.
“—you not listen to a fucking word she said?” That hip is cocked out, one hand braced on the curve of the bone while you use your other arm to emphasize your aggravation, waving and flailing and, “this is about keeping him comfortable and—and happy and home!”
Robby slinks up behind you, “honey, honey, honey,” tries to stop you with his hands on your shoulders and his voice low next to your ear. You try to shrug him off, but he doesn’t let you. “Hey, look at me—look at me.”
“This is not about you, Robby,” you spit as you escape his grasp and turn on him, glare full of venom and hurt.
Pam is weeping quietly where she leans against the bed rail next to your father who looks just as pained despite his lack of tears. Robby’s attention is only on them for a flash of a second, much more concerned with calming you down.
“You’re right, it isn’t,” he agrees, “but if you keep this up, you will get security called on you, and that is the last fuckin’ thing any of you need.”
He watches as you clench your jaw, moisture at the corners of your eyes that he so badly wants to thumb away. Words sinking in, you take a steadying breath then twist back around and make your way over to your dad.
“Listen to me,” you plead with a sniffle, “I am not ready for you to die, but that’s what’s happening here.”
Jonathan swallows, hand trembling when he reaches out for you, and you gladly lace your fingers with his.
“This is obviously up to you, and I won’t argue with whatever decision you make, but I will not—” you narrow your eyes in Pam’s general direction, “—let anyone else make it for you, okay?”
“I’m not trying to make it for him!”
“Oh my go—can you give me a second with my fucking dad?” you hiss.
Robby realizes this is the most emotional he’s seen you get since you got here. You’ve cried a few times, but this isn’t that. It isn’t the helpless dread or the sickening acceptance that comes with grief. No, this is spiteful, protective—a warning. This is you growling before you bite, but it won’t be long before you sink your teeth into something and tear. Scar.
Robby refuses to let you burn a bridge just because you’re angry at your stepmom, so he switches tactics: give you time with your father, remove the uncontrolled variable.
Taking a deep breath and knowing damn well he’s overstepping, Robby makes his way a little closer to Pam and suggests, “let’s give them some privacy, yeah?”
Her face goes from pitiful to pinched in a blur of motion, is definitely offended that he would even try, but then she looks over at Jonathan who nods and encourages, “just for now. It’ll be okay.”
Huffy and defeated, Pam shuffles out of the room, Robby trailing behind and shutting the door.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he tries, though he isn’t surprised to be cut off.
“You’ve got some nerve actin’ like you run the show here,” she jabs a finger in his chest, and Robby winces in his throat, shoving his own hands in his pockets as she continues.
“You think you can just show up here and start callin’ the shots because—‘cause you’re some big shot doctor? ‘Cause you dated my daughter for a second and a half?” (four years, actually, but who’s counting.) “You do not get a say in this, Robby. You are not part of this family. Jonathan may not know the whole story, but I do. I know what you did.”
His entire world stutters for a moment, mind reeling with what she just told him. She knows what he did, but Jonathan doesn’t? Why wouldn’t you…
There’s a lot to unpack there, but he’ll save it for later.
For now, Robby makes sure Pam can see his eyes, his sincerity when he tells her, “I am not denying any of that. I fucked up back then, and I regret it every god damn day of my life, okay? I’m not trying to run any shows or call any shots. I’m only here to help where I can.”
Pam pushes up to her tiptoes, and Robby braces himself for her next line, the one he’s been so afraid of hearing from you: “we don’t want your help.”
“I do.”
Robby hadn’t even heard the door open, but here you are, puffy-eyes, clogged nose, still ready to swing.
“I need him here,” you reiterate, and now Robby thinks that he might start crying. Need. You need him. “If you don’t like that, then you can fucking leave.”
Pam looks shocked for a moment, mouth opening to argue, but apparently you’re done humoring her, instead looking at Robby and asking, “can I stay with you tonight?”
And, if Pam was shocked, Robby is fucking flabbergasted.
“You want to—?” He blinks, trying to bring your face back into focus by shaking his head and, “yeah, yeah, of course.” Only then does he spot the backpack thrown over your shoulder. “Are you ready now?”
You nod, glance back at Pam and grit out, “listen to dad. Listen to what he wants. This isn’t our choice.”
Your stepmom doesn’t respond other than the fresh tears that spring up in her eyes, obviously not enough to move you because you take hold of Robby’s sleeve, your gentle tug a clear sign to get you the fuck out of here.
“Alright, come on.”
He slides his hand out of his pocket, and you grab onto it like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping you from drowning.
•
You feel like you should be nervous, like your hands should be shaking or your stomach should be in knots. You shouldn’t be so calm walking next to Robby through the familiar park and down a few blocks as he carries your backpack on one shoulder, his own on the other, doing everything he fucking can not to ask questions.
The tension is rolling off of him in waves. You can feel it crashing into you as he white-knuckles the strap of your bag, his other hand flexing at his side. He doesn’t touch you except for when a car passes and he gently manhandles you to the inside of the sidewalk, a habit that used to give you butterflies and likely still would if you could feel anything other than outrage.
“Give me some time to cool off, and we can talk about it,” you promise as Robby fishes his keys from the side pocket of his backpack, jamming one into the lock while glancing over at you.
“We don’t have to talk about anything,” he says, pushing the door open and ushering you inside, “unless you want to.”
“I don’t know what I want,” you tell him honestly, mostly because you are incapable of being anything else at this point. You’re tired of biting back emotions, swallowing everything you want to say but can’t, be it about your father, your stepmom, or the man waiting as you toe your shoes off at the door.
It’s surreal being in this house again. You only lived in it for three years, but in those three years it had been your home. Your sanctuary. Your safe place.
And then, suddenly, it was gone. You were gone.
Robby stays silent as you walk through the entryway, hands hidden in your (his) hoodie pocket, jaw clenched as you make your way to the living room and stand behind the plush rocking chair that you used to nest in whenever you were here.
It’s the only piece of furniture that hasn’t been replaced.
The cozy couch Robby had bought for his first apartment is nowhere to be seen, a dark sectional now in its place. A matching chair and ottoman takes up space where a loveseat used to be—the one you used to curl up on, plastered to Robby’s side as he read a book or some medical journal.
He must see some form of displeasure on your face because he’s quick to inform you, “I had to get rid of the couch, but the loveseat is in the guest room.”
You feel your mouth twitch into a tense smile, comforted by the fact that it’s still in the house but annoyed that you care so much.
Just to torture yourself a little more, you ask, “why’d you keep the rocking chair?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away, and that hesitation is what finally makes you start to tremble, all the ire and grief and confusion coming to the surface until it begins to overwhelm you, and you’re posing, “why didn’t you get rid of it?” through chattering teeth.
Robby’s got his arms crossed over his chest until he raises one to run a hand down his face. Without any lights on save for the one in the entryway, he’s all shadows. All you can really see is his tall silhouette, broad set of his shoulders, and the glint of his eyes.
“I didn’t have a reason to,” he tries only to sigh and admit, “I didn’t want to.”
You snort, simultaneously bitter and amused, “you hate that chair. Always said it made too much noise.”
“It does,” he insists a little louder than you were anticipating—not yelling, not even raising his voice, just not as soft as before. Except then it drops, nearly inaudible, “had no fucking idea how much I actually liked the noise.” Until it was gone, he doesn’t have to say.
Since you’ve been in town, the two of you have done a damn good job of avoiding the subject of your relationship and how it ended. Even with his involvement at the hospital, even with the high-running emotions, through the sobbing and the shoving and the hugging and hand-holding. Neither of you have actually addressed anything.
