at-this-point-i-dont-even-know

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

I didn't see bobby nash in that coffin... Bitch ain't dead

#delulu

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Lean on me is so.. fucking BRILLIANT

When robby was dragging reader to the staff only zone for what I bet is an Angsty Talk ™️

This is me

SO GOOD RAAAAAHHH

HAHAHA

This is amazing! I hope you enjoy the angst that is to come :)

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Lean On Me (Part 5/7)

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinavitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

A conversation that needs to be had, is had....

Warnings: casual drinking, work in a strip club, general lack of clothing in the workplace slow burn

(I know nothing about working in a strip club, so this is all based off media representations, sorry for any mistakes)

part four / part six

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee, @hagarsays, @4ishere, @omgbrianab, antisocialfiore, eugene-emt-roe

“Michael what the fuck!” you hiss, ripping your arm from his grasp as soon as the door slammed shut.

You clock your colleague Holly marching towards you, with a baseball bat raised high.

“It's okay! He’s my-”

“Boyfriend?”

“Friend!” 

Holly puts the bat down and smiles at Michael, who's still glaring at you. He runs his hands through his hair, and his breathing is heavy. You know whatever conversation that was about to happen could not happen in the change rooms. 

“Holly, can you watch my section for a minute,” you say a lot calmer than you feel, “I’m going to take Dog and him,” pointing at Michael, “outside for some air.”

Holly agrees because of course she does. You two have been at this club for years together, she was a single mum of two, who's been caught dancing by many ex-boyfriends, she knew what conversation was about to be had. 

Not that Michael is your boyfriend.

Dog is sitting patiently under one of the makeup desks, her tail wagging as she watches you pick up her lead.

“You bring your dog to this place.”

It's the first words Michael has said all evening and you turn to him, all fake smiles gone.

“Of course I do! I work 10 hour shifts some days, I can’t leave a dog in Frank's apartment for half the day!”

Michael says nothing, but ever the gentleman, he holds open the backroom door for you as you and Dog wander into the alley way.

The back alley behind the bar is as safe as any place can be in Pittsburgh after dark, it has two large gates on either end and only staff at the club know the combinations to the locks. It was where you have spent a lot of time either chain smoking when you were young, or internally screaming as you got older. 

You let Dog off the lead, who trots off to do her business and turn to look at Michael, who was looking around the alley, his brows raised. You could still feel the anger coming off him.

“So?” you start, crossing your arms until you realise all that's done is press your tits up and make them even more obvious to the red faced doctor.

“You’re a stripper.”

“Waitress technically- I lost my spot on the stage when I went to Europe.”

“Why?”

“Why did I lose my spot or why am I here?”

He rolled his eyes, “Why are you here?”

“Oh I just love getting my breasts out for random strangers.” the sarcasm drips from your mouth, you can’t help it.

“Sweethea-”

“No Sweetheart! No! You can’t just walk into a stripclub, then get mad when a woman has her tits out!” 

“I didn’t want to come to a strip club.” he said weakly, his own argument falling flat.

“Oh your old mate Jack just pulled you in here under protest?”

“Well-”

“What are you really mad about, Dr Robinavitch?” he flinches at the formal name and you can’t help but smirk.

“Why are you here?”

“Money.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, I make more here in one night than I would in a week somewhere else. It's good, fast money!”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to make fast money?”

The question has you laughing, maybe not with humour but with amusement. Dog wanders off as you drop her lead to gather yourself.

“Why? Why do I need money? Oh I don’t know, maybe because my big brother is in rehab? Or because my parents are in a facility that has exorbitant bills their pension doesn’t cover? Rent? Vet bills? I’ve maxed out four credit cards since I have gotten back, so those need to be paid off as well? How else should I make my money, Dr Robinavitch?”

He’s silent, and the rage has simmered behind his eyes but his hands flexed between open and fists as if trying to ground himself.

“What about your degree?” he said, each word a challenge.

“What degree?” you huff, “I dropped out of school at fifteen.” 

The rage rose again as he took in your words.

“What?”

You move to lean against the wall of the club, it was cool (and a little gross) against your exposed skin.

“My dads a high functioning alcoholic and my mum- my mum is a self centred bitch who only cares about two things, my dad and Frank.I was an unhappy accident.” You close your eyes, you haven’t admitted any of this to anyone, ever, “Dad lost his job when I was fourteen, Frank was fifteen, and the bills started the pile up. Sacrifices had to be made, and that included my dance classes which I was mad about but I was told by my mother, young ladies do not complain. Then dad got a new job and it was okay for a few months but he hurt himself and ended up on workers comp. Then the bills piled up again and mum sat me down and told me that I needed to pull my weight around the house.”

“What about Frank?”

“Frank was top of his class in everything, he was on the football team and looking at a scholarship to any college he wanted. I was not doing so well in any of my classes, which got worse when I started working at the local diner every night. We chatted about it but he didn’t want to drop out of school so it was decided, I would.”

“That's not fair.” Michael said and when you opened your eyes he was in front of you, his hands on your face, tilting your head up so you could look him in the eye.

“You shouldn’t have been saddled with that.” 

You lean into his touch, and feel his breath on your face. It would take only a moment to breach the distance between you. You could almost taste him on your lips as you look him in his eyes.

The anger is still there, seething behind the golden brown colour but you can see something else there as he looks from your eyes to your lips. 

You need to break the moment before you kiss him in the alley.

It was a cliché to kiss someone outside of the club in this alley, plus your boss had cameras rigged out here 'for your safety'.

“But I was. I left school and started odd jobs, waitressing, working at a grocery store, I was even a cleaner at your hospital for a few months. But nothing was covering all the house repayments, Frank's textbooks or my mum's spending habits.”

Michael was now shaking his head, his thumb gently grazing your cheek.

“I know Frank, he’s an ass but he wouldn’t have let you pay for everything.”

“My folks didn’t tell him everything, and I didn’t want him to know. He couldn’t be distracted, he had a plan and a path and it was my job to keep him on it.” You didn’t sound bitter, the words could have been bitter. Others might have thought you would be bitter, but you weren’t, not at Frank. 

He had always been the kid who was going to make it.

You were just the little sister that was going to help him get there.

“I got a job here just before my sixteenth birthday, started as a dish-bitch, worked my way up to dancing by the time I was seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

The grip on your cheek is tighter, as you watch him school his emotions, he got a little crease between his brows that looks like a ‘v’ as you watch him swallow a further remark.

“Yep- I had a fake ID in case the cops ever came in but they never did, at least not to raid us.” you joke but the brow on Michaels brow just got deeper, “No one cared really, I had boobs, and ass and was willing to work every night. So I did, I paid off my parents house, I covered Frank's textbooks, the excess of his college living costs and got him the best birthday and christmas presents. They never asked where the money came from, maybe they never cared enough to, I think Frank might have an idea but he never brought it up.”

Michael pulls away slightly, still in your personal bubble but no longer touching you. You try not to verbalise a whine as you try to lean back into his touch.

“You made enough to pay off your parents house.” A statement not a question.

You could tell Michael was processing, his hands were now in his pockets and his entire body language had changed, he stood taller, ridged as he blinked slowly. He walked away from you, suddenly on the other side of the alley.

“Michael?”

“You paid off your parents' house, and Frank's bills, just by dancing?” There was something under those words, an accusation you couldn’t quite place. Somehow during your confession he had picked up something that he couldn’t get through.

“Yes.” Your voice was small, and you realised your hands were shaking. You had just poured your whole truth out to this man and while you hadn’t expected open arms, his response had you thrown.

“You managed to pay off your parents' house, just by dancing on that stage?”

There it was, the judgement and the disgust. 

Michael was an understanding Doctor, a person who would advocate for those less fortunate.

But all people have their own hang ups, the thing they would never be able to look past.

And you just found his.

“Stripping is not prostitution.” You say through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t say that-”

“You didn’t have to! I heard it in your voice!”

“I didn’t-”

You want to cry, the tears are there but you won’t cry in front of him, how had you gone from flirting over pancakes to being judged in a back alley.

“We are done here, have a lovely rest of your evening, Dr Robinavitch.”

You push past time, snapping for Dog to follow you. She does, stopping only for a moment to sniff Michaels pant leg before trotting back inside, excited to see who was backstage and ready to give her cuddles.

“Why did you come back to it?” 

You look behind you, “What?”

“When you came home, why did you come back here?”

You sigh and just shake your head.

“Because Frank needed me.” You admit before closing the door and returning to your shift.

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Michael’s table of friends are still there when you come back, your fake smile plastered wide on your face.

You couldn’t wait until the club closed and you could go home and cry into your pillow.

But there were still four hours left.

Michael returned to the table a few moments after you, but left almost immediately, making his excuses to the bachelor and Jack. You stayed well away until you saw Michael leave, letting Holly and Joe fill any drink orders.

Jack's eyes stay fixed on you for moments after Michael has gone, tracking your every movement.

You smiled back at him, daring him to say anything. You could do with a fight tonight you thought to yourself as you passed out wings, and whiskey glasses to another table that had come in. 

But he’s gone after you pick yourself up off a table, belly button still wet from a body shot.

You look around for him or any of Michaels friends as you tuck the $100 bill into your purse, but the table was empty, bar their finished glasses and a tip.

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The liquor was flowing at almost every table by the time 2am rolled by, and Holly had just taken her place on stage. You wanted to laugh as she sent you a wink and a kiss mid-dip.

Joe is still behind the bar but he stops what he's doing as you shuffle up, exhaustion and sticky heels wearing you down.

“You okay?”

You laugh and give him a gentle push, “I think that's the third time you’ve asked me that tonight.”

He shrugs and pushes you back, “You spend half your life looking after everyone else. Someones gotta check in.”

After the conversation with Michael and the rollercoaster the last few weeks have been you can’t help but hug the older man. Pulling him in and clinging to him as you whisper your thanks. You had known Joe since you were fifteen, he had stood behind you for your first week, snapping the fingers of anyone who tried to touch you while you washed dishes in the ugliest frumpiest clothes he could talk the boss into letting you wear. 

“I think the crush is over before it even began.” You admitted as you pulled away, grabbing shot glasses for the table closest to the stage. They wanted to do tequila shots with Holly, so you poured four tequila shots for the guests and one shot of water in a ‘special’ sparkly glass for Holly. It wasn’t against the rules to drink during a shift, when someone wants to buy you a drink, but you knew Holly had an early school run the next morning and the last thing she needed was a hangover.

The shift goes on, and you go through the motions. Pouring drinks, folding your tips into your little purse and every so often taking money for a dance.

It was like you somehow ended up on autopilot, just doing everything with a smile on your face and a bounce in your step as your mind continues to just replay your conversation with Michael again and again.

“You managed to pay off your parents' house, just by dancing on that stage?”

He had asked the question again and again, and maybe it was your own insecurity but each time felt heavier and heavier. 

You had paid off your parents' house by dancing on a stage.

