Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robby has never considered himself a masochist, yet he seriously begins to question it when he finds himself coming back, day to day, to the place that has caused him the most pain. He thinks maybe it’s because that same place is also the one where he’s felt the most alive, and happy at times. It’s the place that has taught him the most, for better or for worse. Life and loss.

He takes in a breath of fresh air, trying to make the most out of his ten-minute walk from the car to the hospital’s main entrance. The scent of fallen leaves, crushed and decaying on the ground, fills his lungs. He takes it all in before the sterile tang of disinfectant and overused hand sanitizer takes over his senses five minutes later.

Maybe his therapist is right. Maybe he does find comfort in control; running the ER, treating patients, teaching his residents, interns. He never thought that to be true until Pittfest happened a few weeks ago.

He remembers the helplessness, the vulnerability he felt. So out of control on a day when people were counting on him the most– where he was counting on himself the most. He went home that day unable to keep lying to himself that everything was fine, that he didn't need therapy to begin with. When Abbot suggested it that night, it didn’t feel ridiculous to consider it anymore. So he did. He went through with it, finally.

It made him uneasy to think about his friends knowing this way before he did. He thought about Dana offering to listen to him if he ever needed to talk and shutting her down as soon as the words left her mouth. He thought about Abbot’s words up on the roof that night. They saw right through his pain and he was too stubborn to even acknowledge that he needed help.

But, the moment that weighed on him the most is when Whitaker saw him in peds. Panicking. His moment of ‘silent reflection’, is how he called it.

He still thinks about it. How Whitaker didn’t just leave him there, but instead, talked him through it, offering his hand to Robby. Believing in him. 

Mind you, it was this kid’s first emergency medicine rotation. This is the first impression Robby gave him. And he hated himself a little for it. He hated how weak and out of control it made him look. Sure, they talked about it, and Whitaker swore he wouldn't talk to anyone else about it. Robby trusted him somehow, but there was still this pit in his stomach whenever they met eyes. He could feel something had shifted but couldn’t place a finger on it, he didn't like it. Looking into his eyes made him relive the moment, when he was looking down at Robby, hand extended, hope written all over his face. It was laughable.

Robby felt anything but hope in that moment. How could Whitaker look him in the eye after that?

Even so, Robby found himself going back to the pitt. He couldn’t not go back. It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship. A very toxic relationship at that.

He pushes through the glass doors, only to be found with a packed waiting room, as usual. The sound of beeping machines, loud conversation, endless coughing and kids crying had become part of his morning playlist. Well, daily playlist if he’s being honest. It never ends.

He’s walking over to central when he sees Dana, lips curling up the minute she sees him.

“You look…tired.” mutters, almost like she doesn’t want Robby to hear the end of her sentence.

“Good morning to you too.” he replies, eyes rolling, head shaking in amusement. She ignores him.

“You been getting enough sleep? This seems to be your signature look nowadays,” she states, her head tilts before she cracks a smile upon seeing his reaction. “What? It’s a genuine question.”

“Okay, and I’m ignoring you. Where’s Abbot?” He’s looking around, searching through the crowded space, his eyes stop when he sees that familiar messy light brown hair moving swiftly from one room to another. 

“He left a little earlier today, had a rough night,” she says, her voice shaking Robby from his train of thought. “That reminds me, Whitaker was looking for you earlier.” Robby looks at her, she remains expressionless, raising her brows when Robby doesn’t respond.

“Why was he looking for me?” He gulps.

“Beats me. He’s your student, is he not?”

“Right, yes. I’m gonna go get ready for rounds.” She nods as he’s turning around to leave. The phone rings and she leans over the counter to pick it up.

He’s steadily making his way to room ten, where he previously saw Dr. Mohan with a patient. A patient that has definitely been in here way too long and could be discharged to free up a bed.

Robby slides the curtain open, Dr Mohan isn’t there anymore, instead he’s met with Whitaker’s expecting eyes. He barely has a chance to speak when Dana is grabbing his shoulder, almost pulling him back.

“Robby. Incoming trauma, two minutes out.”

“Okay, trauma one, let’s go.” Robby turns his head back to Whitaker again who’s just standing there looking calm. “Whitaker, come on, we need another set of hands.” He blinks, startled, nods and rushes behind Robby, moving to trauma room one. He spots Dr. Mohan prepping the bay. 

“What do we have?” Robby asks as he’s scanning the setup, out of the corner of his eye he sees Whitaker, lingering by the doorway. 