You’re either the most mature, well-adjusted adults on earth or the most unstable and repressed. Knowing yourself and Robby, you’re pretty confident that you both fall into the second category.
“Could’ve been listening to that creaky fucking chair for the last seven years, you know,” you murmur.
You can hear him swallow beside you, close enough to feel his presence but too far to actually touch.
“I know,” Robby exhales, steps an inch closer. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
How could you not be? It’s sending fucking tremors through every word you speak.
“Are you cold?”
You want to scoff, squint at him, call him a fucking idiot, but you don’t. All you do is breathe, “no, Robby. I’m not cold.”
A beat passes.
“Nervous?”
And, another beat.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you—do you need a hug, or…?”
“I don’t know.”
Robby locks his fingers behind his neck as he rocks on his heels. You know he wants to solve the problem, but it’s kind of fucking impossible to when the root is unknown. Must be driving him insane, you think.
“Food, maybe?” he pushes one more time.
“I don’t know.” Unable and unwilling to hide your frustration, and it’s not that you want to take it out on him, except you kinda, sorta do.
You want explanations and apologies, you want closure, you want a distraction, you want to go back seven years when you were still with him, before the betrayal, before the heartbreak, before the pandemic. You want to go back to the world that was warm and bright, the one where you were happy and hopeful and in love and where your dad wasn’t fucking dying.
That world doesn’t exist anymore, though, and the only thing left of it is the fallout—a father who’s wasting away, shards of a once perfect relationship, and two broken people staring at each other in a dark room.
It’s on the tip of your tongue. The question that’s been plaguing you for the better part of a decade: why’d you do it? You even open your mouth to ask.
But, all that comes out is a sigh, so deep and heavy that your chest caves in with it. You’re exhausted, you’re upset, and the only thing you really want is for Robby to be kissing you, but that isn’t going to help matters, so, “can I shower?”
“Sure,” he nods. You can see the deep set of his brow—god, he’s so worried, it hurts you. “Yeah, let me—”
“I still remember where everything is,” you tell him, “unless you’ve moved it all around.”
“No, it’s all in place—the same, I mean, same place—fuck,” Robby rubs his temples, annoyed at his inability to speak clearly, which is, admittedly, a little fun to watch. “Nothing has moved. It is all in the same place,” he finally gets it out, over enunciating each word.
You hum. “Boxers?” and when he looks at you in confusion or shock or both, you explain, “clothes in my backpack are dirty,” before his brain can glitch again.
“Oh—yeah, I’ll grab you a pair.”
Dark blue and soft when he sets them on the bathroom counter a couple minutes later along with an old Saints t-shirt that you’ve probably worn more than he has. Hell, it might not even fit him anymore.
You mutter your, “thanks,” not all that surprised when he doesn’t move from the doorway, holding the frame and leaning forward just a bit. He’s restless, nervous, obviously has no idea what to do or, more accurately, what you want him to do.
With the bathroom lights on, you’re able to take him in better, even brighter in here than it is in the ICU. He’s huge and handsome, staring at you with the biggest, saddest brown eyes. Fatigue is written all over his face, shadowed and hollow, hair sticking up haphazardly and—
You step toward him, lifting a hand to his chin and thumbing over the little patch of white. “Still so weird to me.”
Robby huffs, his wobbly smile falling when you scrape through the hair along his jaw, up his cheek, until you’re cupping his face in your small hand. His eyes flutter shut, and his lips part as he leans into the touch, rubs against it the way a cat might, then turns his head to kiss the heel of your palm.
Only when he’s pulled away does he look at you again, rosy at the cheekbones, eyes a little lighter. “Stay in as long as you want. I’m gonna figure out what we can eat.”
Your empty hand itches.
“Don’t worry about it,” you shrug, “you should be getting ready for bed anyway.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be doing a whole lot of sleeping tonight.” It’s not an innuendo, just a statement.
You’re stressed. He’s stressed. You’re here with him for the first time in seven years, and you know you aren’t the only one feeling emotional over that fact. Add in all the other bullshit that’s taking place, and yeah, no, sleeping does not seem very attainable.
“I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
Robby leaves, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone with your reflection in the mirror. It’s a strange feeling—not recognizing yourself but recognizing everything around you, from the geometric tile, the off-white walls, to the shampoo and body wash brands sitting on the shelf.
The master bathroom is nicer, bigger and with a garden tub, but you’re not about to beg Robby to use it. And, who knows? Maybe he got rid of the tub, replaced it with some claw-foot monstrosity or expanded the shower. Maybe the back of the house has been entirely renovated, bedroom unrecognizable.
You're barely conscious for the shower, going through the motions without a single thought. Soap, scrub, rinse, stand under the water for too long.
At some point the door opens and closes, but either the spray is too loud or you’re too out of it to notice. Whatever the case, you know that Robby had to have come back inside, proof being the tub of your favorite moisturizer sitting on top of a fresh-from-the-dryer towel. You should probably be upset at him for thinking he has any right to sneak in, but there's no room left inside of you for that, too full of memories, and longing, and reprieve.
Robby knows you too well, knows how to take care of you, what you need and when you need it. He is comfort, he is a respite from the elements, a calming balm for your soul, and you miss him so much, and you hate him so much, and you can't stand it. This feeling in your ribcage, the ache in your throat, the burning in your eyes. Robby's taking up so much space inside of you when you should only be concerned with your father, but you don't want to lose it. You don't want Robby to leave you just for grief to take his place.
Clad in the football shirt, soft boxers rolled up at the waist, and a pair of thick socks you hadn't noticed before, you pad out of the bathroom feeling both cleaner and foggier than before, nothing but eucalyptus scented steam where your brain used to be.
Robby's in the kitchen making some kind of stir-fry, which really just means he went through his fridge and/or freezer and picked out whatever might go well with rice.
The familiarity of it makes you smile, makes you walk over to him, makes you hug him from behind and rest your head between his shoulder blades.
Robby doesn't flinch or stiffen, just raises his free hand to cover both of yours where they're locked over his belly, giving a gentle squeeze as if this is normal, as if this is what you've been doing for as long as you haven't been.
"It'll be ready in a few minutes," he says, moving like liquid when you slide around to his side, lifting his arm then wrapping it around you in one fluid motion. Natural.
"You still anti-salt?" he questions. You can hear the teasing lilt even through the gruffness of his voice.
"I'm not anti-salt. I'm anti-too-much-salt," you correct. "A little goes a long way."
Robby hums like he doesn't believe you but leaves it at that, keeps stirring until he's able to fill two bowls, one sprinkled with salt, one without.
In the living room, he takes a seat on the couch as you curl up in the rocking chair, jumping when Robby drops the TV remote he'd only just picked up. You meet his wide-eyed stare, notice how wet it is, and then he's setting his bowl down and leaning forward over his spread legs.
"Fuck," like a hiss as his fingers curl around the back of his skull, palms against his temples, and it almost looks like he's trying to keep his head from splitting with the way his hands are shaking.
"Rob—" you try, but he stands up quickly, utters a short, 'one second' then disappears down the hallway.
The squeak of the rocking chair is deafening in the otherwise silent house, and it occurs to you that the noise is probably what startled him in the first place, a steady creak that's soothing as it is unsettling.
You sit for a minute or two at most, eat a couple bites of food before placing your own bowl on the coffee table and getting up.
You know you should give Robby time to deal with whatever it is he's feeling, wait for him to come back out when he's ready, but the last thing you want right now is to sit alone in the house, and you think that Robby probably doesn't want that either but doesn't know how to say it—doesn't know he's allowed to.