You had gotten your brother through college by dancing on a stage.

And you would get him through rehab with lap dances and body shots.

And you were not less than him for doing so.

The bar lights came on as the clock turned to 4am. You hadn’t even noticed the hours pass by, but as one last patron tried to grab your ass you waved goodbye to the stragglers and let out a sigh of relief.

Your feet hurt, and you just need your bed. 

Joe’s changed the music to a remix of ABBA’s greatest hits and you take a moment to remove your heels, enjoying the feel of the trainers you keep in your bag.

You're half way through putting chairs on tables when the front door slams open.

You turn ready to tell whoever was there to go home to their wife when your voice fails you.

“Can we talk?”

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Last Week Tonight With John Oliver, 11x14

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Lean On Me (Part 4/7)

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinavitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

Things heat up over breakfast but it takes a turn for the worst during your shift.

Warnings: casual drinking, mentions of work in a strip club, general lack of clothing in the workplace slow burn

(I know nothing about working in a strip club, so this is all based off media representations, sorry for any mistakes)

Part three / part five

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee, @hagarsays, @4ishere, @omgbrianab

“I have two days off.” Michael announced as you both settled into your booth, the waitress already there filling your mugs with coffee. She didn’t even need to ask for your orders, you and Michael had been coming here every day for over two weeks now, and every day it was two cups of coffee and a large stack of pancakes to share.

You didn’t even really love pancakes, not enough to eat them every day but somehow it had become you and Michaels thing. Two coffees, six pancakes and two forks. With the last bite shared between you both. 

It was sweet, domestic, and really fucking weird, if you admitted it to yourself.

Somehow in such a short amount of time, Michael had become your closest friend and confidant. 

“I’m jealous, what is on the agenda?”

“Sleep, grocery shop and clean my place. I don’t remember the last time I gave it more than a quick hoover.”

“Oh now I really am jealous!”

Michael laughed and dug into the pancakes, a peaceful silence falling between you both as you sipped your overly sweetened coffee. Your crush on the doctor hadn’t calmed down as the days went on and you got to know him better. Instead it was getting worse with every passing moment between the two of you. 

Some days you can’t stop yourself staring into his big brown eyes, with their crinkled crows feets and soft eyelashes. His hair, receding with age, but full and salted with greys at the temple that he didn’t hide with dye or a cut, made him just look more distinguished. But the way when flustered he ran his long fingers through his hair, it was enough to make you squeeze your thighs together each time, and for you to hold yourself back from running your own fingers through the hair.

Not to mention the spark you get with every accidental touch, from a slight tap on your lower back as you enter the diner, fingers grazing together as he passes you a fork or the sugar bowl. Everytime it feels like he hesitates, holding on for just a millisecond longer than he should.

Or maybe you're emotionally wrung out and it's been a while since anyone has shown you even a little bit of affection and you don’t know how to deal with kindness.

“I also have a bachelor party tonight.”

“You do not sound that excited.”

“It's for a colleague, Dr Shen, and I’m not really sure what has been planned and the planner of the event scares me a little.”

You laugh and can’t help but love as a little tinge of pink colours his cheeks, Michael Robinavitch blushing is going to be a core memory.

“Who's planning it?”

“Jack.”

“Isn’t he like your best friend or something?”

“Which is why I know to be scared, it could either be whiskeys and steak at a fancy dinner or strippers at a seedy club and no food in sight.”

A seedy club your voice gets stuck in your throat and you can’t hear anything else he’s saying. There are over fifty strip clubs in Pittsburgh city centre and they range from fancy to seedy with yours falling somewhere just above the middle. There was no way in all of Pittsburgh strip clubs he would end up at yours.

You were not that unlucky.

“What one are you hoping for?”

“Whiskey, steaks and in bed by eleven?” he said hopefully, “because I think I'm too old for strip clubs.”

You laugh and pull the pancakes away from him and grab a mouthful, smiling as the syrup coats your lips. You may or may not have taken a little longer to lick the sweet sugar from your bottom lip.

“You’re not that old,” you croon a little, your voice dropping an octave, and you scream at yourself WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Michael stared at you through hooded lids, suddenly finding the table incredibly fascinating.

“I’m old enough to be your father.” he practically whispered.

“But you’re not.” you say, the air suddenly thick between you both, “And-” you swallow trying to find the right words, “Maybe I need someone more mature, wise-”

“Sweetheart-” he purrs, interrupting your nervous and desperate ranting. How did a conversation about whiskey and steaks get this in two sentences, you can’t keep a grin off your lips and your coffee and pancakes long forgotten as you slide your hands innocently across the worn vinyl table.

“Doctor Robinavitch.” You drag out each syllable, and you watch as he tries to catch himself, his own fingers now edging towards yours. Fingertips touching, slowly and carefully. 

“Fuck-” You whisper as he leans further in. You can’t breathe and you can’t speak as you both now sat at the edge of your respective seats, hands clasped over the table and then suddenly you felt it, his foot breaching under the table and just touching yours.  

It's so PC, so high school, and yet the touch was enough to almost send you over the line.

“More coffee?” The old sour faced waitress asked, breaking the tension. 

You both jump in your seats, hands now pulled back in laps, feet securely under your own chairs.

“No thank you.” you both mutter, unable to look at her. 

You both quickly make excuses to leave, he mumbles something about grocery shopping and you respond saying you had to go home and walk Dog.

Normally your breakfasts end with a hug and a reminder to see the other person the next day, but after whatever had just happened inside that diner you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but give an awkward wave and rush towards the bus stop.

You could still feel the touch of him on your hands as you tried to rub the feeling away but it lingered long after the bus lurched away from the stop.

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You can’t get Michael Robinavitch out of your head as the night passes and you are stuck working the floor.

Everytime you get a moment to yourself, your mind wanders to his touch, the way his foot grazed yours under the table, the purr in his voice as he says ‘Sweetheart’. It pulls you in, distracting you as you handle another evening being ogled and objectified. 

Your heels stuck to the vinyl, and someone had turned the heating up to an uncomfortable level causing your body glitter to run slightly as you rushed from table to table.

It was a Wednesday night and back in the day that had meant a slow and easy night but your creep of a boss had decided that Wednesday nights was now ‘Wings Night’, where as long as you kept buying drinks, and dances, you got a free bucket of wings.

So you walked, swaying slightly to the music, from one end of the club to another, off loading beers, whiskeys and internalising every cringe as slightly greasy fingers tipped you.

“Another one here sweetheart.” bellowed a patron, whose eyes never lifted higher than your chest, his fingers slick with the sauce of a chicken wing sliding instead of snapping for your attention.

You almost roll your eyes at the nickname, from Michaels lips it could bring you to your knees, from this pathetic man it took everything not to knee him in his unmentionables.

You knew that it was part of the job, along with the tiny pleated skirt and black bra that covered nothing but your nipples, but after over ten years of the same job you did start to think that maybe you had been someone awful in a past life.

You gather the tables empty glasses and confirm they wish for another round of the same. 

More lewd comments are thrown your way and you smile in return, big and broad like you had learnt when you started.

“Another round for table seven please Joe!” you call to the bartender, Joe was an older guy who was a bartender slash bouncer and the loveliest man you had ever known. In his late fifties he had seen and done it all, and was always more than happy to dole out advice or protect the girls on and off the stage.

“You doing okay?” 

“Always!”

“Liar!” you both laugh and turn as another group of men wander into the dark club. You shrug your shoulders back and plaster a smile on your face and take a step.

Then stop.

Amongst the seven or so men stood one slightly taller than the rest, with his hands in his pocket and stunning brown eyes that seemed to glow against the glistering stage lights.

Michael.

In your club.

Your tray clangs to the floor as you lose all decorum, rushing behind the bar and ducking. 

You can’t breathe.

What is he doing here?

“You doing okay?” Joe asked, not moving from his spot, tea towel in hand as he wiped a glass. 

“Please tell me that group didn’t just walk into my section?” You prayed, there were only three of you on the floor tonight. Half the girls who had been rostered on called in sick, most likely because they didn’t want to spend half of the next morning washing wing sauce off their uniform.

“Want me to lie?”

“Fuck!” you hiss and close your eyes.

You seriously must have been a truly horrible person in your former life.

“Is there a problem?” Suddenly Joe was before you, squatting down as his knees creaked.

You laugh dryly and take ten deep breaths, each one causing Joe to frown further.

“The tall one is my brother's boss.”

“That’s awkward but-”

“Who I had the most sexually charged breakfast with this morning, and if the waitress hadn’t come over, I probably would have mounted him on top of our pancakes.”

Joe's frown disappeared and his brows shot up, “Well that's a pickle but-”

“He also thinks I work at an office supply store.”

“This is not an office supply store.”

“Oh really?” you cringe up at him but he's just smiling.

“Everyone deals with this at one point or another. At least he’s just a crush and not your husband.”

He holds up his hand and forces you to your feet. There is no good option here, you could either stay behind the bar for a moment longer, and have your creep boss find you and berate you for wasting time in front of every patron in the club, or you go out there with your head held high and take their drinks orders.

Michael looked awkward at the glance you had seen so maybe he will be too busy looking at the floor or making excuses to leave to notice you.

Wishful thinking or delusional, you can't decide which as you straighten your skirt, holster up your bra and give Joe a kiss on the cheek.

You got this you mutter as you place table sevens drinks on your tray.

You let Michael and his group settle at a table close to the stage, most of them immediately distracted by Cherry dancing to an 80s classic, her lycra outfit reminiscent of a time most of the table would have been in high school or college.

You cringe a little, it's a subtle reminder of the age gap you had been trying to ignore. You hadn’t even been born until the 90s, your parents hadn’t even known each other in the 80s! 

Distracted you place drinks in front of the wrong men, each one swapping and changing, laughing at you as you just smile through the fumble.

“Sorry guys!” You say as more notes are slipped under the waistband of your skirt. 

You take just a moment to remove the notes, placing them in the pouch you kept inside your bra, nestled in the flimsy fabric was almost four hundred dollars of slightly sticky notes. 

Your club was good enough that it was discouraged to tip in ones or twos, instead the minimum tip is ‘suggested’ to be tens or higher and with the slightly nicer atmosphere and ‘classy’ dancing, this meant it was mostly adhered to. 

Someone at Michaels table waves you down, he has a kind face, older like Michael with salt and pepper curls cut short. Military, you clock almost immediately. They are easy to recognise in places like this, you can’t put into words why but they are.

It’s Jack Abbot you guess, knowing him only from your brother and Michaels stories.

It takes only ten steps to get from table seven to their table, you lean over a spare chair at their table, smiling as the men, predictably, look south before looking at your face. You don't look at Michael purposely smiling only at Dr Abbot and the man that must be the Bachelor. 

He looked wrecked, his shirt half open and his eyes just a little glazed over. 

“I think some water for you.” you purr, some people have a retail voice or their corporate voice, you had what could only be described as a ‘slutty’ voice.