“MVC, mild chest trauma, conscious and talking.” She replies.

“Whitaker, don’t just stand there, gloves on. You’re running point with Dr. Mohan.” Whitaker mutters a soft ‘right, sorry’ before snapping a pair of gloves on, following Samira’s movements.

The paramedics arrive seconds later, wheeling the patient in. “Male, twenty-four, hit the steering wheel, no airbag deployment. Complains of chest pain and dizziness.”

The team moves fast: Mohan takes the report, nurses attach monitors, someone starts the IV. 

Robby’s voice cuts through the noise, “vitals?”

“BP 108/68, pulse 112.”

“Alright. Mohan, get a liter of saline ready. Whitaker, give me your differentials for chest pain after blunt trauma.”

Whitaker maintains calm, he hesitates for a second before he answers, he avoids Robby’s expecting eyes. “Uh, sternal fracture, rib fracture, maybe pneumothorax?”

“Good, what else?” He pushes. 

Eyes meet–

A hand is extended, Robby looks up, tears blurring his vision. Whitaker brows are scrunched up. For a split second he hears the same tone from that night. Quiet, steady, too gentle, “we need you out there.” His chest tightens.

Robby looks away. He hears a ringing in his ears and shakes his head, hoping to make it go away. Whitaker’s voice brings him back.

“Cardiac contusion.”

“What would you need to confirm cardiac contusion?”

“ECG changes, elevated troponins.”

Robby moves around the bed, palpating the patient’s chest, gentle but firm. “Sternal tenderness, no obvious deformity. We need a portable chest x-ray. Whitaker, prep for a FAST exam.”

Whitaker’s on it, moving swiftly to grab the ultrasound probe from the cart. His hands are shaking, enough for Robby to notice. He drops the gel bottle, but catches it awkwardly. 

He mutters quietly, “Sorry.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. The ringing in his ears is back. “You’re fine. Focus, where do you start?”

“Right upper quadrant, then pericardial–”

“Show me.” 

Whitaker places the probe, he moves it a little too high.

“That’s kidney, not liver,” Robby corrects, sharp. “Angle down, you’re scanning air right now.” 

He takes the probe over Whitaker’s hand– 

Tears in his eyes, colorful walls, head spinning. He hears his own voice echoing, a prayer he hasn’t said since that day. The words blur together.

He’s harsh with it, angling the probe just the way it needs to be. Whitaker has no other choice than to adjust, quickly nodding. He’s frustrated.

The room feels tense. The beeping of the monitor, and hum of the ultrasound is all that breaks the silence. Mohan glances at Whitaker briefly, but says nothing. 

“No free fluid, moving to pericardial view,” Whitaker says, his voice unsteady. He struggles with the angle again. Robby’s hands stay put this time. He opens his mouth to speak.

“Tilt the probe towards the patient’s left shoulder,” Mohan jumps in, her tone gentle in comparison. They both glimpse at her as if they’d forgotten there was someone else in the room.

Whitaker does as told, and finally, the heart comes into view on the screen.

“No effusion..?” Whitaker announces with a hint of question in his voice.

“Are you confirming or guessing?” Robby snaps.

“There’s no effusion.” He says straightening himself, firmer this time. Robby gives a single nod of the head.

“Good job everyone, admit for observation, cardiac monitoring. Mohan, sign the note.” Samira’s head bobs. 

Robby locks eyes with Whitaker. The high-pitched buzz in his ears is absent, he notices. Whitaker is looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, cheeks flushed, the ultrasound probe still in his shaky hands. Robby turns around and leaves without another word.

“It’s okay, you did great,” he hears Mohan’s voice in the distance. “He’s like this with everyone.”

He’s not sure Whitaker will believe that, but he doesn’t protest anyway, he just keeps on walking. 

He isn’t sure where he’s headed, until he’s pushing through a familiar wooden door and he’s met with his own reflection of the bathroom mirror. He’s leaning over the sink when he hears the flush of a toilet and a nurse comes out of the stall. Robby watches as the man washes his hands and leaves in silence, offering Robby a gentle smile and nod.

Robby splashes his face with cold water, rubbing it in a little too rough, as if he’s trying to wake up from a dream. No luck.

He feels off, and it’s not even 9 a.m. What’s wrong with him? It’s been weeks since pittfest, and he’s already been to therapy since. Twice. 