So, you walk down the hall, past the bathroom, past the laundry room, pausing at the last door that's open just enough for you to catch a glimpse of Robby sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands are clasped together, head low and bobbing as he stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders.
When you toe the door open further, you see his whole upper body lift and shudder with a deep breath. He watches you move toward him, has to look up when you stop in front of him. His nose is red, his gaze dewy and bloodshot.
You aren't sure what has him so out of sorts, if seeing you and your pain reminds him of his own loss, or if your being here is just too much. All you know is that it hurts.
Everything hurts. Everything aches. Desperately.
You step forward to card your fingers through Robby's hair, watch his jaw drop open in something like ecstasy, but there are tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, and he's mouthing, "I'm sorry," like a confession, a prayer. "I never—" he swallows like it'll clear his throat, but he's still speaking in glass and gravel when he says, "I still haven't told you how fucking sorry I am."
Something cold slithers along your insides, coiling in your gut and reminding you of the nauseating weight you used to live with every day because of him.
You don't have a response, don't have much of anything, just the softness of his hair under your hand. Robby must take your silence as a challenge, a punishment, an invitation for him to grovel which he does willingly, "there is—I have no excuse. It just made sense in my head at the time, and I never meant—"
"Yes, you did," you finally find your voice, and Robby releases a tiny whimper when you let your hand fall away from him. "You absolutely meant to hurt me."
“No, I didn't—I mean, I did, but not…"
The ice in your stomach flash boils, bubbles all the way up your thoracic cavity, your trachea and esophagus until you're spitting fire, "oh, fuck off," the force of it making you stagger backward. "You didn't want me around anymore—I know. I wasn't sure then, but you'd been pushing me away for fucking months. I was just too—too fucking stupid and too—a-and you knew I wouldn't leave on my own. The only way to get rid of me was to cheat, so you did."
Robby looks like he's about to be sick, too pale and breathing too fast, and god, you've thought about this conversation for so long. How it might go, how it might feel, how it might end. You'd accounted for the tears that are rolling down your face, accounted for the blistering anger and full-body trembles.
What you had not accounted for is the oppressive, undeniable need for Robby to hold you through it. It's disgusting. It's pathetic. It's everything you're not.
Because you are strong for your family and selfless with your friends. You made it through med school, through your doctorate, are so fucking close to being done with residency. You are a fucking scientist.
You are all of these things and more. And…
You are Robby's.
Always have been.
"I was so in love with you, Robby, I—" you choke on a sob, "Jesus, I was so fucking in love with you—how could you?"
"I didn't want you to see me like that!" he shouts, not mean, just loud. "I was fucking spiraling. It was getting so fucking bad, and I couldn't have you seeing—"
"You being a human? I knew it was getting bad. I saw it—I remember Brian Monroe—" he flinches at the name, but you don't stop, "I listened to you talk about that kid every fucking day, and I—I watched you lose f-faith in the system, in yourself—but, I don't… what—why did you lose faith in me?"
It's a miracle that he can understand you given how small and choppy your voice is, thick hiccups and aborted words strung together in some semblance statement and question.
Robby gets to his feet and reaches for you, his expression broken and crumbling further when you back away, "don't fucking touch me."
He looks like he’s a second away from falling at your feet, his face wet and splotchy, pinched like he's in physical pain, and maybe he is. Maybe he's feeling the same blade in his chest that you feel in yours.
"I know it doesn't make sense, okay? I fucking know, but I swear I was trying to protect you—“
Your laugh is a sharp rasp that triggers your gag reflex. You’ve been trying to figure it out for years—why he would do what he did—but a small part of you knew. On some level you knew he was trying to save you. You just didn’t know what from. Leave it up to Michael fucking Robinavitch to twist infidelity into something noble.
It doesn’t make it okay. If anything, it makes it all worse.
"What could you have possibly been protecting me from?" What could have been so bad and so dangerous that he would rather break your heart, betray you, than let you face it?
"Me—fuck, I was trying to protect you from me!"
There's a growing fury in his eyes now, and something about it is satisfying, causes goosebumps to raise on your arms and legs.
Make it sting. Make it bleed. Hurt me.
“You were so fucking green and hopeful, and I—” Robby scrubs both hands down his face, nails and all. “I was seeing the worst of everything. The system and—and the hospital and fucking humanity, and I was angry—I was so fucking angry. I know you were there, but you have no idea. I was having trouble sleeping 'cause I would just lay awake at night thinking about how fucked up it all was, and you would lay awake with me," he emphasizes the last part as if it was the main issue, which, apparently, it was.
"You were studying and researching and learning to practice fucking medicine, and I was falling apart. I could see it—I could see how fucking hard you were trying to hold me together, and I didn't want to be the reason you failed or—or fucking gave up. I wasn't gonna be this dark cloud hanging over your fucking head everywhere you went."
Didn't want to be a dark cloud, so he became a fucking hurricane instead. He's so—
"Why couldn't you have just said that?" you throw both your arms out. "Why'd you have to—God, Robby, you are such a fucking asshole!"
"I know! I know, and I'm sorry." He's still yelling—both of you are—but it's less about frustration, more about understanding and willing the other to do the same.
You wipe your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, counting in your head then starting over when your body jolts with another sob.
"That hurt… more than anything—" you cover your mouth to force a silent cry back down your throat, "I didn't think I'd e-ever fucking recover." You never really did. "Why did—do you at least regret it?"
Robby frowns, taken aback, like it's the last question he was prepared for you to ask. Then, he nods, "every day. I regret it every single day."
"Why?" Again, Robby blinks, confused, starts to answer only for you to cut him off when your current train of thought is derailed by, "did I know her?"
"Jesus fucki—no." Zero hesitation this time. "I didn't even know her."
Does that make it better or worse, you wonder.
The curiosity and the irritation driving it has you feeling a little more clearheaded as you pry further, "did you pick her up at a bar, or…?"
Robby scoffs, turns his hands up, at a loss. "You want the details?" He sounds exasperated, and you shrug, raising an expectant eyebrow until he sighs, "alright, fine," and confesses, "yeah, I met her at a bar. We went back to her place, fuck knows where, and… and the only thing I truly remember is that at some point I realized her hair kinda looked like yours—"
Fresh tears scorch the backs of your eyes.
"—I didn't even make it to the bathroom before I threw up."
The laugh you let out is entirely involuntary, a single, huffed out syllable brought on by hysteria. "You threw up," you repeat just to make sure you heard him correctly. "You went home with a woman. In an attempt to protect me. And, then you threw up while fucking her."
Robby scratches the back of his neck, face scrunched up in a cringe, "yeah, that's… that's pretty much the gist of it. For the record, I tried to clean it up—"
"As any gentleman would," you roll your eyes.
He snorts, "but she just wanted me to get out. Threw my clothes at me and shoved me out the front door. Literally."
"Can't really blame her."
“No,” he shakes his head once, “and, even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. There are so many emotions warring within you—rage, disappointment, sorrow, relief. Mostly you’re just tired. Again. As always.
Robby must be able to sense it because he offers, “I can go back to the hospital if you want to be here alone.”
And, you consider it. Not because you do want to be alone but because he deserves to be a little fucking inconvenienced.
Then, you remember the warm towel and the moisturizer, the fact that he brought you home with him without question. You remember that he’s been by your side since you came back to Pittsburgh, checking in, bringing food, trying to make it so that you have one less thing to worry about.
“God dammit,” you mutter, sigh, rub your eyes and ask, “why are you the way that you are…” more to yourself than to him.