The bachelor nodded, unable to look at anything in particular. Everyone else at the table was doing okay, a few reddened cheeks but everyone was pretty much sober.

“I’ll bring over some wings, and maybe chips, let's put something in your stomach.” You say before turning to Jack, “And for the table?”

Jack smiles, looking you in your eyes, which is a rarity in your line of work, “What whiskeys do you have?”

You laugh, gently swatting him on the shoulder, “You’re in a strip club honey, we got a bottle with the word Whiskey on it and that's about it.”

“Fancy stuff?”

“It will do the job.” Both of you laugh and you lift your head up.

Suddenly your stomach is in your throat. Brown eyes meet yours and they are alight with something you can’t quite describe.

Michael is staring at you, his hands white knuckling the table as he ignores any and all attempts of his friends trying to talk to him. The air that had been sickly warm was now freezing, you look away quickly, unable to catch his eye.

“I’ll be right back with your wings and whiskey!” you chirp, your work voice long gone as you try to shrink away.

Of course he would look up at you, you had to be an idiot to think he wouldn’t look up when a waitress spoke with him, no matter the location.

You can’t get away fast enough as your heels stick to the floor.

You could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, burning a hole into your back.

“I think Dr Bossman wants to eat you.” Joe says as he gathers the glasses and Whiskey, “He hasn’t blinked since you walked up.”

You throw a cautionary look behind you, everyone at the table was chatting amongst themselves, except for Michael who was just staring straight at you.

You try to give him an encouraging smile but it falters as he stands up, his chair creaking and his friends looking at him with confusion.

You rush to tell Joe the table's order, your voice getting lost as you continue to look back at Michael whose face has now gone a particular shade of red.

It was Jack who noticed the looks between the two of you. He looks from you back to Michael and then back to you, like he was watching a game of tennis before he is laughing to himself. 

It takes Michael no time to move around his table and to get to you. Before you can even greet him with any kind of sound other than a squeak, his hand is tight around your forearm and he's pulling you towards the door marked ‘Staff- No Entry’.

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

It's never over

parings. jack abbot x reader

summary. after a fight with jack, you spend the rest of your night clubbing with some friends. unfortunately that choice lands you into your partners er.

warnings. implied age gap (jack late 40s, reader late 20s/early 30s), established relationship, jack and reader fight, reader gets drugged and creeped on, hospital setting, medical emergencies, reader is okay tho, accurate as possible medical talk, soft!jack eventually, angst and hurt/comfort, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I can't believe this is my longest fic and I don't like it 😭 I do love them though, and I love the angst, I just think this wasn't my strongest so we'll see how I feel when I get some more of yall's opinions. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were just finishing your makeup when you heard the shower turn off.

It was a quiet kind of hope that filled your chest—small and delicate, but real. It had been weeks since the two of you had a night off together. Back-to-back night shifts, emergency call-ins, 4 a.m. arguments whispered in the dark… it had all blurred into something numb. Something too heavy.

But tonight?

Tonight was supposed to be the reset button.

You stepped out of the bathroom, smoothing your dress down with your hands, a nervous flutter in your stomach. Something soft played from the speaker on your nightstand. The perfume you wore on your first date still lingered in the air.

Then you saw it.

Black scrubs. His badge clipped to the collar. Go-bag on the floor.

You froze.

Jack stepped into the room, towel around his shoulders, running a hand through damp curls. He paused the second he saw your face.

“Babe—”

“No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please don’t say it, you didn’t…”

He glanced at the scrubs like he wished they’d disappear. “Shen called when you were in the shower. They’re short. Real short. Two nurses out and a doctor is MIA—he’s drowning.”

You blinked. “And you said yes.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “He sounded desperate. I figured you’d—”

“You figured I’d be fine,” you cut in, hurt creeping into your voice. “Because it’s always me who has to make the compromise.”

“It’s one shift,” he said, already tugging on his top.

“It’s never just one,” you snapped, then caught yourself, hands tightening at your sides. “I got off three hours ago, Jack. I’ve been dragging myself through twelve-hour nights, sometimes more just like you. And the one time we both actually had a night off…”

He looked away. “This isn’t about us.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, your voice cracking. “Because it feels like it is.”

Silence pressed in between you.

“I get it,” you added. “I know what it’s like when the unit’s falling apart. I know what it’s like to be needed, to be the one that says yes every time. But God, Jack… when do I get to be your emergency?”

He stiffened.

“You think I want to do this?” he snapped suddenly. “You think I don’t feel it too? That I don’t want to just stay here, take you to dinner, act like our lives aren’t chaos 24/7?”

“Then why don't you?” you said, voice breaking. “Why is it always someone else who gets the best of you?”

He looked at you then, eyes tired, voice bitter. “Because they need me. You wouldn’t get it.”

Your heart stopped.

“What did you just say to me?”

He hesitated—too long. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No. Say it again,” you said, stepping back. “Say I don’t get it, Jack.”

Jack sighed, frustrated. “You know what I mean. You’re not—”

“Not what?” you snapped. “Not enough? Not capable of understanding? I work the same damn shifts as you do. I patch up the same wounds, hold the same dying hands—don’t you dare act like I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, but it was already too late.

You grabbed your bag, throat thick with hurt. “You want to play doctor, Jack? Fine. Go save Pittsburgh. But don’t expect me to sit here and wait again for whatever’s left of you after.”

He moved toward you, but you stepped around him, heart pounding in your chest.

“I gave you tonight,” you whispered at the door. “And you gave it away.”

And then you left—heels in your hand, dress still clinging to hope, the soft click of the door the only sound between you.

Things didn’t get much better after you left. 

The music thumped in your chest, the bass vibrating through the soles of your feet. It was loud. Too loud. But that was the point, right?

After the fight, after the disappointment and the sting of Jack’s words, you just needed something different. Something that would make you forget for a little while. So, when Marina and Kat suggested hitting the club, you agreed. You’d always enjoyed the energy, the people, the feeling of being free, even if just for a night.

So now you found yourself in a packed, dark club with flashing lights and bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor. You didn’t know exactly why you were here, but the thought of being home alone, stewing in anger and confusion, was too much to handle.

The girls were already lost in the crowd, their laughter cutting through the music as they grabbed drinks from the bar. You followed, trying to shake off the ache in your chest, the one that kept whispering that Jack should’ve been out with you, not  at work.

“Another round?” Kat asked, leaning close enough for you to hear over the beat.

You nodded, your eyes scanning the bar area, the chaos of the club almost soothing in its madness. The atmosphere was a welcome distraction, even though it wasn’t the night you’d planned. You hadn’t expected to feel so… hollow. Jack’s absence was like a weight pressing against your chest, and you were trying to ignore it. Trying to not think about how your plans had been shattered, how this whole night had been supposed to be different.

You made your way toward the bar, needing a moment of quiet, a break from the noise, when a guy approached. He was dressed in a tight shirt that seemed to shimmer under the club lights, his hair perfectly styled. He smiled at you, one that was too eager, almost practiced.

“Hey, I couldn’t help but notice you,” he said, leaning in just a bit too close. “I’m Alex. And you—wow. You look incredible.”

You forced a smile, taking a step back instinctively. “Thanks,” you said, trying to keep the interaction polite, your voice still a little stiff. “I’m just here with some friends.”

His smile didn’t falter. “I can tell, I just had to come over. I mean, with a woman like you, how could I not?”

You glanced around, hoping to spot either Marina or Kat, but the crowd was thick and you were feeling boxed in. “I’m not really looking for company,” you said, hoping that would be enough.

He didn’t take the hint. Instead, his hand moved closer to your arm, brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder.

“You sure? I’m just trying to have a good time, and you seem like you’re someone who knows how to enjoy herself,” he said, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. A chill ran down your spine. You weren’t sure if it was the way he said it or just how off his energy felt, but it made your stomach turn.

“I said no, thank you,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your words barely made it through the noise of the music.

He didn’t back off, though. His dark eyes raked over you like he was trying to figure you out, like you were some new prize to be won. “Come on, what’s the harm in just one drink? One dance?” He stepped in closer, his breath warm on your neck.

You shook your head, feeling the walls close in. Your palms were starting to get clammy, the tightness in your chest spreading. “I’m not interested,” you repeated, your voice sharper this time, but his grip on your arm tightened, just a little.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, his fingers brushing the strap of your dress. “You know you want to have some fun.”

That was it. The polite smile you’d been forcing finally slipped away. You wrenched your arm free from his grip, your voice loud and clear now.

“I said no,” you snapped, the force of your words cutting through the loud music.

His eyes flashed, surprised at your sudden change in tone, but then he just scoffed. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered, his expression turning into a sneer. “Guess I misread you.”

You didn’t even wait for him to finish walking away. You turned sharply, heart pounding in your chest, as you made your way back toward the dance floor. The excitement of the club had completely evaporated, replaced with the taste of bitterness and frustration.

You made your way back toward the dance floor, heart still racing, the heat of the club suddenly feeling suffocating. The beat of the music had lost its pull on you, replaced by the sting of unwanted attention and the frustration of a night gone wrong. You barely noticed the way the crowd shifted, how people pressed against you as you walked through them, each of them just another stranger in your path. You tried to shake the unease away, but it lingered like a shadow.

Marina and Kat, the only two familiar faces in this chaotic scene, were still at the bar, but you couldn’t muster the energy to go back to them just yet. You needed a moment alone, even if that meant getting lost in the crowd. You found a quiet corner at the edge of the room, trying to collect your thoughts, breathing in the air that smelled of alcohol and sweat, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest.

The drink you’d had earlier—a rum and coke—was still sitting in your hand. You’d been nursing it for most of the night, the ice now long melted, the liquid a watered-down version of what it had been when you first grabbed it at the bar. It wasn’t your favorite, but you didn’t mind. You hadn’t been focused on the drink anyway, just trying to keep the edges of your frustration from seeping through.

But now, as you took another sip, something felt off. Your stomach tightened, but not in the way it usually did after too much alcohol. It was deeper, almost hollow, like there was something foreign inside you. You set the drink down on the nearest table, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

Your vision started to blur, the flashing lights of the club becoming a chaotic swirl of neon. The music, once a vibrant pulse beneath your skin, now felt distant—like you were hearing it from underwater. The pressure in your head built an oppressive weight that made it hard to think clearly. You stumbled slightly, your legs growing heavy, and it took all your effort just to stay standing.

You glanced around for your friends, but the crowd had thickened, and the girls were nowhere to be seen. Panic crept up your spine. You needed them. You needed someone to help. But the room felt like it was spinning now, faster and faster, and your body wasn’t cooperating with you anymore.

"Hey, are you okay?" A voice cut through the fog in your mind, but you couldn’t place where it came from. You tried to focus, to find the person speaking, but your vision darkened again, everything going black at the edges.

You blinked, trying to fight off the overwhelming dizziness, but it was useless. The world around you tilted, and the last thing you remembered was sinking to your knees, the floor rushing up to meet you.

