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notadilemma · 17 days ago

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and I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time

michael “robby” robinavitch x f!reader

RATING: explicit

COUNT: 2.1k

SUMMARY: robby is a rural doctor, and you're staying with your grandfather while you get your life together.

TAGS/WARNINGS: no use of y/n, mentions of smoking, this is just extremely self-indulgent so take this as you will

-> ch 2

Tonight, the rain beating against the tin roof of the barn was a soundscape to your insomnia. A tropical storm was blowing through, as it often did in late August out here. When you were younger, you used to be so terrified of stronger weather. You were already an overly anxious child, so terrified of the horrors of the world, and mother nature presented a problem with no solution. In the face of a tornado, a hurricane, or a tsunami, there was nothing you could do to protect yourself.

But it’s been a long time since storms ran you under your bed. Watching the way the whole forest bent itself over for the wind, and how the rain was so heavy it buried the grass beneath thick layers of mud, you realized peace could be found in chaos.

Staring up at the ceiling, you let your hand run over the coarse hair of the crochet blanket on top of you. The wind rain beats against your window in loud thumps, the wind whips against the wood of the walls, and the whole house creaks as it tries to right itself. You wondered when it would reach its tipping point. When it would all fall down, with you at its center.

Down the hall, behind the last door to the left, laid your grandfather. A retired cop, he was a hard and stoic man, but he was kind enough to let you stay with him during your moment of need. If you strain your ears, you swear you can hear his CPAP machine behind the howling of the storm.

Much of your childhood was spent here, long summer days and dark winter nights. It feels lost and cold, as if your childhood was frozen in time and no one cared to ever let it catch up again. A constant reminder of what was, a constant reminder that one could never go back.

Your late grandmother’s absence is even more-so striking, supper time a quiet and somewhat awkward affair. Selfishly, it’s why you’ve avoided this house as much as you could. Grief is the one thing you can’t run from. It’ll always make itself a shadow, whether you learn to live with it or let it haunt you is up to you. The guilt eats you up often, but before you arrived you’d rarely seen your grandfather in the past decade.

It's a small town. A very, very small town. So small that you’re currently 30 minutes out from anything actually resembling a town. There's a short strip mall of stores, half shut down and the other half soon-to-be. When you were just a kid, everything felt so big and colorful. ‘Up-and-coming’ people said, ‘perfect to raise a family.’

Your grandfather moved here to take the Sheriff’s job after your grandmother grew tired of the city. One of the last coal mining towns in the United States, the soil is too ruined for agriculture these days. Decades ago, after the last mine was shut down and crop yields decreased exponentially, everyone began to leave. Young people don’t move here anymore. They don’t settle here, have kids nor build homes. So, when the old die, their homes, heirlooms, businesses, and memories go with them.

You wonder what will happen to your grandfather's house, when he goes.

You’ve been here less than a month and you’ve exhausted all your options of entertainment. This isn’t a wellness retreat, as the shame and guilt that weigh on your mind at night never let you forget, but restlessness makes you scratch at your arms when the sun is at its peak.

On your way out here you picked up an orange pack on a whim, though you don’t really smoke much, and you’ve already gone through the whole pack.

No new books have entered this house since 2008, and the ones that line the bookshelves are falling apart. All murder mysteries, excluding the bible.You got halfway through one before you threw it aside – it was obvious to you, the doctor clearly did it.

You’ve rotated through four big old t-shirts and three pairs of sleep shorts since you’ve arrived. You're currently on your last of each, and the rest hang on the clothesline, getting soaked by rain.

Movement at the end of the bed makes you sit up on your elbows, and you find the squinted eyes of your grandmother’s old cat, aptly named Missy, at the end of your bed. She’s glaring, as if it’s your fault the wind is so loud you couldn’t hear a mouse run through the walls.

“Don’t look at me like that.” You match her glare, and turn your head to look at the alarm clock. 2:46 AM. Late enough for you to get up and make yourself a cup of coffee. Early enough to pretend that beyond you, the storm, and the creatures of the night, nothing else exists.

Your grandfather rises at 9 AM on the dot. He spends around 30 minutes getting himself ready for the day before he walks into the kitchen. You’ve already made a fresh pot for him, and left out the sugar-free creamer.

It’s Sunday, so he heavily implies you should go to church with him over a breakfast of sausage and runny eggs. It’s Sunday, so you just give him a little smile and keep eating.

By 10:30 AM, he’s putting on his nice dress shoes. By 10:45 AM, he’s out the door. You wonder who he sees at church, who he considers friends these days now that those past are just that, long past.

Your grandfather mentions a few people he regularly interacts with. And by a few, you mean few. Long gone were the days where family were his closest friends, where even your most distant cousins came for dinner every week. His brother and sisters don’t visit much anymore, since your grandfather lives out in the sticks and they can’t risk the hours-long drive. His children, your family, are a whole different story. You have a cousin that visits once in a while, you think. But there’s Richard, who runs ‘Dick’s Country Store’, opened by his grandfather back in the day. There’s Johnny and Lena, the pastor and his wife. And there’s Michael, a ‘young boy’ your grandfather calls him, but a real smart one.