“I don’t know,” Robby chuckles in a self-deprecating manner, “but I promise I’m working on it.”
“I sure fuckin’ hope so.”
You turn and nod toward the door, “c’mon, we need to eat,” not waiting for him as you step out into the hallway.
There is no closure, and there is no forgiveness, but there is an explanation and a reluctant sort of understanding.
More importantly, there is cold stir-fry and a cozy rocking chair that’s calling your name.
•
With the day off, Robby tidies what he can while keeping as quiet as possible. He catches up on some emails, flicks through the latest edition of a journal that was recently mailed to him, but it’s impossible to focus with you sleeping, still in the rocking chair and curled around a plush pillow.
He should move you, rouse you just enough to get you to the bedroom or, at the very least, the couch. You’re going to be full of aches and pains, but how the fuck is Robby supposed to wake you when your face is so open and relaxed? When the golden light shining through the window is casting a halo on the top of your head?
Free of all the stress, able to breathe easily under the blanket Robby had covered you with sometime around one in the morning—you need the rest. You deserve it.
So, Robby pads around his house in socks, sets his coffee mug down on the table pinky-first to dampen the impact and keep it from clinking, anything he can do to stay silent.
The front door opening and closing is what ends up waking you, not when Robby leaves to pick up breakfast, but when he gets back with a paper bag of kolaches.
“What—shit, what time is it?” you mumble, wiping your face and blinking at Robby with bleary eyes.
“Quarter past ten,” he answers, and when confusion takes over, he tells you, “I’m off today.”
You nod, “convenient,” sit up and stretch, and the way all your joints pop makes both of you cringe.
“Please tell me those are what I think they are,” you say, motioning weakly to the bag in his hand.
“Depends. Do you think they’re kolaches from Denny’s Donuts?”
“That’s exactly what I think they are,” you smile lazily.
Robby matches your sideways grin, only his has less to do with breakfast and everything to do with the heart stopping fondness he feels as he stares at you—hair out of place, imprints on your cheek from where you were resting against the pillow, swimming in his hoodie and missing a sock.
Fuck, he loves you so much. So fucking much.
Then, Robby thinks about the conversation from last night and his smile falters. There’s no way that was the end of it.
“Come on,” he steps over and extends a hand to help you out of the chair. “I even have some of your Texas Pecan coffee.”
Something funny and familiar flickers over your face, an affection similar to the one Robby’s currently feeling, and it gives way for hope to bloom in his chest even as you shake your head.
“Bet you don’t have my amaretto creamer, though,” you challenge.
Robby just smirks, “ye of little faith.”
“No fucking way.”
Shrugging, he lets go of your hand and turns to make his way to the kitchen where he sets the kolaches down and opens his fridge to procure what is, in fact, your favorite coffee creamer.
“Don’t tell me I was actually able to convert you.”
Robby levels an unimpressed look at you, “absolutely fucking not,” then starts peeling the plastic off the lid to prove, “this is a brand new bottle.”
You hum, face going soft again, and Robby considers it one more triumph. You always did appreciate the little things.
As the two of you wait for the coffee to brew, you hop up on the counter top as if you still live here, as if you still belong here (you do), and Robby leans against the cabinets beside you.
“What time did you want to head back to the hospital?” he asks because it’s pretty safe to assume that you do.
You exhale through pursed lips, “I guess after breakfast… and another shower. I feel like I sweat a lot last night.”
“You may have been getting a fever,” Robby suggests. “Stress will do that.”
Even without looking at you, he knows you’re rolling your eyes, just like he knows you’re about to swing your leg to the side to lightly kick him—yeah, there it is, right on schedule.
It’s all so familiar to him, and he’s been missing it, missing you, since you walked out of this house those years ago.
Robby reflects on all the rights and wrongs of the past, the bad days he took out on you and the trauma that eventually got the best of him (still a risk now), and it reminds him…
“Why didn’t you tell your dad that I cheated on you?”
He feels you stiffen, your breath stuttering as you grumble, “fucking Pam,” and then you lean back until your head hits the cupboards behind you.
It takes you a while to answer, but Robby thinks he might already know what you’re going to say.
Actually hearing you say it is still a little fucking devastating, though.
“I didn’t want him to hate you.”
Robby’s gut clenches along with his jaw as he fights back waves of emotion—guilt, regret, unfathomable longing.
“If I told him, he’d never forgive you, and I…” you swallow before continuing in a much smaller voice, “I was still holding out hope, I guess.”
“Hope for what?”
Your laugh is bitter, more of a hiss you blow through your teeth. “I dunno, Robby—that you’d eventually call and, like, beg me to take you back or something? Chase after my plane or show up on my doorstep. All the stupid rom-com tropes.”
“Believe me, I considered it,” he easily admits, running a shaky hand through his oily hair. You’re not the only one who needs a shower. “I thought about it all the time,” and then, because at this point there’s no way you haven’t figured it out, he corrects himself, “I think about it all the time.”
He watches you from the corner of his eye, relieved that you don’t tense up again, but the way you’re fidgeting with your fingers is enough for him to know that your mind is spinning.
Maybe he shouldn’t have dropped this on you within ten minutes of you waking up.
“Why didn’t you ever follow through?”
“Are you joking?” He twists to look at you fully. “I cheated on you. You should’ve hated me. You were supposed to be burning all my shit and buying fucking voodoo dolls.”
“Uh, sorry, I was too busy grieving and wondering what the fuck I did wrong to make you do it in the first place.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Yeah, I know that now. I kinda knew it back then, too, but—Jesus, Robby, I was so fucked up over you. I knew you were struggling, but I never would’ve thought you’d—that you’d do something like that. I… I mean, I thought I was gonna marry you.”
His stomach rolls, and his eyes start to burn, and suddenly he’s walking out of the kitchen and to his room. He hears your distant, “what the fuck?” but ignores it in favor of rummaging through a shoebox in his closet until he finds what he’s looking for.
Heart pounding, Robby returns to you, still sitting on the counter, only now you don’t look nearly as sad as when he disappeared, just annoyed. And, maybe a little bewildered.
It all vanishes when he sets a small, white box right on your leg. You don’t immediately pick it up, but Robby waits it out (hoping he doesn’t go into cardiac arrest in the meantime), and after what feels like an eternity and a half, you crack the box open with trembling fingers.
Then, you just stare.
The ring is elegant, a gold band with three diamonds. Robby remembers the seller describing the cut as vintage which he whole-heartedly agrees with considering how much it resembles his grandmother’s ring which had, unfortunately, been lost in a fire.
“I bought that eight years ago,” he tells you, voice far too croaky for his liking. Still, he pushes on, “I had every fucking intention of marrying you. I just—even before I fucked up I knew you deserved better.”
Robby flinches when you snap the box shut, clenching it tightly in your unsteady hands.
“It is too fuckin’ early for this,” you grumble, and Robby has to chuckle because the reality is that it’s too late. He missed his chance.
“Sorry.”
You slide off the counter and set the box in your place.
“You are the most infuriating person I have ever known,” you say, not even bothering to look at him.
“Yeah, I’ve been told that before.” By you, as it happens. “Never grew out of it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Obviously,” then, “I’m getting in the shower.”
He doesn’t try to follow you, just picks up the ring box, a physical symbol of everything that could have been.
•
The walk to the hospital is silent. In fact, you haven’t uttered a word since getting out of the shower, which might have something to do with how puffy your eyes are.
You split paths once in the EC, and though it pains him, Robby is thankful for your honesty when you tell him, “just give me some space.”