The ER was chaotic as always.

Monitors beeped in staccato rhythms, stretchers lined the halls, and the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Jack hadn’t stopped moving since he walked in, not even long enough to get a proper cup of coffee. His scrubs still clung to his damp skin from the rushed post-shower change, and his muscles ached from tension he hadn’t had time to notice until now.

A code had just cleared. He stood in the corner of north three, charting with one hand, the other gripping a barely-sipped paper cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The flicker of a headache gnawed behind his eyes.

He shouldn’t be here.

His mind kept drifting—back to the house, to the way you looked in that dress, to the way your voice cracked when you said “when do I get to be your emergency?”

 God, that had hit harder than he’d let on.

And then he’d said the wrong thing—“You wouldn’t get it.” The words kept echoing back in his ears like a cruel joke. You did get it. Maybe more than anyone ever had.

He hadn’t checked his phone since you left. Couldn’t bring himself to. If you texted, he’d crumble. If you didn’t… Well, that was somehow worse.

“Dr. Abbot!”

Jack snapped out of it at the sound of John’s voice shouting down the hallway. He turned toward him, brows knitting together. Shen was already halfway across the ED, panting slightly, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Jack asked, already moving toward him.

“Overdose. Young woman—unknown age, female. Brought in from the strip district—some club off Penn. Unconscious on arrival, GCS dropped to six en route.”

Jack's jaw tightened. “ETA?”

“They just pulled up.”

Jack tossed his chart aside and strode toward the ambulance bay without another word, adrenaline already kicking in.

Shen jogged beside him. “Paramedics think her drink was spiked—GHB, maybe? Said she started seizing before they got her out of the club. Friends couldn’t find her at first—she was alone when they found her on the floor.”

Something twisted in Jack’s gut. He didn’t know why. Just a flicker of unease, a sick chill climbing up his spine.

The ambulance bay doors opened with a mechanical hiss. The flashing red lights reflected off the glass like warning signals in his head.

He stepped outside, heart thudding.

And then he saw her.

Or You.

Unconscious. Oxygen mask strapped to your still pretty face. IVs in both arms. Your dress—the dress you had bought—bunched awkwardly around your hips. One heel missing. A smudge of mascara on your cheek like a cruel reminder of what tonight was supposed to be.

The paramedic was shouting something, but Jack didn’t hear it. His vision tunneled. His world narrowed to just you—still, and small on the gurney.

“No,” Jack whispered, stepping forward, his breath catching in his throat. “No, no, no—”

He pushed through the medic, grabbing onto the rail of the stretcher.

“What happened?” he barked. His voice was hoarse, shaking.

“GHB suspected. Found alone. Low responsiveness. HR is unstable. She’s seizing on and off—”

Jack was already moving, wheeling you into trauma bay one. “Get Narcan ready just in case. Push fluids. Get me labs, tox screen, full workup. Page neuro for consult—now.”

He didn’t even care that his voice cracked. Didn’t care that every nurse and medic in that hallway was staring at him like he’d lost it.

Because he had.

You were his emergency now, and he was terrified he might be too late.

The doors slammed open with a bang as Jack wheeled you inside, every step fueled by sheer panic and clinical precision. His hands moved on autopilot, but his mind? His mind was screaming.

“She’s hypotensive,” a nurse called. “BP’s dropping—seventy over fifty.”

“Push fluids—hang a liter of LR, now. Get a second IV. 16-gauge if you can find a vein.”

Your head lolled to the side as the team lifted you onto the bed. Jack’s breath hitched.

“Jesus, she’s burning up,” he muttered, pressing his palm to your forehead. “Get her temp.”

“102.6,” Shen called.

“Possible serotonin syndrome or stimulant combo,” Jack said quickly. “Start cooling measures. Ice packs under the arms. Get a foley—need accurate output.”

A nurse moved to cut the dress from your body, but Jack put his hand out. “Don’t—” His voice cracked again. He paused, swallowed, forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Let me.”

No one argued. Everyone knew—this wasn’t just another patient, you were one of them, you were jack’s. His slightly trembling hands carefully unzipped the side of your dress, easing it off your shoulders and down. He fought to keep his face unreadable, but his throat felt raw, his stomach twisting into knots. The scent of your perfume—the one you wore on your first date—still lingered faintly in the air.

“Vitals?” he barked, refocusing as nurses applied leads to your chest.

“HR 122. O2’s eighty-nine but climbing. BP’s coming up a little.”

Jack leaned over you, brushing damp hair from your forehead. Your lashes fluttered, just barely. A flicker of awareness behind your lids.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered, not caring who heard. “Stay with me. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

You stirred faintly, a tiny groan slipping past your lips.

“Hey, hey—it’s me,” he said, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek. “You’re in the ER. You’re safe now, alright? I got you.”

Your eyes opened a crack, glassy and unfocused. You blinked slowly, clearly struggling to process. And then—

“J…Jack?” you croaked, barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, choking on relief.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said quickly, squeezing your hand. “I’m right here. You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

You blinked again, trying to sit up, but your body betrayed you. “What… happened?”

“You were drugged,” Jack said gently. “Spiked drink. Club downtown. Do you remember anything?”

You shook your head faintly, then winced as pain rolled through you. “I—he—there was this guy… he wouldn’t leave me alone…”

Jack’s jaw tightened. Fury flared behind his eyes, but he pushed it down.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, brushing some hair out of  your face. “Don’t worry about that right now. You’re here. You’re safe.”

“Y-you were supposed to be at work,” you mumbled, confusion clouding your voice.

His heart cracked clean in half.

“I am. But they brought you in,” he whispered, gripping your hand tighter. “They brought you in… and everything else stopped.”

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until your hand weakly squeezed his.And for the first time that night, Jack let himself fall apart—just a little. Because you were the emergency. And nothing else mattered now.

After an hour of working on you, Jack stood at the foot of your bed, hands braced on his hips, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm. The IV pumped fluids into your system, and you were stable now—groggy but safe.

It had been the longest hour of his life..

He didn’t realize how tight his jaw had been until he stepped out of the trauma bay and let the door swing closed behind him. He needed a second. Just one.

But that’s when he saw them—Marina and Kat, hovering near the nurses' station down the hall like two ghosts.

They looked like hell. Club makeup smudged, heels in their hands, eyes wide and red-rimmed. They’d followed the ambulance but hadn’t pushed forward until now.

When Jack made eye contact with them, they froze. The hallway felt too quiet, the tension snapping taut.

He moved toward them with slow, deliberate steps. His face was unreadable—too calm to be safe.

“You two were with her.” His voice wasn’t angry, not exactly. But it carried the weight of someone barely holding it together. “So tell me what happened.”

Kat opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Marina stepped in instead, her voice small. “We didn’t know. Jack, we—we didn’t know. She just said she needed a minute and went to the bar. We were right there.”

“She was alone,” Jack said, his tone still deceptively even. “Long enough for some asshole to slip something in her drink.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Kat said, her voice cracking. “We were watching her an-and then she was gone until someone screamed. She collapsed. We thought—Jesus, we thought she just had too much to drink, but she only bought one.”

Jack closed his eyes for a beat, dragging a hand over his face.

“She didn’t,” he muttered. “Tox screen lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Probably in that one drink she barely touched.”

Marina blinked, horrified. “She said it didn’t taste right. Said it was too sweet.”

“She was trying to be safe,” Jack said, his voice tightening. “Did everything right. Still ended up in my fucking ER, barely coherent.”

Neither of them had anything to say to that. Because what could you say?

“I should’ve been with her,” Jack added quietly, more to himself than to them. “We were supposed to have tonight. And I left.”

Marina stepped forward cautiously, soft as always. “She didn’t blame you, Jack. She didn’t even say your name like she was mad. She just—she was looking for you.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Jack’s throat worked as he swallowed, glancing back at the trauma room door behind him.

“She’s sleeping now,” he said finally. “Out of the woods.”

“Can we… see her?” Kat asked gently.

Jack nodded. “Just be quiet. She might not wake up for a while.”

Marina hesitated, then touched Jack’s arm, tentative. “She loves you, you know that. Don’t let tonight be the thing that breaks you both.”

Jack didn’t answer, but something in his expression softened—just barely. The steel cracked for a second, showing the man underneath. The one who hadn’t left her side. The one who never would.

And then he stepped back toward the door, glancing once more at the monitor inside.

“Tell her I’m here,” he said. “When she wakes up…”

The soft beeping of the monitor was the first thing you heard. It was steady, rhythmic, almost comforting, but it felt like the sound was a distant echo, like you weren’t quite sure where it was coming from. Your eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, the room around you coming into focus slowly.

Your head throbbed with a dull ache, a tightness in your chest pulling at your breath. Something felt wrong—like the world had shifted just slightly, leaving you off-balance.

Then, the scent of antiseptic and faint, stale coffee mixed with the familiar one that had always been home to you: Jack.

Your eyes scanned the dimly lit room. There, sitting at your side, was Jack—his back to you as he slumped in a chair, his hand resting near yours on the bed. His posture was stiff, but there was something in the way his shoulders hung, the way his breath came a little too fast, that told you he wasn’t just tired.

He was worried.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry, raw. You croaked out a faint sound, and Jack snapped to attention, immediately leaning forward. His eyes met yours, and there it was—the instant relief, mixed with guilt, storming across his features.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “Hey, look at me. You’re okay.”

You tried to say something, but your voice wouldn’t cooperate. You croaked again, your hand weakly reaching for his.

Jack’s fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. His thumb traced over the back of your hand as if to reassure both of you.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve been with you.”

You blinked, your mind sluggish as it pieced things together. You could barely remember what had happened. The night, the club, the man at the bar, the drink…The wave of nausea hit you, and you squeezed his hand harder. He immediately noticed.

“Take it easy,” he said, his free hand brushing a few stray hairs from your forehead. “You’ve been through a lot.”

It wasn’t just the physical toll—it was everything else. The confusion, the anger, the heartbreak.

“I… I didn’t…” You stopped, your throat closing up. The words didn’t come out easily, but Jack was right there, waiting patiently.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he said gently, like he could hear everything you couldn’t say. “I know. I should’ve done better. I should’ve been with you.”

You squeezed his hand again, the weight of his words and your own swirling in the space between you. The thought of him taking the blame—the one who had stayed behind, who had always put in the work—was almost too much.

And you didn’t have the strength to argue.

“You’re here,” you whispered finally, eyes barely open. “That’s all I need right now.”

Jack’s chest tightened at that, his eyes darkening as he bent closer, brushing his lips against your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “I’ll never do that to you again.”

Your heart gave a flutter at his words, and though your head was still spinning, your chest felt just a little lighter.

A quiet comfort settled between you, something unspoken but deeply understood. For all the chaos of the world outside, for all the mistakes and regrets, you knew that together, you’d get through it.

And for tonight, that was enough.

mercvry-glow 2025

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Lean On Me (Part 3/7)

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinavitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

Getting Coffee with Michael is starting to become your favorite part of the day.

