Chapter Text
He should hate you.
In fact, he probably does. Not that you've asked him. Since the moment you walked out the door nearly three years ago, you hadn't asked him much of anything.
Putting the ring, gold banded and sparkling in the exact shape you like, on the kitchen table--you walked out the door of your shared townhouse. The one you had just decorated for the holidays; blue Hanukkah lights on a small Christmas tree. The last of you compromises in an increasingly volatile household.
It wasn't an easy decision to leave Robby. When you had met at a bar in 2018, he was charming and full of life. He could leave his baggage at the door. He could woo you, assure you, and treat you well.
COVID changed things. Adamson changed things.
He retreated. Snapping at you for no reason, refusing to discuss his feelings, and burying himself in extra shifts. The only time he'd fuck you was when your ovulation app told him it was time--lifeless and mechanical. As if a baby would make him whole again.
The pre-pandemic Robby would've cheered you on when you decided you were getting your Master's in social work. He would've picked out the finest bottle of champagne, and bragged to all of his colleagues at after-work drinks that his girl was going to be a clinical social worker. He'd tell you how proud he was as he kissed every inch of your body.
But the new version of him, forever changed by grief and trauma, simply shook his head. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because," you had said, holding out hope that he'd snap out of whatever trance he was in. That he'd reemerge and hold you and tell you he's proud.
"Whatever makes you happy, kid," he said, shaking his head.
That's when you knew it was time to go. That whatever was broken within him wasn't something you could fix.
And it wasn't for lack of trying. You'd spent the end of 2020 and all of 2021 trying to bring him back. Glimpses would appear, that smile you fell in love with would pull you in for a morning kiss, toast burning because he put the toaster oven on too high again.
He'd tell you he's sorry. That you're his rock. He couldn't do it without you.
But the next time he'd come home, bones weary and eyes heavy, he'd shut you out. He'd push your hands away from his waist, muttering something about how you're suffocating him.
All you do is suffocate him.
The words echo through your head now, even three years later, as you walk down the hall of PTMC. Kiara leads you, her pregnant belly guiding the way, speaking quickly but calmly as she fills you in on all you'll need to cover while she's on maternity leave.
"You've gotta be shittin' me!" a familiar voice echoes through the Pitt, Dana's open arms coming toward you. You embrace her tightly, trying to ease your nerves. "You're the new Kiara?"
"For 3 months," you smile, accepting her warmth. "How have you been?"
"I should be asking you that," she speaks lowly, looking around, as if she's giving you classified information. "Robby know?"
"I'm sure he does," you stand up a little straighter. You had considered calling him, but nerves got the best of you. As if in person is better. "He had to sign off, right?"
"Nope," Dana shrugs. "Gloria does that shit. He might be in the dark."
"Maybe I can dodge him," you tease. "3 months is nothing."
"He's not in a good place," the blonde gets serious, and you hate the way your stomach lurches after all this time. "I mean, you know. But it's been worse since the shooting."
You want to hold him in your arms and make it all go away. If he only would've let you.
A week after Pittfest, you had called him. After two rings, you got sent to voicemail. You had hoped he wasn't affected. Maybe he was off that day, like he usually was.
"Kiara," Langdon appears, a look of disbelief as he takes you in. It's been years since he's seen you, and from the way he stiffens, you're positive he took Robby's side. Not that you blame him. "Oh. Are you-?"
"Yup," you nod meekly. "Hi Dr Langdon."
"Hey," he stumbles, clearly thrown off. "We have a case for you. Maybe. A teenager with a lot of mysterious bruising. She's recently placed in foster care, and came in after fainting at school."
"Alright," you take the chart from his hands and begin walking towards the room. "Medical causes ruled out?"
"Doing some tests now," he says. "She has a history of dysautonomia. But wanted to get an opinion given the change in living situations."
You turn to him as you're outside the door.