So, he does, lets you go up to the MICU alone while he saunters over to central where Dana is already eyeing him from over her glasses.
“What’d you do this time?”
Robby scoffs, offended despite her being correct.
“Picked up breakfast and made her, her favorite coffee,” he answers innocently, gripping the counter as he leans back then letting go as he rocks forward. “And, showed her the engagement ring I got for her before we broke up.”
Dana stares at him dumbfounded before her eyebrows knit together and she glares. It’s uncharacteristic—at least when it’s directed at him—and Robby thinks this must be what dogs feel like when they get smacked on the nose with a newspaper.
“I know you can be a jackass, but that might be the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.” Her tone is scathing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I was trying to prove a point,” he snaps defensively.
Dana drops her tablet onto the counter and snatches her glasses off her face. “And, what point might that be?”
He sucks his teeth, can’t help the way he turns at the sound of sirens, but he can feel Dana’s eyes boring into him, demanding his attention.
Robby squeezes the back of his neck, drops his head for a moment then answers, “she told me she had thought…fuck—she wanted to get married. Back then. I wanted her to know that I did too.”
“Jesus Christ, Robby.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you just dangle a fuckin’ carrot in front of her?”
He wants to argue, wants to tell Dana that it shouldn’t matter that he showed you the ring because it’s not as if you still want it.
Except…
Having you back in Pittsburgh hasn’t exactly been easy on either of you. You’ve told him to fuck off on more than one occasion, but you’ve also been relieved to see him just as often. You breathe deeper when he’s next to you, like you’re somehow steadier with him around. You still reach for his hand, still lean against him, rest your head on his shoulder. You still tell him what’s on your mind.
You still trust him.
Which, to be honest, is kind of fucking irresponsible on your part. After what he put you through, you really shouldn’t want to have anything to do with him.
Yet, here you are letting him hold you, letting him support you, letting him love you, so Robby can’t help but think that maybe you do still want it. Him.
Maybe he still has a chance.
Just probably not right now when your dad is dying.
“I’m not trying to dangle a carrot,” Robby sighs. “I’m… I don’t know what I’m trying to do.”
“No shit.”
“I don’t know what she’s trying to do either.”
Dana looks up at the ceiling, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “lord, give me the strength,” before looking back at him, “she’s goin’ through something awful. The only thing that girl’s trying to do is hold it all together, and you flaunting everything she missed out on is not helping her.”
“I’m not flaunting anything, I’m—”
The buzzing in his pocket stops Robby mid-justification, and alarm bells start going off in his head when he sees an incoming call from you.
He doesn’t even say goodbye to Dana, just presses the green circle on screen and starts walking toward the elevators.
“Hey, what’s—”
“Can you come up here? I need you up here,” you say in a rush, and Robby can hear how thick your voice is through the speaker.
“I’m getting on the elevators right now. Is your dad okay?”
It’s stupid to ask, not because he doesn’t want to know but because he’s going to lose service as soon as he steps into the car.
“No, he’s—”
Robby’s heart drops just in time for the call to drop, and the ride up is possibly the longest he’s ever experienced. So long that he gets off the elevator the second time it stops at a different floor. The stairs will be faster.
He’s winded by the time he’s swiping his badge and shouldering through the doors to the MICU, too impatient to wait for them to open on their own. Jogging through the unit, Robby ignores all the nurses who look his way as he all but flings himself into your father’s room.
You’re bracing yourself with one hand on the bed while you hold your other in front of Jonathan’s face, moving a finger from side to side, and Robby would laugh at the sight of you performing a neuro exam, but there is absolutely nothing funny about your dad’s inability to follow your movements.
“What about—okay, okay, touch your nose then my finger, can you do that?” you ask, and it sounds like you’re begging.
It takes too long for Jonathan to respond, and when he does, it’s with, “I don’t know.”
“Can you try? Come on, dad.”
‘Try’ being the key word here because while Jonathan does make several attempts, he only succeeds on one, and, if Robby’s being honest, he thinks that was probably just a happy coincidence.
Stepping up behind you, Robby urges you out of the way before pulling out his pen light, warning the older man, “bright light coming in,” then checking his pupils. Normal size, reactive, but, “a little sluggish,” he tells you, then asks, “Jonathan, you know where you are right now?”
Again, your dad hesitates, thinking harder than he should have to, until answering, “Pittsburgh medical center.”
“Good. Now, can you tell me what year it is?”
Robby waits patiently—“2019…”—and cringes.
You don’t let Robby finish his line of questions, just barrage him with your own.
“Can you order tests? MRI, EEG, chem panel,” you list.
Robby has to stop you with his hands on your shoulders, “hey, slow down.”
“Please.” Your fingers curl in the material of his shirt as you gaze up at him with dewy eyes. “Please, do something.”
“I can’t order anything myself,” he reminds you, “but I’ll get the nurse to page oncology, okay?”
You nod with a sniffle, and Robby breaks away from you to step out and talk to the nurse just outside the door.
He feels sick, dread pooling low in his stomach because he’s pretty sure he knows what’s causing these new symptoms in your father.
And, he’s pretty sure you know too.
•
The trouble with hospice is that you have to choose.
The cancer has, to nobody’s surprise and everyone’s devastation, spread further, and while your dad’s shiny, new brain tumor could be removed, it’s not like it’ll just stay gone. You know that getting rid of all of it is not only unrealistic, it’s impossible.
Still, deciding to throw your hands up in surrender is harder to do than you had previously thought.
It’d be cruel to ask him to keep fighting. That was never the plan you envisioned when coming here.
Hearing him say it, though, hearing him tell his oncologist and his surgeon and his neurologist that he doesn’t want to keep getting carved up just so he can have a few more sure-to-be painful months with a family that’ll have to watch him waste away…
Suddenly, it’s much more real than before.
As always, though, you put on a brave face, tell him through the tears that you’ll support him no matter what, and then you’re asking Robby to get in touch with Kiara so that all of you can discuss hospice providers.
Your father has to remain in the hospital for a few more days just to make sure he doesn’t develop complications from his previous stomach surgery which works out because it gives you time to go to the house, direct the workers on where to set up the electric bed and go over the possible issues that could come up.
You’re given a pain management kit as well as mobility aids, and then you’re setting up your laptop so that you can video chat with a few different nurses until you find one you think your dad will hopefully be comfortable with.
It’s all sort of a whirlwind, and though you manage to keep everyone updated, you feel like you’re being swept up yourself, thrown straight into the stratosphere without so much as an oxygen mask.
Pam, who is handling all of this remarkably well, is staying with your dad, and you want to as well–you really do–but after spending another night in the unforgiving chair you’d been sleeping in before, you’re not sure you or your back can handle it. (The pounding headache definitely is not helping.)
So, you end up back at Robby’s, which is heartbreaking in its own special way, but at least he has your favorite coffee and a huge bed that he’s insisting you take. Trying to, anyway.
“You’re six-one. There’s no way you’re fitting on that couch,” you argue, one hand on your hip as you motion toward him with the other.
“It’s a pretty big fuckin’ couch.”
As if to prove his point, Robby plops down on it, laying back and then quickly scooting up further in an attempt to hide the way his feet hang off the edge.
“Just let me take it,” you grumble, add, even quieter, “it’s that or we both sleep in the bed.”
There’s an edge to your voice, sad more than bitter, as you pad over to one of the bookshelves just to give yourself something to do other than look at him. God, he’s so easy to look at.
You’re not over the conversation–the confession–that took place in the kitchen a few days ago, still haven’t forgotten about the ring that’s somewhere in the house.