And, okay, Robby’s very much aware he’s not going to get better in two sessions but he had hoped he’d at least be able to look at the bright side of all of this, or even convince himself there is a bright side. 

He’s currently not seeing the bright side of things. Instead he wants to leave and go hide for at least a week in his apartment and not think about anything that’s related to medicine or death or a certain blue eyed, fourth year student roaming the ER knowing this big embarrassing secret about him.

The sound of the door opening is almost drowned out by the running water, Robby is still leaning over the sink, face buried in the palm of his hands.

“Dr. Robby?”

Robby jumps, his voice bouncing off the bathroom walls when he blurts out, “Jesus, fuck.”

Whitaker stands by the door. His big, sad, puppy in the rain eyes looking up at him. He stutters out, “Oh, I– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Robby shakes his head, brushing it off, lips firmly pressed together. 

“Did you need something, Whitaker?” He looks unsure, eyes glued to the ground, hands fiddling with the hem of his scrubs. “Dana said you were looking for me this morning,” he adds when he doesn’t receive an answer.

“Right, yes, I was,” he replies. “I guess I just– I wanted to know if you’re doing okay?”

Robby’s chest grows tighter with every word Whitaker mutters out. He feels his pulse pick up. Why would he–

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Is what he goes with.

“It’s just a…general wonder. No reason in particular. It’s sort of always on the back of my mind, so I thought I’d ask,” he says, offering a gentle smile, rubbing his hands against his sides.

Robby’s brain goes blank. Whitaker’s smile slowly disappears by each second passing in silence. He just has to say he’s okay, he’s done that plenty before. True or not. But the words feel stuck in his throat, like they’re sick of being overused. All he can do is stare into Whitaker’s worried eyes and hope that's enough answer for him.

It’s not.

Somebody walks in, and Robby’s chest deflates like all the pressure’s just been taken off. His posture softens and before he knows it he’s driving forward and grabbing Whitaker by the shoulder, slowly guiding him out of the restrooms. Whitaker follows without question.

They’re walking, Whitaker still in his tight grip like he’s suddenly gonna run off. Robby stops once they’re almost out of sight. He doesn’t know who he’s hiding from, but the least he wants right now is any type of rumors involving him and Whitaker.

Robby’s hand drops, he stores both of them in the pockets of his pants. Whitaker looks at his own shoulder– it lingers a second too long, then back at Robby, like he’s not sure what just happened.

“Listen,” he begins, not knowing where his words will take him. That preoccupies him a little. “You don’t have to worry about me. Whatever happened that day, it’s not gonna happen ever again, okay? I’m fine, I’m doing better but you looking at me like that– like–”

“Like what?” Whitaker breathes out, barely audible. His brows are furrowed and Robby’s afraid he’ll burst crying right on the spot.

“Like I might break at any moment! Like you’re waiting for me to have…” Robby lowers his voice, almost to a whisper. “Another breakdown. It’s not helping.” He shakes his head repeatedly; his hands come out of his pockets, palms pressed together in front of his chin. “You have to stop whatever it is you’re doing right now, I assure you I’m fine, but you have to leave me the fuck alone.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound this harsh, but his voice always betrays him when he’s feeling cornered. It’s done, though. He said what he said and he can’t take any of it back now. 

He feels possibly worse than before when Whitaker doesn’t respond, perhaps he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Perhaps Robby scared him off and that should make him feel relieved, but it’s the opposite of everything he’s feeling right now. Relief is at the bottom of the list. In fact, it’s nowhere to be found on the list of things he’s feeling.

Whitaker opens his mouth, but closes it after a second. He nods once, “Got it. I…I’m sorry.” He looks around, and leaves. Nothing more. No glances back.

The space suddenly feels empty. Robby closes his eyes for a minute, and exhales loudly. Like he's waiting for the moment where the weight is finally lifted off his shoulders. He takes a moment, looking at the spot where Whitaker was standing, before heading back to work.

~ ~ ~

The end of the shift finally comes. 

Robby had a hard day, he lost two patients, an EMT got punched in their waiting room, Myrna was back to calling him fruitcake and occasionally cocksucker when things didn’t go her way, a sick kid had projectile vomited on him, and Whitaker was full on avoiding him.

After their talk, Whitaker won’t so much as breathe near him, and he should be happy, he really should. Except he feels really fucking anxious and desperately looks for him every chance he gets just to make sure he’s okay but Whitaker won’t look back at him. 