Warnings: talk about rehab, drug use, casual drinking, slow burn,

Part two/ part four

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee, @hagarsays, @4ishere, @omgbrianab

You don’t really know how it happens but after your daily visit with Frank, you would exit the center and head straight to the diner where a plate of pancakes would be waiting, along with a very happy to see you doctor.

Breakfast with Dr Robinavitch, or Michael as he now asks you to call him, quickly became your favourite part of the day. 

You were both on night shifts, you at the bar after you had had to practically beg your creep of a boss for your old job back, and him at the hospital, which he grumbled about every time you asked how his night had been. Michael apparently did not love doing night shifts, telling her there are other doctors on the roster who appreciated the darkness more.

Your old job was soul destroying. After months in Europe, laying out in the sunshine and walking hours in comfy orthopedic runners, it took all your energy not to cry as you laced up ankle snapping heels under the fluorescent lights behind the bar. 

The clientele hadn’t changed in the months you had been away, some of the regulars hadn’t even noticed you were gone, instead immediately falling into their old habits of lewd comments about your weight and begging for a dance. But with every rude comment, ass grab and blistered toe you were slowly crawling out of the credit card debt hole you had fallen into.

Which was especially helpful as Frank’s therapist informed you today that the amount you had previously paid for the in-house rehabilitation program had only covered two weeks, so you had maxed out your cards again and promised to pay the remainder by the end of the week. 

Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, but seeing Michael at your booth with a coffee and breakfast waiting was enough for the worries to be pushed aside, at least for the time being.

“How’s Frank?” He always asks immediately after checking in with your own welfare, where you of course lied and said everything was a-okay.

“He’s good! He’s up and about today, less angry at the world which was great!” You dig into the pancakes, the syrup coating your lips.

“That’s really good to hear. Do you think he would want company later today?”

“Yeah, I spoke with one of his doctors and he said more visitors are encouraged.”

“Great! I’ll see him before I head to bed and pass out.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You can’t name a dog, Dog!”

“Why not! I didn’t ask for the stupid thing!”

“But you could literally name it whatever you want!”

“I want to name it Dog!”

“Spot?”

“She doesn’t have a spot.”

“Bella?”

“Ew- no!”

“Roxy?”

“She’s not a stripper written by men in a midday movie.”

“You can’t call her Dog,” Michael laughed, his eyes crinkling again and your heart literally skipped a beat. 

“What about in ‘Breakfast at Tiffanys’, she had a cat called Cat.”

 “Naming a cat, Cat, is fine! But you can’t name a dog, Dog!”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why are you covered in glitter?”

“Accident at work?”

“A glitter related accident?”

“I split a box of glitter as I put it on the shelf, and spent the rest of the night cleaning it up.” The lie was another familiar line, one you had said too many times to Frank and your parents when they had happened to notice you had come home covered in body glitter. 

“That sounds stressful.” Michael actually sounded sincere, as if your made up profession was something to stress about. As if he wasn’t an ER doctor.

“I mean I didn’t lose a patient or anything.” you quip and his face falls and his fingers tap against the chipped coffee mug. 

“I lost too many last night.” he admitted, grief and exhaustion lacing every word and your heart breaks.

“Oh Michael, I’m so sorry.” You say as your hands reach across the table to his hands. They practically swallow your hands up and you cling tight to them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“They were street kids, doing drugs…”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“She literally came right up to the window, peed and then told us to go fuck ourselves and left!”

“And that's your favourite patient?”

“Sadly, out of all our frequent flyers Myrna is the one I don’t mind seeing.”

“And she’s the one that calls you Fruitcake?”

“Yep and wants Jack- that's Dr Abbot- in a biblical way.”

“She’s said that?”

“Many, many times.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You look wrecked.”

“Thanks Doc.”

“Are you getting any sleep between work and Frank?”

You shrug and drink the coffee that's been placed before you, your body is so wrecked you don't even add creamer or sugar to the drink, you just need the caffeine to work to get you through breakfast, home to walk Dog and then a quick nap before you were back at the club for the mid afternoon shift which would then turn into the late night shift. And then back to the Rehab center for the therapy session with Frank and the cycle would continue.

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“I’m fine.” you snap, and you flinch as Michael stills, his eyes not moving from your hands that you notice are now shaking.

“When was the last time you slept for longer than six hours?”

“Never.” you try and laugh it off but Michael isn’t having it, he's moving from his side of the booth and sat beside you.

You're like a deer in headlights, he was so close you could feel the warmth of his body through your clothes. He smelt like sandalwood and smoke and you lean into the scent, letting it fill your head.

Suddenly his fingers are on your wrist, holding tight.

“Are you checking my pulse?”

“I’m checking your vitals.”

“Why?”

“Because if you go and drop dead from exhaustion I’m going to be really mad.”

“I told you I'm fine.”

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Michael!”

“Sweetheart- let me do this.” 

The fight goes out of you as your head is filled with the scent of him and the sound of him calling you Sweetheart.

“I’ll take it easy tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did you sleep last night?”

“I went home early and got about four hours.” you said happily, pouring a heaped spoon of coffee into the coffee he had just bought for you.

“That's not six hours.”

“It’s better than the one hour I got the other day.”

“For fuck-”

“Hey! Like you do better!”

He looked sheepishly away from her, his grin making you laugh.

“See I’m not as bad as you! At least if I die on the job no one would miss me!”

His smile dropped and he leaned across the table, forcing you chin up and meeting your eyes, his brows were furrowed and his mouth thin, you could almost feel the anger in his touch.

“I would miss you!” 

“Sure.” You try to shrug it off his touch but his fingers tighten on your chin.

“Sweetheart, you are my favourite part of the day.”

Sweetheart the nickname is becoming your favourite sound.

“Same, Michael, you’re my favourite part of my day.”

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Masterlist

the pitt

Dr Robby x reader - Lean on me: Part one Part two Part three Part four part five - Asks: Bringer of Donuts

Jack Abbot x reader - Don't Go Where I Can't Follow: Part one Part Two - Fourth of July

Game of Thrones

Jon Snow x Sansa Stark One Shots and requests: - Post War Reunion - I don't want to go - Umbrella - Sushi - Pirates - Siblings - Baby Shower - Gilmore Girls Series: - I am Sorry: Part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine - I should not have gone: Part one, part two

Doctor Who

Clara x The Doctor Requests: - A yellow Beetle

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

The Least Vulnerable Spot 8x16 spec fic

In which I ask the ultimate questions: under what circumstances would Tommy not attend the memorial procession for Bobby? Also, how silly can I make this?

+

Buck has never considered himself to be that guy, but when a man hands you the viral antidote he stole for you, kisses you on a rooftop backlit by the sunset while a couple of Sikorsky UH-60s hover threateningly, and whispers "Here's looking at you, kid" before ushering you through the rooftop door so you can save your family while a bunch of stone-faced Army guys advance, you tend to have an expectation or two. Like, that he'll pick up his fucking phone when you call. 

He's left so many voicemails and sent so many texts to Tommy's phone over the last four days that he's pretty sure Verizon has his account flagged, but he thinks Petrea, his account rep, would understand if he explained that his ex-but-maybe-not-ex-boyfriend flew in like a superhero and then ghosted him when Buck needed him the most. She might even dig up a Jilted Before Your Father Figure's Funeral discount for his troubles. 

It's been a week since they held the procession for Bobby, and not even Buck showing up at Tommy's house the night before and pounding on the door for an hour while shouting that he was yellow-bellied (partly true), a traitor to the 118 name (mostly true), and a lousy lay (bold-faced lie) could make the little coward show his face. 

So he's done. He is finished with Tommy Kinard and his massive amounts of baggage that would make even Briggs & Riley close up shop, and he's proving it by leaving one final voicemail that isn't influenced by his sadness over Bobby's death, the stress of the last couple of weeks, or by how much Tommy's abandonment has hurt him. He's going to be a rational adult about this. He's going to be the bigger person.

".... This is all to say that I hope you have an amazing life, Tommy," he says into his phone speaker. "I hope it's filled with love and support, and it's meaningful and fulfills your soul. And I hope you fall in love with a beautiful, kind man who treats you right, and I hope you get married and stay together for fifty blissful years, and then I hope you wake up from the coma to realize it was all a dream and you're all alone, because apparently that's what you really want! And I know you were quoting a movie on the rooftop, and you know what? I'm not going to even look up which movie it was! Look at me, kid, or whatever it was you said!"

Buck misses the days when he could snap his phone shut to hang up, because stabbing end call twenty times until his finger actually taps the button just doesn't give him the same kind of satisfaction. 

Panting for a moment, he pushes all his anger and pain into a little lockbox in the back of his mind, shuts the lid, and takes a breath. Then he pockets his phone and looks up to find everyone in the station frozen, staring at him like he just performed a magic trick or saw a bug on the wall and didn't identify it out loud.

"What?!" he snaps at all of their slack-jawed faces. "Never seen a rational adult before?"

Out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder like a jump scare, and he startles back so hard he almost throws an elbow into Acting Captain Henrietta Wilson's wrinkled nose.

"Hey, Buckaroo," Hen coos. The expression on her face would be more at home on someone who's been tasked with single handedly cleaning up a nuclear meltdown. "Maybe we should put our phones in our lockers so we're not distracted by our very confusing situationships. At least until lunch time when I can escape to Rosetti's to get a break from it."

Buck doesn't whine and he definitely doesn't stamp his feet. "Yeah, but what if he calls?" 

"You know, he probably would just to tell you the quote is actually Here's looking at you, kid," Hen admits. 

"I don't get it. Who's looking at me?" Buck mutters, giving his phone the stink eye before looking up. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were doing paperwork."

Hen shrugs with her entire face. "Well, I was, but when you started wailing I thought another raccoon got caught in the vent fan again, so."

For someone who got the job under the worst set of circumstances imaginable, she looks completely at home in the role, the way she always does. Buck's trying like hell to be happy for her, and he is, deep deep deep down, but he'll be the first to admit he hasn't been handling it well. Yesterday she'd brought in a tiny potted succulent and put it in the upper left corner of what was now her desk where a framed photo of Athena, May, and Harry once sat, and Buck accidentally knocked it onto the floor. And accidentally stepped on it. Twice. Accidentally.

She'd stared at him until he started to sweat, then said flatly, "You're buying me two more."

"Yep," he'd agreed. There's now a bigger succulent on the desk and a bushy lemon lime maranta on the windowsill. 

Whatever she sees on his face makes her roll her eyes, but she puts her hand on his shoulder again and says, "Okay. You get thirty seconds. Lay it on me."

Buck blinks. "Really?"

"Twenty-nine now," Hen says.

Damn, that's generous. Eddie only gave him ten before he tapped out. 