Thinking about it makes your stomach ache and your heart race. It brings up beautiful memories of the two of you and horrible memories of you curled up all alone. It makes you hate him and it makes you love him. It–
You squint at one of the shelves, eyes scanning a row of medical journals that have been separated from the others.
While it isn’t surprising that Robby’s keeping up to date with new research and innovations, it’s sort of unnecessary for him, an emergency medicine doctor, to collect journals specific to neuroscience.
You sigh, unshelving the nine editions and look over your shoulder to find him just a few paces behind you.
“If I flip these open, am I gonna find my name in all of them?” You don’t know why you ask; you already know the answer.
“Why do you think I have them?” and, it sounds like he’s annoyed you’d even question it. “Why wouldn’t I want to keep up with your research?”
It’s on the tip of your tongue–’why would you?’– but you already know the answer to that, too, and it’s that he never stopped caring about you.
Cruel as he was in the past, he didn’t… you don’t think he really meant…
Turning around to face him, you keep the journals clutched to your chest and pout, “you are–you are so bad for my brain, you know that?”
Robby chuckles, a little red in the cheeks as he nods like he understands. Like he knows how you feel.
And, that must trigger something in you because all of a sudden you’re letting everything out, what you’re thinking and what he’s doing to you: “you fuckin’–you save my dad’s life, and then you just insert yourself back into mine, and you–you bring me breakfast, and you piss me off and show me the ring you never fucking proposed with, and you have all these journals like you’re proud of me or something–”
“I am proud of you,” Robby cuts you off, and the look on his face has gone from uncertain to adoring, and oh, you’re crying again (you’re always fucking crying).
Those are tears in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks, being wiped away by Robby’s thumbs.
“You can’t just do this,” you sniff, but you don’t back away. “You can’t fuck me up the way you did and, like, just expect everything to go back to how it was.”
Nodding, “I know,” Robby’s mouth ticks up on one side. It makes him look impossibly sad. “And, I know it wouldn’t be the same.”
For some reason, it hurts more to hear him say it than it does to think it yourself.
Wouldn’t be, like it’s impossible. Not worth trying.
You shouldn’t want to try, though. You shouldn’t want him—
But, you do, oh god. You want him so fucking badly in every way imaginable. Even knowing that it wouldn’t be the same, even if it goes against your instinct of self-preservation, you want to try. You want him to try, want him to want to.
You grasp his wrists to pull his hands from your face, let out a heavy sigh and mumble, “I need some air,” before moving around him to get to the back door, dropping the journals on the table as you go, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the living room.
Since getting to Pittsburgh you’ve had to keep reminding yourself that this trip isn’t about him. Robby shouldn’t be taking up this kind of space in your head, your heart. It’s just…
How could he not?
You knew that seeing him wouldn’t be easy, but you hadn’t expected for it to be this fucking hard. You hadn’t expected to spend so much time with him.
Stupid on your part; Robby’s always had a knack for getting a little too involved with certain cases, and he has a pretty personal interest in your dad’s for obvious reasons.
But, you came here with the memory of him pushing you away. Somewhere along the course of your relationship, Robby came to the conclusion that you needed to be protected. Without asking you. Without talking to you. He decided you weren’t strong enough.
He decided he couldn’t trust you enough to take care of him or yourself.
Yet, for whatever twisted fucking reason, you still seem to trust him—and Jesus, how damaged does that make you? How could you possibly have any amount of faith in him?
How could you still love him as much as you do?
This is the shit that’s been keeping you up at night. You are heartbroken over your father, terrified of the future, but it’s Robby who makes you feel so hopelessly lost, and it’s Robby who finds you—again and again—and you don’t understand why.
By the time you go back inside the sun has set, and there’s a note on the refrigerator.
Went out for a drink with Jack.
I left dinner in the microwave.
Call if you need anything.
Bear ᐢ. .ᐢ
You’re hit with a staggering sense of Deja vu, having read almost this exact note countless times before, from the messy handwriting to the cutesy signature. You can barely stand it, can barely breathe.
For a moment, you consider going back to the hospital to sleep there again, feel the subtle ache in your lower back and decide absolutely not. Then, you remember that your dad’s house is still an option, the room you used to stay in before you moved in with Robby.
The whole reason you’re over here, though, is so you won’t be alone. Robby may be gone for now, but you know he’ll eventually come back.
And, he does. Barely after ten you hear the front door open and close followed by him quietly moving around out front. You stay in the bedroom, wrapped in the plush duvet as you strain to listen for the opening and closing of the linen closet, and as soon as you hear it, you call out for him.
His pace quickens, taking longer strides like he’s panicked, then he’s peeking into the bedroom. “You okay?”
Eyebrows raised, voice like a warning, “I know you didn’t just grab sheets from the closet.”
“And, if I did?”
“Robby,” you whine, “I told you not—”
“You really want to sleep in the same bed—”
“Yes,” you cut him off firmly, unwavering as he stares at you with wide eyes. Apparently, he had not been prepared for that. “Look, if you’re straight up uncomfortable with it, I get it. I’m just saying I don’t mind.”
He swallows. “You sure?”
“Do I sound like I’m not?”
The corners of his mouth twitch upward, a little sparkle in his brown eyes. “No. Kinda sounds like you want it, if I’m being honest.”
It’s your turn to stare, jaw setting as heat pools low in your belly. You nearly respond, maybe I do, choose not to. Your silence is enough of an answer.
You do want him in bed with you. You want to be able to touch him, even if it’s just your finger brushing his hand, his foot nudging yours. Anything.
Maybe having him so close will help you understand your feelings for him, at least get some of them out of your system.
Or, maybe it’ll make it all worse.
It doesn’t really matter because after washing his face and changing into an old t-shirt and boxers— “is this okay?” Robby is laying down and pulling the covers up to his waist.
On your side to face him, you watch him put his glasses on, a slight blush painting his cheeks as he scrolls through his phone.
After a moment’s peace, you ask, “how’s Jack?”
Robby’s eyes flick over to you for a moment, “he’s doing pretty well. Still struggles with some shit, but he’s better than before.” Better than he was when you knew him.
“I’m glad. He’s a good guy.”
“One of the best,” Robby agrees, then, “don’t tell him I said that. He’d take it and run.”
Searching for something else to say, you hum, come up empty handed. You don’t know what you want to talk about, just that you don’t want to sit in silence.
You could ask more about Jack or how the fresh batch of students is, if Dana is still keeping everyone in line. Fuck, you could go back to when you didn’t know him and ask if he’s had any interesting cases lately.
There are options.
The problem is that you’re not actually interested in any of that. Not right now, anyway.
You’d much rather ask what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling, if all of this—seeing each other—has been as hard for him as it has been for you. You want to ask more about the ring, when he bought it, when he knew, and if given the chance now…
Instead, you turn over and snuggle deeper into the blankets. Robby turns off the bedside lamp, and that’s that. No more questions, no more answers, just the two of you laying in bed.
Wide awake.
You do everything you can to quiet your mind, go through every exercise you can—the full body scan, stretching your eyes up and down, side to side, counting all the way to 500.
No matter what, you can’t block out the sound of Robby’s breathing, steady but stilted, like he can’t quite fill his lungs all the way. Tension is radiating off of him, and you know he’s trying so hard not to fidget, but eventually his foot starts rocking and his teeth start grinding, and you cave.
Rolling back to face him, you shimmy closer, eyes shut, heart beating too hard as you press up against his side and scoot down enough to rest your head just under his collarbone.