Whenever Robby would go check on a resident’s case and Whitaker was there, he’d just stand there, eyes everywhere but where they should be. Not a word uttered. Robby’s not sure he remembers what his voice sounds like. Not that it matters but it somehow does. He’s aware he’s being dramatic.

He’s getting some air, soaking in the city sounds from afar – the wail of an ambulance growing louder and louder, people talking in the distance, a breeze of fresh air whistling softly past his ears. Before he leaves to finally go rest, Dana finds him.

She’s got on a red hoodie that’s definitely too big for her– she’s positively drowning in it, and a backpack hanging on her shoulder. Her hair disheveled and frizzy, which is pretty normal after a very long shift. Robby’s sure he looks like death after this shift. His eyes feel heavy and all he wants to do is go home and sleep for 20 hours straight. He’ll settle for 5.

“You seemed a little tense today, Robby,” she says, placing a cigarette on her mouth. “Is everything okay?”

He gets a sense of deja-vu.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Got me.”

“I’m okay, Dana,” he sighs. He says it like he wants it to be true. Desperately. He needs another session with his therapist. He realizes he can't just use the excuse that he's in therapy trying to be better when in practice he's really, really not. He doesn't know what he’s doing, doesn't know why something that happened weeks ago still matters this much to him. He doesn't understand any of it, therefore he doesn't know how to feel it properly.

“Listen, I’m not even gonna pretend to believe that, but you were a bitch to the students today. Especially Whitaker,” she points out, voice calm. Robby can feel his heart slamming against his ribs, too fast, too loud. He scratches the back of his head, his gaze darting away.

“Did he say something?” he finds himself asking, pressing his lips together. Robby knows the answer but he still hopes it’s different to what he expects.

“No, he didn’t say anything, he’s a good kid. But I have eyes, Robby. Everybody does.” Robby nods, looking at his own feet. Dana continues, “He doesn’t deserve you taking out your unresolved shit on him, he’s too polite to say anything about it.”

With that, she leaves. And Robby feels like an asshole. She’s right, she’s always right. He wishes he could just stop feeling altogether, turn his emotions off. At least until he figures out what his problem is.

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing, Robby knows he’s a professional at repressing his emotions. He really is. And it’s worked out great for the last few years, he can't complain. It’s like he’s putting a band aid over a band aid over a cut that’s still bleeding underneath it all.

If he doesn’t think about it, it can't be a problem. This has been Michael Robinavitch’s motto since 2020.

The problem is, that hasn't really been the case for these past few weeks. Something’s different because his favorite coping mechanism isn’t working. The more he tries not to think about it the more trouble he causes, and when he tries to think about it he risks going into a spiral mode all over again, which he’s not willing to get into, if he’s being honest.

The other thing is, he’s being a hypocrite. He knows it, yet he can’t seem to stop. His mind is constantly yelling, screaming, begging him to stop, but it’s like his body isn't really taking orders at this time. 

He’s a hypocrite because he can’t stay away from Whitaker. He was this giant asshole who told the boy to leave him the fuck alone, and when Whitaker actually left him the fuck alone, Robby could not stand it. 

If that’s not bad enough, let’s add to the list that Robby can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. It’s always something. A lingering touch on the shoulder, a gentle pat on the back after he did good with a patient, a hand on the nape of his neck to guide him through the crowded hallway, his thumb lightly brushing over the boy’s skin. You name it, apparently there’s always a reason for Robby to have his hands on Whitaker. It’s all harmless, Robby thinks, it’s friendly. 

He knows maybe he should apologize, but he’s really not an apologizing kind of guy. And Whitaker hasn't said a word to him about their conversation two days ago. Robby has a feeling he won’t. So he keeps avoiding the topic in his mind. And keeps on touching him. 

It’s not like he hasn’t made any progress, though, he’s kept himself from being harsh and mean to Whitaker again—or to anyone else for that matter. He’s got it under control. This past week has been overall normal. No unusual outbursts, no hiding in the restrooms, no panic attacks in peds. Everything’s been relatively normal. 

At least, for now.

Robby steps into room six, clipboard in hand. Dr. King is right behind him, as eager and cheerful as she always seems to be. Robby kind of envies her in that aspect, she always has such a positive outlook on everything. And even when she’s feeling down, you can tell she’s not the kind of person who pushes that aside, instead, she finds a way to make room for those emotions. A quality Robby clearly isn't familiar with.