Squaring his shoulders, Buck lets it all come tumbling out: "I thought this meant something! He threw in with us again and kissed me on the roof and said whatever he said and it was supposed to mean something! You don't just bail after that! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to support me at the funeral! He was supposed to be there for me at the procession and then fuck the sadness out of me afterward! I had a plug in and everything!"

"Time's up," Hen breaks in, a look of abject horror on her face. 

Buck throws his hands up. "That had to only be twenty seconds at most."

Hen's eyes dart down to his hips, then back up to his face. Her glasses magnify them, so they look bigger and wider than usual. She looks like one of those Precious Moments figurines his mom used to collect. "You had a—Buck, that procession went for a full mile."

"Believe me," Buck grumbles, shifting to try and escape the chafed ache that refuses to go away. "I'm well aware. Serves me right for going with the biggest one I own, but, like, I thought Tommy was gonna—"

"Aaaand we're done." Hen executes a perfect about-face and marches in the direction of the admin offices. 

Buck calls after her, "Bobby would've heard me out!"

"Bobby would've jammed pencils in his ears!" Hen shouts over her shoulder. "Which is exactly what I'm about to do!"

This is exactly what he means when he tells Dr. Copeland that no one ever listens to him. 

He's about to go see if he can corner Chimney somewhere with limited escape routes when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. His heart gets caught up in a dizzying storm of excitement, dread, and grim satisfaction, because he knew Tommy wouldn't be able to deal with the idea of Buck not looking the quote up.

But when he takes his phone out of his pocket, the incoming call isn't from Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️, but Lucy Donato.

Sighing, he takes the call. "Uh, h-hey Lucy—"

She cuts him off immediately with a curt, "Look, don't think I'm not grateful or anything. We all are. Not being forced to listen to sad James Ingram songs day in and day out has been wonderful, but it's been two weeks already and we need our lead pilot back."

"I—what? Lucy, I hate to tell you, but—"

"Tell me precisely zero details about how dick drunk you are, Buckley," Lucy says flatly. "Just tell me when you're letting him go. Cap's getting antsy and Baxter's been on call for so long that his wife is ready to kill him and turn his body into mulch."

Buck stares at Engine 2 until it blurs. "You... are talking about Tommy, right?"

"No, I'm talking about the other dipshit I work with who committed domestic terrorism because your asshole is a Disneyland attraction." Buck makes a face but doesn't correct her. Tommy once likened sex with Buck to riding Big Thunder Mountain for the first time. "He's missed like four shifts. Any more and Cap is gonna have to, like, make some calls. Where the fuck's our pilot, Buckley?"

"He hasn't been in at all?" He echoes faintly, a sinkhole opening in his gut. 

Lucy makes a sound of disgust. "Frankly, I can't believe they dropped your charges. You're way too dangerous to be allowed among the general populace."

The Army colonel who swanned into Chim's hospital room like he expected them to scatter like roaches had taken one look at all of them and scoffed. "Every fiber of my being hates what I'm about to say, but I can't handle another phone call from Sergeant Grant, so: on behalf of the United States government, we're dropping all federal charges for everyone in this room. If I see any of you ever again, I will throw you into a hole so deep it'll make the Kola Borehole look like something a kid dug at the beach."

Except not everyone was in the hospital room that day.

Buck squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey, so I need to call you back."

"Wait, Dana wants to talk to you."

With a yelp of pure terror, Buck stabs his phone until the call ends, then immediately calls Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️. It goes right to voicemail, like it's been doing, and now Buck is pretty sure he knows why.

"Heeeeeeeey," he says through a grimace. "So, uh, I need you to ignore all the other voicemails and texts I sent you. Um, it's entirely possible the reason you haven't been picking up my calls might be, uh, sort of my fault, but just think: someday when we've been married for fifty years, we'll probably still be laughing about this whole thing."

Inbox full, the automated voice cheerfully tells him.

Cringing, he calls Athena.

+

Buck has never actually seen a federal prison—Jamestown was a regular prison, and he didn't have enough time to stop and take it all in—so he's not sure what to expect, but when they fly over Victorville Medium-Security Federal Correctional Institute, he's surprised to see it looks more like an army base than anything. 

The pilot who picked him, Athena, and LAFD union lawyer Bernadette Kaine up from Harbor One—and that had sucked, because the entire Harbor crew was standing on the tarmac giving him the evil eye as he boarded, and while Dana didn't physically drag her thumb across her throat he could see the same sentiment in her blank expression—didn't actually introduce himself, but his name was embroidered on the arm of his flight suit. 

"Your last name is 'Goodenough'?" Buck had asked, grinning. "'Pilot Goodenough'? Hopefully your flying is a lot better than your name suggests!"

Pilot Goodenough stared stone-faced out the windshield and said, "We might hit turbulence during the flight."

And they did, but oddly only whenever Buck unbuckled his belt. The last time Buck went to get up, Athena threatened to shoot him.

When they land, Colonel Whatshisname is there to greet them, and he looks both exhausted and furious to see him and Athena again. 

"Sergeant Grant," the colonel acknowledges through gritted teeth, ignoring Buck entirely. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."  

Athena simply crosses her arms and stares him down, which is impressive to watch, considering the guy's like 6'7". He's shriveling under her scrutiny before Buck's very eyes. 

"Colonel, it appears you forgot something," Athena says, lightly and terrifyingly.

"Someone," Buck interjects, with nowhere near the same impact.

Colonel Whatshisname sighs, looks heavenward at the departing helicopter as though he'd like nothing more than to flag Pilot Goodenough back down to take him away, then beckons them all inside.

When they get to whoever's office the colonel commandeered, Buck is almost completely distracted from why they're there by the sheer amount of rubber ducks that clutter up every flat surface in the room. No two are the same. There's even a little viking duck, complete with a mace. 

"Can I—" Buck starts slowly, inching his hand toward a duck that looks like a firefighter.

Colonel Whatshisname sits down at the desk, hard. "No."

"That's fair."

"Colonel Spade," Bernadette begins, opening her worryingly bulging briefcase. "I'd like to begin by thanking you for your ti—"

"Colonel, you know why we're here," Athena cuts in, taking the seat on the other side of the colonel's desk. She has to clear a path through all the ducks lined up at the edge so she can rest her clasped hands there. "When the charges were dropped for the members of the 118 involved in the incident, LAFD pilot Thomas Kinard's charges should have been included."

At that, Buck moves to stand menacingly at her shoulder like an attack dog, although the colonel doesn't look all that impressed at the display. If anything, he gets a look on his face like he'd just swallowed an assassin bug. Specifically a North American wheel bug. 

"Normally, I would agree with you, but Thomas Kinard abused his military rank and previous clearance to gain access to a secure government building, steal proprietary assets from a lab that could have caused great harm to the population of Los Angeles, and physically assaulted personnel on his way out," Colonel Spade snaps at her. "There was no way we were letting any of that go."

"Assaulted?" Athena lifts a brow. 

"That's awful," Buck rasps, pressing his thighs together. "Like, how many people and what did he do to them? Like, were there concussions? Broken bones? You can go into detail, I'm not squeamish."

The thought of Tommy fighting his way to get to Buck is so disgustingly hot that he might pop a woody in front of Athena, their lawyer lady, a visibly upset military man, and three thousand ducks. Still not the worst place he's ever been turned on.

"Without Kinard, we never would've gotten the antidote in time to save all those people," Athena says, and yanks her chair forward a little, away from Buck. "The people you deemed collateral damage in the fallout of the release of the CCHF virus."

"No one could have predicted Dr. Blake would go rogue," Colonel Spade says easily, with hate in his eyes. "This is hardly the fault of the—"

Suddenly, Bernadette sits up, and it feels like someone's put a spotlight on her. Buck kind of expects her to break into song or something, but what happens is actually so much better.

"The day Dr. Blake stole the virus, her employment was terminated, effective immediately, and yet security didn't walk her out of the building, which goes against all federal mandated safety protocols," Bernadette says, all smiles, practically glowing. "The lab—property of the U.S. government, if I remember correctly—was entirely unsupervised, which gave Dr. Blake the unfettered opportunity to tamper with the virus, speeding up its incubation period without authorization. Or, perhaps she did have authorization and the government failed to disclose this. Tell me, what else is going on under our noses that the government isn't telling us?"

"Try to disappear the brave people who risk their lives to do the right thing, apparently," Athena answers pointedly. 

"I thought you were a union lawyer," Colonel Spade says through a visibly clenched jaw. "What do you know about federal pharmaceutical law?"

Bernadette's smile goes sharp. "I dabble."

Colonel Spade looks, for lack of a better word, murderous. He's probably one smarmy comment from grabbing the nearest rubber duck and bludgeoning Bernadette to death with it.

But Buck has never been able to help himself. "Is this a bad time to mention my ex-girlfriend is an investigative reporter?"

Athena drops her head into her hand. "Buck."

"I'm just saying!" He crosses his arms, trying to puff himself up the way some animals do when they're faced with a predator. "It sure would be a shame if an anonymous tip about all this landed in her lap."

Colonel Spade squints at him. "Are you threatening me, Firefighter Buckley?"

"You're trying to bury Tommy to save your own ass," Buck growls. "Yes, I'm threatening you."

Wordlessly, Bernadette reaches into her briefcase, which looks like it's seriously ready to bust open at the seams, and slides over a packet of paper to Colonel Spade. The colonel snatches it up and starts reading, and the longer he does, the paler he gets.

Finally, he lowers the packet and stabs Bernadette with his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I play mahjong with your ex-wife every Sunday," Bernadette says, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She sends her regards. Well, she actually sent the tip of her blackmail iceberg. How is your new wife, by the way? She graduate from college yet?"

Eyes wide, Buck looks at the colonel, who's got the swallowing wheel bugs look on his face again.

After the most awkward ten seconds that Buck's had to endure since Eddie crashed his and Tommy's pizza date, the colonel folds like a bad row of mahjong tiles.

"Fine," he says with a sigh, then glares at Bernadette. "And no, she's a junior."

Buck picks up a rubber duck with sharp teeth like a vampire. "Gross."

+

The colonel washes his hands of them by pushing them onto two enormous guards named Weekes and Kluger, who are basically human trees. 

When Kluger gets his orders to take them to cell 58, he droops like a wilting plant. "Hey, you're not here to, like, take Kinard to Gitmo, right? It's just—he's really cool. He's got the wildest stories."

"Dude figured out what was wrong with my car just from listening to a video on my phone." Weekes grins, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially to Buck, "it was the alternator."

"I offered to introduce him to my sister," Kluger says as they board the elevator, and he's either oblivious to Buck's glare searing a hole in his head or is just flat-out ignoring it, because he continues blithely, "but he said he doesn't like girls. Which is cool. I'm down with the rainbow, you know? So I told him about my cousin, Martin."

Buck makes a politely interested noise, but it mostly sounds like he's biting straight through his tongue. Athena elbows him hard enough to bruise his spleen.

