Chapter Text
“I’m glad you decided to come in after all, Doctor Robinavitch,” Doctor Jefferson says with a kind smile as he opens the pale wood door to his office.
It’s around five in the afternoon on Tuesday, September 30th. Robby is a week late to this appointment. The hospital-mandated session following the mass casualty incident.
“Well, you know, I couldn’t really skip it,” he half-laughs, scratching at the back of his neck just over the clasp of his Magen David.
He desperately wants hand sanitizer. The thought flares sharp and insistent, but a small voice in the back of his head overrides it as he steps further into the fourth-floor office.
The space is neat, verging on clinical. A green suede loveseat. A black maple coffee table. A burnt-orange area rug. There’s an undercurrent of bleach and linoleum polish in the air, clean enough to sting. The scent pulls Robby out of his spiraling thoughts and back into his body.
Caleb wheels himself around the coffee table as Robby settles onto the sofa, nudging one of the sun-shaped throw pillows aside. Doctor Jefferson lets the silence stretch.
Robby feels it immediately.
Those steady blue eyes watch him with quiet grace. The same look Robby uses on his own student doctors when he’s waiting for them to answer a question they don’t want to answer.
Heat creeps up his neck, only partially hidden by salt-and-pepper facial hair.
He sets his backpack down on his right-hand side.
An old habit.
A quiet reminder of a ghost.
“Doctor Rob—”
“Michael is fine, Doctor Jefferson. I’m not in The Pitt.”
He can’t help it. Doctor Robinavitch feels too formal. Robby feels too personal.
He needs something in between. A thin pane of glass between himself and this mind doctor. Between the life he’s clinging to now and COVID. Between who he was before PittFest and whoever he is after.
Doctor Jefferson smiles, adjusts the wheel locks, and folds his hands in his lap. He leans forward slightly, posture intentionally inviting.
A mug rests on a macramé coaster near his left hand. A yellow legal pad sits open in a brown leather folio on the hospital-issue desk. A pink checkered clock ticks from the bookshelf.
“Did you pick out the furniture, or…?” Robby asks, eyes flitting around the room.
He doesn’t want to look at him. And he definitely doesn’t want to talk about the last five years of his life.
Doctor Jefferson laughs, eyes crinkling. He’s a man who isn’t afraid of joy.
“It started with the couch. Then my wife decided I needed a rug, and it spiraled from there. My daughters are preteens now, so I let them add what they like. Somehow I landed on boho.” He gestures vaguely. “Clients seem to like it. Makes this place feel less like work. The colors help me stay grounded. Kiara and I see a lot of shit.”
This is your peds room, Robby thinks.
His hands rub against his faded jeans. His pinky catches in the hole near the pocket.
The ticking clock grows louder.
“This is work for me,” Robby says finally. “My job depends on it. And one of my closest friendships.” He exhales. “I promised Jack I’d try, and all I’ve done for the last five minutes is come up with bullshit topics and fidget.”
“Let’s call this a chat,” Jefferson replies gently. “It helps. And here’s a trade secret: your random topics and fidgeting have already told me quite a bit. Just like vitals tell you something about your patients.”
He rolls slightly to the side, easing out of Robby’s direct line of sight.
“This is your space. We go where it feels safest. I’m not the enemy. And I’m not judging.”
A beat.
“When’s the last time you slept through the night?”
Robby hesitates.
The kind of pause that gets people killed in The Pitt.
“Define night, Doc,” he half-jokes, wishing for a fire alarm. A phone call. Anything.
Jefferson scribbles a quick note.
“After trauma, sleep disturbances can last weeks. Years. Everyone’s different. But based on the circles under your eyes and the caffeine tremor I noticed before you stepped off the elevator, I’d estimate at least two years.” A glance up. “With an increase in the last two weeks.”
There’s a hairline fracture forming in Robby’s armor.
“I got five hours the night of PittFest,” he says. “Too tired to fight the thought demons. But I haven’t slept more than three hours at a time since Nick’s funeral.”
The words sound distant. Muffled under the ticking clock and rushing blood in his ears.
Another note.
“Nick was a patient of yours who died that morning. A kid. Did his funeral bring you closure, Michael?”
Robby shakes his head, fingers digging into his hair.
“Not like I hoped. It didn’t make up for the old man who died in front of his kids. Or the little girl who drowned. Or—” His voice creaks. “No.”
Jefferson nods.
Another note.
Another beat.
Without realizing it, Robby’s hand finds the pull tab of his backpack zipper. A dollop of vibrant pink sanitizer lands in his palm.
Champagne and tangerine first.
Then the sharp bite of alcohol.
“Fuck.”
He’s still holding the faded green carabiner.
His thumb traces the worn imprint where the logo used to be: The Veteran’s Place. Plastic clicks softly against metal.
A photo of Jake at his middle school graduation.
A small plastic cross stamped Matthew 5:4.
He stares.
This shitty carabiner holds nearly five years of his life.
Jack. The clip.
Heather. The sanitizer.
Janey and Jake. The photo.
Dr. Adamson and Dana. The cross.
The scratch of Jefferson’s pen pulls him back.
“Can you save your charting until after I’m gone?” he snaps.
The anger is misplaced. He knows that. He’s just running out of places to shove it.
He could crack again.
Praying to a God who hasn’t answered in five years. Sitting in a pediatric room full of cartoon animals while he’s covered in the blood of a girl his almost-son loved and the ED explodes around him.
He can’t crack again.
He may never glue himself back together.
Jefferson smiles softly.
“I’m not charting. I’m doodling. It keeps me grounded. Like your hand sanitizer.”
A tilt of his head.
“You didn’t even realize that’s what you were doing, did you? Considering your line of work, I’d call that an excellent coping mechanism.”
The world tilts.
“I thought coping mechanisms had to be grand,” Robby says. “Praying. Journaling. Exercise.” A dry laugh. “I assumed the sanitizer was unresolved OCD. You’re telling me I’ve been self-soothing?”
“Self-soothing isn’t just for children, Michael,” Jefferson replies. “Everyone needs it. And yes. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
Robby smiles faintly. He feels… lighter.
“I’d like to see you again,” Jefferson continues. “Gloria and I developed a program for those who were here during the MCI. Most have started working through that shift.”
A small pause.
“There’s a four-week homework assignment. Nothing overwhelming.”
Robby shifts, sliding the carabiner back into his bag.
“Hit me with it, then. Anything to get me out of this quickly.”
Jefferson smiles.
“Week One: The Five Things You Live For. People. Programs. Activities. But they must be genuine. And each needs an explanation.”
Robby nods.
“Okay. Five things. I can do five things.” A beat. “I mean… I have five things.”
“Take your time with it, Michael,” Jefferson says gently. “We’ll meet again next Tuesday.”