Whitaker is already in the room when they arrive, Mel makes her way to his side, while Robby lingers by the door, arms crossed.

Dr. King clears her throat gently, “Good morning, sir. My name is Dr. King and this is student doctor Dennis Whitaker, he will be assisting me today. What seems to be the problem today?” Her lips tug upward.

The man on the bed—mid forties, salt and pepper hair, gives a tired smile. He greets her, and informs them he’s been feeling pressure in his chest as he motions with his hand.

“Any shortness of breath? Nausea?” Whitaker asks, pen poised over his notepad, eyes focused on what he’s scribbling down, looking up to the patient whenever he’s done writing.

The man responds, both Whitaker and Mel keep digging deeper, asking all the right questions to get to a diagnosis. Robby’s not exactly listening. He knows the patient’s stable enough and they both have it under control. 

He knows he could be elsewhere. Somewhere he’s actually needed. There are plenty of cases, and enough people in the waiting room waiting to be seen.

He ignores that thought too. What he does listen to is how Whitaker’s voice shakes lightly when he speaks, nervous but keeping himself composed to look professional in front of the patient. He notices how he tries to calmly explain all the medical terminology Mel just said in actual human language so the man is more comfortable and knows what’s actually going on. Robby notices the way Whitaker's hand is firmly holding the pen, furrowing his brows every time he’s about to ask something, how he pauses and breathes in right before answering Mel’s teaching questions. 

When they’re done, Robby hums from where he’s standing, he catches Whitaker’s eyes for a second. “Go ahead,” he says, nodding slightly, inviting Whitaker to lead.

Whitaker straightens his posture, like a gained confidence. “Okay, sir, we’re going to order some tests. An EKG, some bloodwork to check your cardiac enzymes, and a chest X-ray to rule out anything else. We’ll also keep you on the monitor while we wait for the test results.”

Robby tilts his head. “And your differential diagnosis?”

Whitaker takes a breath, glances shortly at Mel, and back to the patient. “Could be stable angina, maybe mild ACS. Less likely GERD, but I wouldn't rule it out until we see the EKG.”

The patient shifts on the bed, exchanging looks between all three of them. “Is that.. serious? Am I gonna be okay?” Whitaker freezes for a moment, thinking his words through, long enough for the patient to notice, he continues, “Should I…call my wife?”

Mel is about to jump in, before Whitaker leans closer to the patient, voice soft. “Right now your vitals look stable, and you’re in the right place. We’ll run those tests to make sure your heart’s okay, does that sound good?”

The man nods, breathing easier already. “Okay, yes. Thank you.”

Whitaker offers a reassuring smile, one that does not reach his eyes, before turning to the nurse. “Let’s get a troponin, CBC and CMP, please. I’ll order the EKG.” The nurse nods.

Robby’s still watching him quietly, leaning against the door while Mel is checking on the patient's IV. Whitaker is concentrated, jotting a quick note on his pad when he turns to leave, almost bumping into Robby. He finally looks up. 

Robby steps aside to let him through, an encouraging hand is placed on the boy’s shoulder. He feels embarrassed to admit that he’s already memorized the way he feels Whitaker tense under his touch. “Great job, find me when the results are up.” Whitaker is the first to break eye contact, like he’s afraid, he nods quickly at the ground, but doesn’t make an attempt to get away from Robby’s touch at all. Robby pauses for a moment, until he’s reminded there’s people around and he lets his arms fall to his sides. When he finally turns to leave, he catches Dr. King’s glance within the corner of his eye.

Robby walks out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him. His fingers twitch at his side. He flexes his hand once, small and involuntary as he sharply exhales through his nose.

The day goes by quickly. A couple of consults with Samira, two major traumas that they  fortunately manage to save, a kid with a sprained wrist, three discharges, four waiting for a bed upstairs.

Robby feels relatively calm, which is an unusual feeling for him working in the Pitt, though he’s very aware he’s forcing himself not to let his eyes wander in search of Whitaker, with no luck. Every time he looks up from a chart, or rounds corners, there he is again. Talking to Mel, laughing with Santos, taking notes. He’s just…existing. And somehow, that’s enough to throw Robby off balance. 

It’s enough to speed the rate of his heart before he tears his eyes away and finds something to keep him busy. Distracted. He’s taken more breaks today than he usually does, hoping the fresh air will wipe all of his worry and all of these feelings buried deep in his chest he doesn’t quite understand.