"And what did he have to say about Martin?" Buck asks. Meanwhile, every bone in his body is vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

Kluger doesn't seem to be aware that the head is going to burst into flames any second now. "He said he was flattered and that Martin was hot, but he's already got his heart pinned on someone on the outside."

Buck relaxes with a pleased smile.

"Yeah, except whoever it is left him in here to rot," Weekes adds.

"T-That's unnecessary and completely untrue," Buck lies, trying to sink into the floor so he won't drown in shame right in front of them. 

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop at the 5th floor, and Buck pushes his way out to gulp some fresh air. 

He's not sure if being on the 5th floor is a good or bad thing. Tommy was charged with domestic terrorism; what if this is the domestic terrorism floor? What if he's neighbors with neo-nazis? What if he'd been jumped by a faction in the shower and took a beating and has spent the last few days pissing blood and breathing through broken ribs and cursing the day he ever picked up Chimney's call about needing a pilot for an unauthorized rescue? 

What if he regrets ever meeting Buck?

But before Buck can ask Kluger for a bucket to throw up in, they come to a stop in front of a cell marked with the number 58, and Buck forces himself to look inside.

Apparently the question Buck should've been asking was what if Tommy's lying on his bed playing paddle ball while he mouths along to whatever 80s hip-hop song is playing on a little radio? Because that's exactly what Tommy's doing.

"I gave him the radio," Weekes says proudly, reaching out to knock on the glass door. Tommy looks up without pausing his game. The ball keeps thwacking against the wood.

"He's so good at that," Kluger says, starry-eyed. "He beat Officer Amino last week and that guy's won tournaments."

"Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?" Tommy asks cheerfully, then effortlessly twists the paddle so the cord wraps around it. He tucks the ball in. "Sorry, I don't have my wallet on me."

Buck shoves Kluger aside to practically press his nose to the glass. "We take IOUs."

As soon as he sees Buck, Tommy brightens, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, stretching with a groan, and then walks over to the door. Even in the bland blue jumpsuit, he's stupid hot. Helplessly, Buck puts his palm against the glass.

"Nice of you to stop by," Tommy says with a teasing lilt, pressing his own palm to Buck's, and Buck swears he can feel the heat of it through the pane. 

"I was in the neighborhood," Buck teases back. "Figured I'd pop in."

"I won't lie, I've been dreaming about you showing up for a conjugal visit." Tommy looks away from Buck's face to squint at everyone else. "Although you guys weren't there."

At that, Athena cracks a smile and says in an odd voice, almost twangy, "You stupid mullet head, he beat you with nothin'."

Tommy perks up and doesn't miss a bit, drawling, "Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand."

Before Buck can ask what the hell they're talking about, someone shoves him aside with surprising strength. He's a little surprised to see it's Bernadette, who he kind of forgot about, but she's clearly the only one who remembers why they're here because she raps on the glass and says, "Mr. Kinard, my name is Bernadette Kaine and I'm here to take you home."

"We're here to take you home," Buck amends. 

Tommy looks at Bernadette for a long moment, head tilting like a puppy hearing a noise for the first time and gaze narrowed, and then snaps his fingers. "Hey, I know you! I sent my paperwork to you the last time I stole a helicopter."

Sighing, Bernadette nods. "If you do it a third time, I get a free sundae."

"What do I get?" Tommy asks.

"Permanent incarceration and possibly the death penalty."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Tommy mulls that one over, then gives a decisive nod. "Sounds about right."

+

The helicopter ride home is spent mostly with Buck plastered to Tommy's side while he fills him in on everything he missed. Tommy's devastated to hear about Bobby. He offers Athena his condolences over the open mic, then curls his hand around his headset speaker to murmur apologies into Buck's ear. 

"I wish I'd been there for you," Tommy says, and the words ease some kinked cable inside Buck he hadn't known was there. "I'm sorry I wasn't."

"I'm sorry I forgot there were consequences to your actions and left you to the mercy of the Army," Buck says, pressing his forehead to the jut of Tommy's jaw. "I just assumed everything was taken care of, and I… kind of thought you were ghosting me."

At that, Tommy snorts, wrapping an arm around Buck to hold him impossibly closer. "Evan, come on. You don't kiss a man like that and quote Humphrey Bogart and then ghost him. I'm an asshole and a coward, but I'm not a monster."

Buck winces. "Uh, yeah, when you have a second, can I see your phone?"

"What for?"

"It's better if you don't know," Buck says. "Completely unrelated, but you don't have a code for your voicemail, do you, and if so, can I have it?"

Tommy snickers and presses a kiss to Buck's temple. "How bad did it get?"

"Well, I taught Chim the word 'motherfuckface', so you tell me," Buck admits, cracking a grin when Tommy laughs out loud, but he has a hell of a time trying to keep it up. Finally, he gives up the ghost and tucks his face against Tommy's, eyes prickling hot with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I should've known. Never in a million years would you have bailed on the funeral. It should've been my first clue that something was wrong."

Tommy snugs him in close and says quietly, barely audible over the rotors, "To quote an incredible man who drives me up the wall: 'it seems there's a lot we don't know about each other.' I'm glad you know I wouldn't have left you in the lurch like that, but there's a lot more… there's a lot more about me that you should know. That I… well, not exactly want you to know, but that I will tell you. Willingly. Well, not exactly willingly, but—"

"Y-Yeah?" Sniffling a little, Buck pulls away just enough to be able to look up at him. "What are you doing Saturday?"

It wins him a smile. "Vivisecting myself for you, apparently. And maybe burgers afterwards?"

Grinning, Buck snuggles shamelessly back in. "Actually, I wanted to make Bobby's famous lasagna for you. I think I've finally nailed it down. Then you can nail me down."

But before Tommy can respond, Athena breaks in over the line and takes a baseball bat to the moment. "Change the subject. Now."

Swallowing hard, Buck nods and pastes on a smile that doesn't scream 'I'm chubbed up a little in my jeans and I'm trying not to make it everyone's problem.' He coughs a little. "So, uh, who's Humphrey Bogart? Does he have a podcast or something?"

Tommy turns to Athena. "Actually, thanks, but no thanks. Take me back to prison."

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

I don't know how to make a master list of my writing on this God forsaken app.... But when I work it out I'll pin it to the top 😅

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Lean On Me (Part 2/?)

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinavitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

Reader is the youngest sister to Frank and is called back from Europe to care for her brother.

Warnings: talk about rehab, drug use, casual drinking, slow burn, mentions of nudity

Part One/Part Three

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee

Dr Robinavitch guided you to a 24 hr diner around the corner from the rehabilitation center and you took the time to pull yourself back together. He was taller than you but kept his strides short as if he was used to accommodating others.

Frank had spoken to you many times about the famous Doctor Robinavitch, how he was larger than life. A calming presence in the ER that kept Frank going when cases had gotten to much during his earlier years as a residence. 

You kept stealing glances at him, trying to work out why he was being kind to you. It wasn’t as if everyone in the world was against you, but normally you got nothing more than a side glance from Frank's friends, or a little smile as they called you kiddo, as if the 11 months between you and Frank was actually 11 years. 

The diner was a traditional old school American type diner with red pleather booths and waitresses who looked like they would be anywhere else in the world.

You had worked in a number of these over the years, and recognised the look of acceptance in the inevitable on each waitress.

You felt at home almost immediately.

Dr Robinavitch ordered two coffees and slid into the furthest booth from the door and you sat on the opposite side of the table, your hands clasped in front of you. You couldn’t help but feel like you were in a job interview as he continued to stare at you.

“So you’re Frank's sister?” He finally asked.

“Yep.” 

“I’m not going to lie, he hasn’t really mentioned you.”

Not a surprise you think to yourself. Frank was a great brother, when he's sober, or not hyper fixating on something or just being unobservant to just the world around him.

“I’m not that exciting, so that's okay. He’s told me a lot about you, you’re his boss?”

“Yes.” 

“I guess his ex-boss now that he's here.”

“He has a job when this is all over. He will probably have to restart his third year and he won’t like the thousand random drug tests but he will have a job.”

A weight you didn’t know was on your chest lifted, since Frank was thirteen he had wanted to be a doctor, and you had sacrificed a lot to make sure he got to where he was today, so the fact that he wouldn’t be jobless at the end of this ordeal was monumental and you felt the tears coming back.

“Shit sorry! I don’t normally cry but thank god!” you laugh out, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket.

“He has an illness, it's not all his fault this happened.” Dr Robinavitch was saying all the right things, and you couldn’t help but smile at him. He fiddled with the mug of coffee that had been placed in front of him, the ceramic tinging slightly as he tapped his fingers against it, “He said it started when he helped move his folks into their new place, something about twinging his back.”

The weight returned with a vengeance, you remembered that weekend well and why Frank had been helping out with the moving instead of hiring movers like both your parents and Frank wanted.

You had been in crutches, after spraining your ankle at work a week prior, you had been trying to take on extra shifts to cover your parents costs for the new over 55s facility they were in and the moving costs. But after slipping one too many times you went one way and your stupid ankle went the other and any overtime you had imagined was gone, along with any of the tips you had hoped to make.

So the movers were cancelled and you had to leave the heavy lifting to Abby and Frank while you looked after the little ones.

If you had just been a little more careful, you could have saved a little more money for movers, then Frank wouldn’t have tried to lift a couch on his own, he wouldn��t be addicted to painkillers and everything would be normal.

His marriage wouldn't be over.

His career wouldn’t be hindered.

And he wouldn’t be in a rehabilitation centre right now, withdrawing from drugs.

The guilt was eating you up, minute by minute and you realise you have been silent too long. The older man before you was staring again and you quickly took a deep sip of coffee, the liquid way too bitter and hot.

You flinch and he laughs.

My god his laugh was an aphrodisiac, coupled with the little lines that curled around his eyes as he laughed, you cross your legs and look anywhere but at him.

“Sorry!” he says, still laughing, “I’ve just never seen an adult actually pull a tongue out gross face before.”

“I forgot I hate black coffee.” you admit, finding the creamer and sugar on the table and pouring an unhealthy amount of both into the cup.

“I don’t think what you are drinking now is coffee.”

“The base is coffee, the rest is just additions to make the coffee better.”

“I’ve seen Frank drink directly from a coffee jug after a twenty hour shift.”

“Frank does drugs, he's not the role model I should look up to.” You say jokingly but it falls flat as Doctor Robinavitch shifts uncomfortably in this seat, “Sorry! That's a bad joke! I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“You’re my brother's boss, and a doctor, and kind of hot-” You swallow another mouthful of coffee as the word vomit spews from your lips, “Shit, sorry! I have been awake since three am and after this I have a job interview and my underwear is so uncomfortable, and Frank's shirt is itchy. I don’t even know what his laundry powder is but I think it's actual itching powder.”

The doctor smiled wider as he sipped his coffee, his eyes were locked in on yours and you fight everything to break the contact, but it was magnetic, electrifying, as you both sat in silence, your words hanging between you.

“You have a job interview today?”