"I'll assess," you say confidently. After your Master's program in youth group homes, this was a walk in the park. "Just come get me if anything comes back. "
Frank opens his mouth as you head toward the door, but you're reading the girl's chart, too engrossed to notice his warning.
"Hi Amelia," you say, eyes glued to the paper as you step into the room, moving to sit by her bedside. You don't even clock the broad figure standing at the computer, typing coming to a halt as you enter the room. "I'm Y/N, it's nice to meet-"
Your words get stuck in your throat as you look up and see Robby, jaw clenched. He runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head and clearly fighting back some sort of guttural reaction.
"Michael-"
"Dr. Robinavitch," he corrects you somewhat harshly, turning back to the computer. You swear you hear a sniffle, or at the very least a throat-clear.
You talk to Amelia, eyes wandering to him every once in a while, until he turns.
"Alright," he claps his hand, faux calmness washing over him. But you can tell he's about to crack. "I'm waiting on a few labs, but I think this is just a dysautonomia flare."
"I told you," the girl scoffs.
"You know we have to do our due diligence," he responds plainly. "I'm going to step out for a few minutes. If you have anything else you want to talk to Y/N about, now is the time."
He doesn't even look back at you as he steps out, the door closing louder than normal. All you can do is focus on the patient in front of you, weaving personal questions into conversation so that she doesn't put her guard back up.
Once you're satisfied that the bruises are simply a result of her condition, you hand her a business card. "In case you need anything at all."
"I won't," she shrugs. "But thank you."
Nodding, you step into the hallway. Robby's at his desk, glasses sitting low on his face, foot tapping quicker than usual.
"Can we talk for a second?" you ask, tapping him on the shoulder, trying not to hurt when he physically recoils at your touch. All he does is shrug, focused on the chart in front of him. "Robby, please."
He nods, standing and gesturing toward an empty trauma bay. Dana looks at you knowingly as you step in, the door closing behind you.
Robby paces, it's a habit he's had since the day you met. A stark contrast to your calm yet sad demeanor, sitting cross-legged on the gurney.
"You should've warned me," he says, tone rife with irritation. "You can't just show up here. Ambushing me in my ER, after three fucking years."
"I'm sorry," you look down. He was right. This is an ambush. "I assumed you knew."
"Well I didn't," is all he says for a moment. The pacing stops, his hand running through his hair as he looks at you.
Neither of you speak, eyes locking as you examine the other. He looks older than when you last saw him--as you'd expect. Time passes. His beard has more gray, and his hair is less well-kept.
You wonder if he notices the ways in which you've changed. The few pounds you gained after leaving, from living off of take-out and protein bars in grad school. The new wrinkle between your eyebrows. The highlights you got last summer that still haven't completely faded.
"I can go," you say, voice small.
"No," he shakes his head, pacing again for a moment before he sits on the edge of the bed. You fight the urge to place your hand over his. "God knows we need social workers. And I know you're a damn good one."
"Are you okay?" your words are shaky. He just looks at you, exasperated, shaking his head and clenching his jaw.
"You don't get to ask me that," is all he says.
"I've missed you," you croak out. Now you're definitely just spewing word vomit. Not that it isn't true--because it is. But his reaction shows you just why you should've kept it to yourself.
"Don't fucking say that to me," he says.
"I'll always l-" you catch yourself. Because you aren't even sure if you mean it. "I'll always care about you, Michael."
"Fine," he shrugs. "If you care about me so much, here's what we're going to do. While you're here, we're co-workers. That's it."
"But-"
"No," he says, voice loud yet shaky. "You don't get to come back like nothing happened. I know I wasn't the best partner to you, and I live with that regret every day. But you left."
"I tried," your eyes are welling with tears. He catches them, his own vulnerability peaking through for a moment before he snaps back into his anger. "I really did."
"Look where that got us," he says, voice flat. Broken. "I have patients. I'll see you later."
He stands up, wiping his eyes and storming out of the room.