He told Whitaker to keep his distance and he felt like shit, he’s around Whitaker again and still…he feels like shit. 

He’s back at the nurse’s station reviewing a chart, his elbows resting on the counter as he’s focused on the patient information before him. His eyes glide over the words on the screen when he feels soft fingertips gently tapping over the sleeve of his arm. The touch feels light, barely there, but it makes him short circuit. The warmth of it feels awfully familiar, yet so unknown to him at the same time.

He looks up from the screen and it takes a moment before his brain catches up. Robby turns around, stiffening instantly, he lifts his glasses to rest on the top of his head. 

Whitaker blinks innocently, pulling back. “Uh, I have Mr. Lawson’s results,” he says quickly, like maybe if he talks fast enough, Robby won’t take notice of what just happened. Too late for that, he’ll need 1 to 2 business days for his brain to work again. Every word he was about to say evaporates, like it never existed. Whitaker goes on. “The chest pressure guy who doesn’t take his meds.”

Robby clears his throat, forcing himself to look composed. Like he wasn’t just completely thrown off for receiving a tap on his arm. “Alright,” he mutters as he holds out his hand. “Let’s see.”

Whitaker passes him the tablet. Their fingers brush, just for a second, and Robby feels it like a static shock from which he cannot pull away. His ears feel warm, which is stupid, because he isn’t embarrassed. 

“The EKG shows mild ST depressions on the lateral leads,” Whitaker says, wide blue eyes staring up at him. “The first troponin’s slightly elevated.”

Robby scans the screen, jaw clenched, fingers buzzing. He hands the results back to Whitaker rapidly, and gulps so loud he’s sure everyone heard. “What do you suggest?”

“Uh, repeat the troponin in three hours… and start him on aspirin and a low-dose nitro drip.” Whitaker replies, voice steadier than he looks.

“And page cardiology for a consult,” Robby finishes for him.

Whitaker agrees, his cheeks tinged a soft shade of pink. He presses the tablet against his chest, Robby’s eyes tracking the movement of his throat as he swallows. “Got it, and I’ll um… update Dr. King.”

Robby hums in acknowledgment and pretends to refocus on the chart from earlier. He doesn’t say good job this time, he doesn’t quite trust how it might come out. He resists every urge in his body to watch him leave. His eyes read the same word over and over again until he knows the boy is out of sight and he feels like he can breathe again.

He sets the tablet down on the counter and runs his hands down his face with a sigh. There’s an unfamiliar sensation resting in the pit of his stomach, his pulse is loud in his ears, drowning out his surroundings.

He should be over this feeling. It’s been weeks, and he’s sure Whitaker isn’t thinking about any of this anymore. His breakdown during pittfest, their talk afterwards, their encounter where Robby snapped at him in a way he did not deserve at all. Is he feeling so guilty about it that he can’t even look at the boy without feeling like he needs to go back to that pedes room to spiral all over again? He’s trying his hardest to bury himself in work, focus on something he can control. Yet he can’t seem to shut his mind off for a minute. No matter what he does, it keeps circling back to him. 

Before Robby realizes, his eyes are locked on him again. Standing there across the room, messy hair that falls over the boy’s forehead, eyes soft and focused as he’s nodding along to something Mel’s carefully explaining. He then laughs at something she said. Robby somehow hears it, across the chaos of the ED, a quiet, breathy chuckle. He blinks once, hard, like he’s willing his body to behave.

“You okay there, man?” The question breaks Robby out of his trance, eyes finally dragging away to find Abbot standing next to him. His eyes follow Robby's gaze, but he turns back to him, confused. “What are we staring at?”

Robby instantly shakes his head, scratching his beard. “Nothing. Just…zoned out for a moment.” he replies, looking down to the watch on his wrist. “God, is the shift over already? I thought this moment might never come.”

“You missed me that much?” A smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, Robby can’t help the chuckle that escapes his mouth. “Good shift? You okay?” Jack repeats his question that went unanswered the first time.

He thinks about it for a moment. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. For some reason, he’s been having trouble lying when it comes to this question. Maybe because he doesn’t even know the real answer to it. Is he okay? These past few weeks have felt like he’s back on the roof again, standing over the edge. A breath away from crumbling.

“I uh, I’ve been better,” he shrugs his shoulders, lips pressed together. “You know how it is.”

Jack nods slowly. “I do know.” He pauses, tilting his head, searching for Robby’s eyes. “I also know you’re great at repressing emotional stuff. Storing it away in the back of your mind hoping it never comes back to bite you in the ass.”