“Yes, I haven’t worked since I got back but between three maxed out credit cards and an empty savings account I desperately need it.”

“What did you do before Europe?”

“Bit of this and that.” You don’t want to tell the attractive doctor whose eyes you still can not stop staring into that you had done any job that was hiring, since you were fifteen years old.

“And now?” 

“Stacking shelves at an office supply store.” the lie falls out of your lips before you can take it back, it was the same lie you told Frank when he asked what your job was years ago. 

Because you didn’t want to tell this handsome well-renowned doctor that you had spent the majority of your twenties, topless on a stage, paying your parents and Frank's bills with the cash that had been manhandled into your underwear. 

And that you were going back to the same bar, six months later, to do it all again.

“Did you want me to see if there is a job at the hospital?”

“God no!” you say without even thinking, “But thank you!” you hastily add.

“Not a fan of help?”

“Not a fan of hospitals, the smell- the people- yeah not my cup of tea.”

He laughed again, and all you want is to hear that sound over and over again.

“But thank you Doctor Robinavitch, it’s a lovely offer.”

“I want to help, Langdon-” he laughed a little at himself, “Your brother, he was -is- my best student and I let him down when he needed me too. I kicked him out of the hospital without getting him help, too stuck in my own mess to see what he needed.”

You lean across the table and take his hands in yours, soft- so incredibly soft and hold them tightly. He startles at first but leans into your touch. 

“You are not the reason Frank did this, and you handled the situation in the only way you could. Everyone has struggles and things that others don’t see- you can’t hold his actions on your shoulders. I’ve had the same conversation with his wife and his kids. My brother for better or for worse chose to make the choices he did, it's not on you, only on him,” and me, “I was told you got him into the detox program and that you visit when you can. You helped him, Doctor Robinavitch, remember that.”

“Micheal-”

“What?”

“My name is Michael.”

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

You know, back at his place, I heard your heartbeats. God, that is really not fair. You heard his too? Oh, yeah. It's just adrenaline, I'm sure.

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Grey's Anatomy 8.21

Moment of Truth

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THE PITT 1.15 • 9:00 P.M.

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santos is so kind.

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Lean On Me (Part 1/?)

Pairing: Dr Michael 'Robby" Robinovitch x younger! Langdon's little sister! reader

Reader is the youngest sister to Frank and is called back from Europe to care for her brother.

Warnings: talk about rehab, drug use, casual drinking, slow burn (maybe).

Part Two

You woke with a screaming headache and your phone ringing, the small rectangle vibrating so much it had fallen from your bedside and was halfway under the bed before you had a chance to grab it.

You swear under your breath at the brightness, your hostel room was pitch black as your phone told you it was 2am, just an hour or so after you had stumbled from a nightclub and into your bed. 

“Turn that off.” muttered a voice beside you and you pulled the blanket further up your body. You had forgotten that in the midst of a night of drinking, and dancing you had brought home a ‘guest’.

You don’t bother uttering an apology before getting out of the bed and going to the bathroom and slamming the door shut. Your last hundred euros had gone to this single room in a Hungarian hostel after months of living with ten random strangers, and on your first night you had decided to invite someone back. 

You slam your head back against the closed door and took a deep breath. You’d been in Europe for five months now, any savings you had had left after sorting out your family's drama and almost all of it was gone now between transport and living costs, bar your emergency ‘the world is ending’ fund. 

But this had been your dream once, cut out photos of ancient architecture and historical locations from national geographic magazines had been plastered on your bedroom wall, your locker and phone case, all you had wanted while you worked three jobs and took care of your family was to one day stand in the shadows of castles and cathedrals. So you had used every last dollar to get yourself to Europe, while your friends at home settled into careers, and life.

Your phone buzzed again, pulling you back to the present. 

Your mother was calling.

She had called 15 times according to your cracked phone screen.

Fuck!

“Hi Ma!” you say, as fake cheerfully as you can at 2am after a night of drinking and half an hour of sleep.

“Where have you been! I have been calling for hours!”

Half an hour at most you think to yourself before swallowing a sigh.

“Sorry Ma, it's like 2 am here! What's wrong?”

Your mother huffs and you can almost picture her in the kitchen, cigarette in one hand, a forgotten glass of wine in the other no matter the time of day. 

You do the maths, it's probably around 4pm in Pittsburgh.

 “You need to come home now! It’s your brother.”

Your stomach dropped and your knees buckled. Frank was your big brother, a larger than life figure in your universe, who you had spent many years protecting from your parents, and making sure he had everything he needed to get through life with as little bumps as possible. But in the last few years everything had calmed down on the Frank front, he had gotten married when his girlfriend got pregnant, then another kid had come quickly after that. He had gotten his residency at the local hospital in the town they had grown up in. He had his life on the right track.

“What-” you try to ask for more information but you can’t breath, you can’t stand any longer and the cool, very gross tiles on the hostel bathroom felt like heaven against your now clammy skin.

“Rehab, they sent him to rehab!” 

“What for?”

And with one word your world fell apart and you were back on a plane.

Drugs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It should be illegal for the sun to shine so brightly when you have no time to appreciate it. Pittsburgh had decided to pull out all the stops for a beautiful day, the sun was shining, there were birds singing in the trees and even a butterfly had landed on your jacket as you rushed from Frank's apartment to the rehabilitation facility. 

The only dampening thing about the day was you, as you huffed at the butterfly and sent glaring looks at anyone who tried to make small talk as you waited for the bus, then walked the additional mile from the stop to the door. Your mood was foul and your temper worse.

At 29 years of age you were officially feeling like an old curmudgeon, and after spending the majority of your life looking after your parents and brother, you had thought yourself finally free from their shackles but it had taken one phone call and one overdrawn charge on your credit card to find yourself once again at the mercy of your family.

You tried to remind yourself daily that it wasn’t Frank's fault, addiction is a disease, and one with no real cure.  But it’s hard to do that after two weeks filled with appointments with his therapists, his counsellors and then a stilted dinner last night with his apparently ex-wife and kids which ended up with you getting a puppy dumped in your lap.

The said puppy then spent all night crying on your pillow before peeing in your still unpacked suitcase.

The said peeing in the suitcase meant you were now wearing yesterday's underwear which you had washed in the sink, and one of Frank's shirts, which was tiny on your larger frame, the word PITTSBURGH now stretch tight over your tits.

The rehab facility was nice, a modern building amongst turn of the last century offices. You walked past it twice on the first day, it blended it well to the built up area. 

You had wanted to send Frank to a rehabilitation centre further out of town, somewhere with a big garden, but between the three credit cards you had taken out and the very last of your emergency ‘the world is ending’ funds, an inner city place was the best you could get.

In your brother's defense he hadn’t complained about the location or the facilities, instead on his good days he spent most of his time trying his best to be positive about the whole thing. On his bad days, the location was the last thing he cared about, he just wanted to scream and throw things at you when you refused to let him leave.

Frank wasn’t in his room when you got there, and you knew he didn’t have group therapy or a one on one session this afternoon so you wandered from room to room, looking for him, smiling at the nurses and orderlies that now knew you by name. 

You located Frank in the back common room, hunched over a table with a stranger, a game of chess half played between them.

You couldn’t hear what was being said but you could see the tension in your brother's shoulders and your stomach dropped. 

It was going to be a bad day.

Great.

“Hey Frank.” 

He looks at you as you approach, as does the stranger who offers you a weak smile with sad eyes. You get a lot of sad eyes thrown your way nowadays, from the nurses at the centre to Frank's neighbours who know why you are there and he is not.

“What do you want?” your brother asks, venom lacing each word.

“Just come to say hi, and see if you want a game but it looks like you have company.” you hate how small your voice sounds.

The stranger gets up from the chair and gestures to you to take his place but you shake your head.

“I don’t want you here, I told you that yesterday.” Frank hissed through his teeth, his attention back at the chessboard as his fingers tapped against the plastic chess set, “Go back to fucking around Europe or whatever.”

He had said the same thing yesterday morning, but after a counselling session with Frank's doctors you were told to ignore what he says in anger and to reach out with him daily, if possible, he has to know that his family is with him and that he has the support from them, no matter what.

You were also told to try and prioritise your own mental health when you can, but who has time for that.

So you returned, as you would every day, until he was out of the facility. You would then live with him, supervising visits with him and the children and then get him back to work. 

You took care of your family, you had since you were thirteen years old. 

“Just thought I would come anyway,” you said cheerfully, “I baked cookies last night and they are chocolate chips, your favourite.” it was a complete lie, you had bought them from the shops and decanted them into tupperware containers last night. 

Frank just ignored you and the tupperware you placed on the table, just playing his move and then gesturing for the other man to play on.

But the stranger couldn’t stop staring at you, he was handsome in an older man way with a well kept beard and brown hair that looked like it was due for a trim. Dressed in a hoodie and well worn jeans, he looked like someone you would swipe right on, if you had the time to get back on the apps.

But you didn't and the way he was looking you up and down was unnerving especially as your brother ignores you and wishes to continue with his game.

A lump forms in your throat and you feel panic rising in your chest as you sit there watching your brother continue to ignore you. The stranger kept staring even as it was his turn to play. And you'd just sit there waiting for Frank to say something, do something to acknowledge your existence. 

Until you can't take it anymore.

"I guess I'll go, Frank, and I'll see you tomorrow." your words come out stilted and with almost no emotion. 

He made a rude gesture with his hand before you grabbed your bag and left. 

You're outside the rehabilitation centre before you even know it, and suddenly you wash with emotion. Everything hurts, your body, your head, your heart as you fall to the floor and cry, heaving as the thought of leaving your brother there another day rips into you. He was your Big Brother and you were meant to protect him. That is what you were told since you were a child. And he was the one who was so smart and going to go places and you were nothing but his kid sister.

You couldn't blame Frank for this moment of weakness, of the disease that was ripping through his life, ending his career, his marriage and any relationship he has at the current point with his children. You couldn’t even blame your parents. Your dad for his own alcoholism, your mom for her own absent mindedness, for both of your parents only thinking of the potential of one of their two children. You cannot blame anybody, but you wished you could at that moment. 

You are thankful that it was only 11.00am on a weekday. There were little to no people on the streets to witness your breakdown as you let all the emotions out of your body, tears streaming down your face, your mascara completely ruined. 

Suddenly a hand grabs onto your shoulder and pulls you out of the mania, your tear filled eyes meet big sad brown eyes. 

The stranger had followed you outside. 

“I never introduced myself,” he said. His voice was like honey. He pulled a tissue packet from the pocket of his jeans. You blow your nose ungracefully, cringing internally at the noise, "I'm Doctor Michael Robinovitch."

He put out his hand to shake yours and you took it, too stunned to say anything else. The Stranger- No- Dr Robinovitch continues to stare, the big brown eyes looking into your soul as you both stand awkwardly outside the rehab center, no one knowing what to say. He then smiles and asks “Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”

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Dr. Robby's hands

for @castle-of-ruin 💕