“Young boy?” you laughed, “He must be like, fifty then!”

Your grandfather chuckled. “Just about.” He rasped, “Never seen him with anyone, but he’s a fine young man. A doctor, in fact.”

“A doctor? Like a medical doctor?”

“Well, what other kind of doctor is there?” He laughs. Your grandfather never went to college, you almost failed out. You wonder if he’s really joking or not.

You’ve just finished cleaning the last of the leaves out of the gutters, and thinking about trying to ride the rusty old beach bike 10 miles down the road for a new pack of cigs, when the sound of dirt and gravel makes you look up from climbing down the ladder. Behind your grandfather’s old Cadillac DTS rides an old blue Ford pick-up. Though you’ve been living in the city these past few years, you can’t help but be slightly alarmed. In the country, an unfamiliar car runs the kids inside and gets the dogs barking. It’s unusual, a sign for caution.

But through the windshield, your grandfather seems unphased. You’re in the same outfit you slept in, wearing an old pair of steel-toed boots that are far too big for you. The soles are peeling, you only just stop yourself from itching your heel. You want to run inside and change, but, dear lord, it’s too late for that.

Walking over to help your grandfather from his car you try and hunch over a bit to hide the fact you have your oldest bra on. From the corner of your eye you watch the truck park behind your grandfather and turn off with a thunk. It’s an old thing, the only evidence that it's been well taken care of is the fact that it's even running at all.

You expect an older man, and by older you mean near-death old. But a middle-aged guy steps out, wearing dirty old jeans and a worn flannel. He reaches back in to grab a big duffel from the passenger seat before slamming the door. You hastily turn back towards your grandfather before the other man can turn to look at you, but you feel his eyes on you anyway.

Goddammit, you didn’t even do your hair. Men are good for nothing.

Leading you to the front porch steps, your grandfather rests his hand on the back of your neck like you’re an anxious dog. Feeling awkward and out-of-place in a way you haven’t felt since your teenage years, a strange part of you wants to start barking.

Half of your mind dedicates itself to ensuring you use proper manners – extending your hand with confidence, making an appropriate amount of eye contact without looking around too much – but the other part, the other part can’t help but gaze. You detail the scruff of his beard as he scratches it, the crinkle at his eyes when he smiles at you.

And, goddamn, he’s tall.

Dropping your hand, he chuckles, “It’s nice to meet the infamous granddaughter.” You blink in surprise, looking towards your grandfather you let out an awkward little laugh. Is he referencing your mental breakdown? He has to be referencing that. There is no way he is referencing anything else.

Still, you try to shape your face into something sweet. “All good things I hope!” But the pinch of your brows gives you away.

His eyebrows raise in question and his head quirks to the side, but before he can speak again your grandfather interrupts.

“Michael’s just to give me a quick check up, isn’t that right?”

Oh, Michael. You think. This is the young man, the doctor.

Looking towards your grandfather, he gives a short nod and extends his hand towards the house. “Yessir, you ready?”

As Michael follows your grandfather up the steps, you look once again towards the bike leaning against the side of the barn, but instead find yourself following them inside.

“Is there anything I can get y’all? Water? Ice tea?” You begin moving around the kitchen as if you have a purpose there, unwilling to excuse yourself. It’s been a long time since you’ve been in any sort of place that required propriety, but you find long buried teachings in the palm of your hand once again.

You hear a ‘No, thank you’ from Robby, but your grandfather asks you to grab his hearing aids from the sitting room. Once again, you feel eyes follow you as you leave the room.

Quickly, you look at yourself in the mirror above your grandmother’s hutch of nesting dolls and try to rearrange yourself into something presentable. You frown and let out a frustrated sigh. You stopped caring how people saw you not too long ago, but for some reason you can’t help but feel insecure. You look like shit.

“Is everything all right there?” Your grandfather calls out.

“Yeah, yeah! I’m coming!” It’s far too hot, but you grab a sweater off the back of the couch anyway before grabbing the hearing aids and pushing your way back through the swinging door.

A dark wooden cross is pinned above the doorway. It’s been there as long as you can remember. When you were a kid, depictions of Jesus and God felt ominous and foreboding. Not even a cross as big as a skyscraper could strike fear in your heart today. You wonder if you’d burn walking into a chapel today.

What is a man like that doing out here? He certainly wasn’t raised here, you’ve no doubt from the absence of any accent. His words are clear as glass. You’d never heard of him before, and by god you know you wouldn’t have forgotten him. You remember hearing about how your grandmother had to drive hours out just to see her primary care physician years ago. So, when did he arrive?

Walking back into the room, you almost feel nauseous at the sight in front of you. Michael sits across from your grandfather at the small square kitchen table. He’s reading your grandfather’s blood sugar log with a close eye, and on the bridge of his nose, oh my god now you’re staring at his nose, lays a pair of thin, wire-framed glasses.

Fuck.

Looking up at your approach, he meets your eye and gives you a small smile. Those crows feet appear once again.

Oh, fuck.

You feel your face heat, and the pit in your stomach grows.

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