Robby flinches, though he now knows Jack is right. And Dana was also right when she called him out too. They mean well, he knows they do. But it still feels like pressure. And he’s actually doing the work for once, going to therapy. Being forced to dig into all the shit he’s spent years refusing to look at. He wasn’t even entirely sure what was waiting for him behind that door after all these years. It’s been overwhelming to say the least. But this thing with Whitaker, it’s different in so many ways. He never dares to talk about it with his therapist, afraid of it sounding like a real problem. For now this is only in his mind so it might as well be something he’s making up. A trick his mind has been playing on him to see how far he can go. To see how much he can take.

“I’m here if you need to talk, you know?” Jack goes on, he lays an encouraging hand on Robby’s shoulder.

“I’m working on it, Jack,” he confesses, the words are hard to utter. But he’s hoping it's a good enough answer for him. He taps his hand against the counter once. “I’m gonna go finish up, tell the day-shifts to start the handoff.”

Jack nods, and without another word, Robby’s off to finally wrap his day up.

He checks up on the few patients he has, and fortunately, everyone is stable for now. He’s just outside central 14, warning Dr. Shen about a patient’s highly emotional family member that will need reassurance every 15 minutes while they wait for test results to come back. Dr. Shen skims over the patient’s chart and gives him a thumbs up without protesting. Robby mirrors his action with a content smile on his face before he’s heading to his locker to gather his belongings before he heads home.

He turns one last time, scanning the room for any remaining day shifts. Robby always likes to be the last one to leave, to be sure he’s not needed anywhere else before he leaves. He spots Samira and Mel only a few feet away, talking to Dr. Ellis about their patient. He catches Samira's eye and motions with his hand for her to finish up. She gives him a single nod, before he turns back around, giving her a thumbs up too.

He’s rounding the corner when he overhears his name. A low voice, almost a whisper. Robby stops in his tracks and looks around, confused. He takes another step forward, slowly.

“What do you mean?” 

It’s Whitaker. In the lockers, he’s talking to someone.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed he’s been acting off lately.” Robby recognizes Dr. Santo’s voice instantly. Sharp, quick, unmistakable.

Robby immediately knows it’s him she’s refering to. Robby doesn’t like gossip, he normally doesn’t care what people in the ED say about him. It’s never been something that keeps him up at night. But the thought of this topic being on Whitaker’s lips, after he saw Robby's breakdown a few weeks ago. After he promised not to say anything. After he was the main recipient of Robby’s anger and frustration, and frankly, one of the reasons why he’s been acting off in the first place. It makes him nervous, thinking Whitaker could say the truth just now.

Robby can feel the thumping of his heart against his rib cage. A beat of silence, before Whitaker speaks again, hesitant. “Not really, Trinity.”

“I specifically heard Princess say he snapped at you the other day. And to me, to everyone really. Samira said so too. He’s been kind of…jumpy and… on the edge these days. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

“I really don’t know, but just…cut him some slack, okay? We’ve all been a little tense ever since Pittfest. It was hard on all of us. I think he’s trying his best just like we all are.”

Robby feels his body freeze, and his chest tighten. The feeling of guilt punches him in the gut. Surprisingly, this felt worse than if Whitaker had revealed what really happened. At least for that he would have been prepared, he thinks. He feels like such an asshole for ever doubting Whitaker, thinking he would go around telling everyone about what he saw. He immediately assumed the worst, and here Whitaker is, defending him behind his back. Telling Santos to cut him some slack after having snapped at him and having told him to leave him alone in a very unkind manner. Robby closes his eyes for a moment, and lays a hand on his own chest, begging his body to let go of the air he’s been holding in, begging his feet to move. He needs to go, now.

“Okay, sure, Huckleberry. Defend him all you want. But when he’s lashing out at you in front of the residents calling you stupid and ignorant, don’t come crying to me.” she huffs out a breath.

Robby can practically hear the eye-roll in Whitaker’s voice. “You’re projecting, and Dr. Robby wouldn’t do that.”

A jolt runs through him, hearing him say his name. Their voices trail off as they begin walking away, and Robby’s still stuck on his feet in the same spot. His mind is racing at 500 thoughts per second, but at the same time, it feels blank. Robby runs his hands over his face and before he can stop it, a faint smile flickers across his lips, hesitant and disbelieving.