You feel Robby’s chest rise with the deepest breath he’s taken in 20 minutes, and then he’s letting it out all at once and fitting his arm around you.
Little by little, his heartbeat slows under your palm, your own following suit. The drowsiness finally hits you, a bobbing in the back of your head, in and out, pulling you deeper, deeper—
“I miss you.”
Under different circumstances you might tell him to shut up, maybe ignore it completely.
But, you’re so tired. You’re so fucking tired. From everything, from fighting him. Fighting yourself.
So, you give up.
Shifting upward, you trail your hand from his chest to his face, tilt his head toward you then softly, slowly press your lips against his.
It’s short and timid, so unlike the last kisses you shared. Robby pulls back first but stays close enough that your noses bump, voice hardly more than a whisper, “you sure?”
The second time he’s asked. The second time you’ve told him, “I’m sure,” and meant it.
It’s the only confirmation he needs before claiming your mouth, more insistent than the first kiss but with some remaining hesitance until you run your fingers through his hair, press yourself a little closer, and then Robby is groaning low in his throat and reaching for your thigh. He doesn’t tug you on top of him, just hitches your leg over his own, hand at the back of your knee to stroke the sensitive skin there.
If he were to drift further up, he’d find you wearing only panties under his baggy shirt, and the thought has your body heating up, has you running your tongue over his lower lip.
Robby breaks away with huff, “fuck,” only to dip forward and nip. “Is this just a distraction for you?” and he’s got that scratch, every word like a serrated blade that drags across your skin in a way that makes you shiver.
You wonder what he’d do if you said yes. Would it hurt him? Would he leave?
It isn’t worth risking, though, especially since it isn’t true.
Shaking your head, you murmur, “not a distraction,” lips brushing over his, “promise.”
The noise he lets out is deep and desperate before he’s rolling you onto your back, caging you between his arms.
Both of your hands are on his face, holding it to yours, and fuck, fuck, this is Robby—it’s Robby—who held you, who hurt you, who’s always felt like coming home, even now.
He’s everywhere, overwhelming, and you ask just to hear it again, “you really missed me?”
“Every fuckin’ day. Before you even left.” His teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he sucks on the soft flesh, and you keen, back arching, nails digging into the back of his neck.
“What do you want tonight?” he has the sense to ask. Your heart skips a beat. “What do you need from me? Tell me—”
Your eyes are burning, tears of longing, desire, furious and feverish as you bracket his waist with your thighs and urge him downward until his hips slot against yours.
“Words, baby,” Robby says through a strangled breath, “not going any further ‘til you tell me.”
He’s trying to be considerate, responsible, but it comes off as teasing and sexy, and you sound pathetic when you whimper, “you—I want you. All the fucking time. Please.”
It knocks the air out of him, lips parting in a ragged exhale, and then he’s grinding against you and asking again, “are you su—”
“Robby,” you tug on the longer hair on top of his head so that he can see your eyes—the shine of them—“I’m positive.” You ghost your lips over his again, “do you not… want to?”
His kiss is fierce, thick fingers gripping your chin as he licks into your mouth, and fuck, you can feel how hard he is, the long line of his cock pressing between your legs.
“Oh, I want to,” Robby smirks, letting go of your chin in favor of snaking his hand downward until he’s cupping your pussy, a finger pressed between your folds. You know he can feel how slick you are even through your panties, his smirk growing into a wide grin. “Still get so wet from just a little touching.”
“And, you still ea—ah” he slips under the material to slowly slide inside of you, digit by digit— “you still eat it up,” you moan.
Thrusting in and out, he mouths down your neck, muttering mostly to himself, “speaking of eating…”
Just as quickly as it had come, his finger disappears, and you whine at the loss. Robby starts trailing down your torso, shoving your shirt up and off then pausing and sitting back on his heels to stare down at you and swear.
A laugh bubbles out of you when he immediately goes for your tits, groping and squeezing and groaning as he lowers his mouth to suck on one nipple, the other, back and forth until they’re taut and sensitive. You try to buck against him, the throb between your legs enough to drive you insane, and when he pinches, you arch into it.
“Robby—”
“Sorry, baby. Couldn’t help it.”
That smugness disappears when he slides your panties off and settles between your legs. Without even looking at him, you can tell he’s taking you in. Gazing. Something he’s always done that never fails to make you incredibly hot.
Robby spreads you open with his thumbs, his low groan fucking predatory, then he’s licking from your hole to your clit, and you’re calling his name, gripping his hair, only getting louder when he wraps his arms around your legs to hold you still.
“Fuck, fuck, Robby…”
The scratch of his beard is delicious as he sucks your swelling clit into his mouth and hums in acknowledgement, the vibration causing you to writhe in his grasp, twitch in time with every flick of his tongue.
Maneuvering in an almost frantic way, Robby’s able to push a finger back inside you. Like muscle memory, he curls and rubs against the spot that makes you leak, makes you fucking dizzy.
“God, ohh, forgot how fucking good you are at this.”
You feel him laugh, eyes dark as he looks up from between your legs. “How dare you?” teasing your clit with a kiss. “Definitely won’t let that happen ever again.”
The words make your stomach lurch. Ever again. Like… like the two of you…
Any coherent thought floats away when a second finger joins his first, just as relentless as his tongue, and you know you’re making a mess, know you must be dripping into his hand.
You also know he loves it. The squelch and the spray, lapping it up and drinking it down until you’re panting, “okay, h’okay, need you, pleaseplease—”
Robby ignores you. Or, maybe just doesn’t hear you. Either way, he doesn’t let up, still sucking, still fucking, then glaring up at you when you bend and reach for his wrist.
“Cum on my tongue, and I’ll stop,” he grunts.
Fire licks up your spine at the sight of his blown pupils, his voice rough. Unwavering.
With no room for argument, you fall back to the mattress, quivering in his grip and feeling everything.
Fuck, that tongue. Those fingers. He’s always known exactly how to take you apart. He had ruined you, left you to compare every partner that came after, each one of them coming up short.
Robby. Shit, this is Robby. Between your legs, peering up at you, watching your jaw drop, holding so tight, and groaning along with you when you topple over the edge into a blissful abyss.
You vaguely hear him speaking, can barely make out the words, “there it is—so fucking pretty when I make you cum, look at you…”
He fucks you through it, slows down when you go limp, replaces his fingers with his tongue to soothe you while he slurps.
Strong hands massage your trembling thighs, urging you to relax and let them fall open further. He licks up your mess as if it’s a form of worship, so tender with the flat of his tongue.
No matter how good it may feel, though, you’re absolutely desperate for something more.
You reach for him again, and this time he lets you guide him back up, pulling his shirt off and tossing it somewhere behind him. You scratch gently down his chest, through the hair over his sternum, making him shiver when you trace his ribs and the spaces between.
Robby’s clumsy as he takes his boxers off, too busy kissing you, all teeth and tongue and dripping fucking beard.
“Do you—” he’s panting, “—condom?”
“Do you know me?” you snicker, “absolutely not.”
“Didn’t wanna assume,” he murmurs, his nose bumping yours.
“Such a gentleman.”
“I try—”
You cut him off when you shove his shoulder hard enough for him to lose his balance and fall to the side. You’re quick to climb on top of him, even quicker to crush your mouth against his.
Rolling your hips, you slide back and forth over his cock, shuddering as you remember the way it stretches you, salivating at the thought that you’re about to feel it again.
Robby holds you at the waist and aids with the motion. His lips are red and shiny with spit, his eyes hooded with desire.
“Ready?” you breathe.
He doesn’t answer verbally, just reaches between the two of you to line himself up.
Gazes locked, you start to ease down on him, a high pitched noise leaving your throat when his cockhead slips past your entrance, spreading the ring of muscle thin.
Inch by inch, you sink further down, a nonstop litany moans and curses tumbling from both of you until you’re fully seated. Your eyelids flutter. You’re nearly positive you’re drooling.
Robby isn’t any better off. Flushed from the chest up, eyes wide like he can’t believe this is happening, like he’s never felt anything like it, which you know isn’t true ‘cause it’s not like this is the first time you’ve—
“Fuuuck me,” he groans, “oh fu—god dammit, you’re so…”
You lift yourself, thighs quaking, then drop back down. Robby rasps, his fingernails digging into your skin, jackknifing forward as if punched.
He feels so fucking good, so thick, twitching inside of you, nudging your cervix in a way that’s just shy of painful.
Gyrating in an inelegant circle, you adjust to his size, Robby’s thumb rubbing circles on your clit, and with a reedy moan, you start a slow rhythm that very quickly becomes frenzied. Uncontrollable.
Wet skin slapping wet skin, heads thrown back, Robby releases a guttural, regretful noise, “wanted to fuck you nice and slow. Take my-hnn—take my time with you.”
“Later,” you pant.
The lopsided grin that spreads across his face is so charming, you can’t stand it, have to kiss it away before it wraps too tightly around your heart.
You yelp when he rolls you, hiking your leg up and changing the angle so that your eyes swivel into the back of your head.
“That feel good?” shameless and self-satisfied, and you can only nod helplessly. Robby ducks down, catches you in a filthy kiss and teases, “still know how to fuck you stupid, don’t I?”
Christ. For some reason you’re always surprised by how fucking dirty his mouth is.
You bite down on your lip, lighting up from the inside out and blinking back tears that Robby wipes away.
“Too much?”
“Nonono,” you shake your head fast enough to make you dizzy, “feels so good, so good, so—”
Grabbing your other leg, Robby pushes your knees toward your chest, your hips lifting from the mattress, and your voice breaks when you cry his name.
The ridge of his cock rubs against your g-spot with every thrust, milking slick and squirt from your sopping cunt. You clutch his shoulders, scratch whatever part of him you can reach, tug him down for a kiss and chant into it, “Rob-by, Rob-by, fuck, fuck…”
“Missed you. Missed this pussy, all of this, all of you,” he confesses in a rush. You suck in a deep breath, a confession of your own on the tip of your tongue, but he beats you to it: “love you—I love you I love you. So fucking much, never fucking stopped.”
Your lips part, eyes watering for reasons other than lust, and you want to say it back. It’s right there, so close, almost—
Your vision starbursts, everything inside you superheated, racing through you as your muscles seize and pulse. Spinning, breathless, body lost to sensation while your mind remains stuck on I love you. Never fucking stopped. I love you. I love you.
And, he’s kissing you again, swallowing everything you haven’t said yet, hips snapping mindlessly and losing every bit of grace they previously had. Robby throws his head back, his throat exposed for you to run fingers over his flexed tendons. His jaw slides forward, shoulders curling, shaking apart as he spills deep inside of you with a wrecked moan.
You’re so full of him, overflowing both literally and figuratively. Robby stares down at you, dazed and blinking slowly, then begins to pull out with a hiss. He flops down next to you, and you can’t fucking stand the distance. It doesn’t matter that his arm is still pressed against yours. Doesn’t matter that you can still feel his phantom grip and the ghost of his kiss. It’s not enough.
You plaster yourself to his side, uncaring of the sweat or the mess between your legs. The only thing you care about is your hand on Robby’s cheek, his brown eyes as soft as they are infinite.
“I never stopped either,” you say, hushed like a secret, then again, slightly louder. “I’m still…” voice cracking—“I still love you so much.”
Robby’s expression is one you’re not entirely familiar with. You’ve seen similar, but not…
This relief. This hope. This overwhelming adoration.
It breaks your heart in the best way, the organ stuttering in its rhythm, stomach flipping, chest heaving with a deep breath.
“How?” he whispers, covering your hand with his.
You swallow, sniffle, “I don’t know. You’re just… you’re you. I’ve always loved you,” you shrug. “It’s like I can’t help it.”
Robby sighs and rests his forehead against yours. “It’s so fucking selfish, but I hope you don’t stop. Don’t go looking for help.” Then, kissing your hairline with a thoughtful hum, “I know we have a lot to talk about, and I know this is a hard time for you, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I want—fuck, I want you. I want it all back—
“Robby…”
“—I don’t deserve it, and it won’t be the same, I know, but I just—I want to be here for you. At the very least, I want to be here.”
“I want you here,” you tell him, a little confused because, “I’ve been leaning on you since, like… basically since I stepped off the plane. I need you here. With me.”
You feel his breath against your forehead, his mouth curving into a small smile. “Terrible choice, actually.”
“God, I know. I can’t believe I’m still so hung up on you.”
Robby tilts his face down to press his lips to yours, sweet and tender and amused. “I can’t believe I’m this fucking lucky.”
He can’t see the way you roll your eyes, but you think he probably knows you do, grin widening until you’re kissing his teeth more than anything else.
There are so many discussions to have, so many decisions to make, so many problems to overcome—past, present, and future.
But, right now, with your legs woven together and Robby’s warm hand on the back of your neck, you can’t be bothered by any of it.
It feels good. It feels right, like you’ve found a missing piece of your puzzle, lost a long time ago, still fitting perfectly in place even with its frayed, cardboard edges.
Back where it belongs.
Where you belong.
•
It’s impossible to describe all of the emotions that accompany watching Jonathan get transported from the back of the ambulance to the hospital bed that now takes up a large portion of his living room.
At the same time, Robby can name every single emotion coursing through him simply from being able to stand next to you as it takes place.
Sad on your behalf, understanding of Pam’s helpless resignation, sympathetic to Jonathan’s apprehensiveness and the frustration he’s likely feeling as he loses his independence.
Then, there’s utter elation (topped with guilt and maybe a hint of embarrassment).
Robby really should not be this fucking happy in the face of death, but he is because he has his arm wrapped around you, one of your hands enveloped in his as you squeeze two of his fingers for comfort.
This morning Robby got to wake up next to you and make you coffee, and the two of you sat in the kitchen and talked, made sure that last night wasn’t all just post-orgasm oxytocin and that, even if you aren’t on the exact same page in the midst of this chaos, you’re at least reading the same chapter.
The hospice nurse is already here, helping Jonathan get settled and answering everyone’s questions. Her face is kind and compassionate, perfect for easing worries families.
You list what you were told about the pain management kit, ask for clarification on the different sedatives as you perch on the arm of the same plush chair that Robby is sitting in. He leans forward so that he can see your face, a frown of concentration that softens when Robby starts to scratch your back in the way that’s always soothed you.
Feeling eyes on him, the obvious familiarity with which he touches you, Robby looks up, expecting to find Pam peering at him from across the room with suspicion, possibly judgment.
Instead, it’s Jonathan who’s watching.
Though his sight may be limited, the older man can apparently still see Robby well enough, and Robby is taken aback at how warm the gaze is.
Content.
A subtle smile and short nod is enough to make Robby’s eyes burn. He swallows the lump in his throat, sniffs quietly and shakes his head with a quick jerk to the side.
He doesn’t deserve the blessing, but Robby vows to do everything he can to earn it before time runs out.
One day soon, he’ll promise your father what he should have promised a long time ago.
To take care of you, to keep you safe, to love you with everything he has.