Chapter Text
Your wrist is cradled against your chest, pulsing in time with your heartbeat in insistent white-hot agony when Eleanor, your elderly neighbor who kindly drove you here, guides you through the sliding doors of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
“Slipped on the ice!” Eleanor announces to the triage nurse. “Landed right on the wrist.”
You can only grimace. The nurse takes one look and winces sympathetically. Vitals, questions, a wristband – everything blurs together under the harsh fluorescent lights. A wheelchair materializes, and you sink into it gratefully as dizziness swells behind your eyes.
Chaos swallows you as you’re rolled deeper into the ER proper – full of chaos, ringing monitors, curtained bays. Voices echo down the halls, urgent and confident.
“Which one is mine?”
One voice cuts through everything else, strangely familiar, and when you look up, your stomach drops.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch strides toward you, hoodie sleeves pushed up his arms, glasses slightly perched at the end of his nose as he reads the triage note in the nurse’s hand. When he looks up, recognition flashes in his eyes immediately – and mortifyingly.
Last time you'd been here, at the not-so-fun end to a night out when your friend fell from the table she was balancing on, you’d (drunkenly) whispered to her that her doctor was hot. Jules, even drunker than you were, had responded by loudly listing, in astonishing detail, all the reasons he was your perfect type and what you should do to him.
Despite your best attempts to shut her up, she’d continued to talk, and Dr. Robby had heard all of it – as had the rest of the ER. You don't think you’d ever been more humiliated.
So the little flicker of a smirk he gives you now is both infuriating and utterly mortifying. His lips twitch into a smile before he schools his face, glancing over at the triage nurse and clearing his throat.
The triage nurse gestures toward you, clueless to the situation at hand. “Slip and fall on ice. Right wrist injury, severe pain, decreased range of motion.”
“I’m Doctor Robinavitch,” he says, opting to feign ignorance as he crouches down in front of you to get a closer look at your hand. “But you can call me Doctor Robby.”
If you weren’t in so much pain or as mortified as you are, you could easily be very distracted by the sudden closeness. His eyes scan your arm, focused and clinical but not in a cold way. You realize you’ve been silent for a while, and blink.
“Hi, Doctor– Motherfucker!”
The curse rips out of you as he reaches out and gently takes your injured wrist, and white-hot pain lances up your arm at the contact. You squeeze your eyes shut, breath stuttering.
Dr. Robby doesn’t flinch, just raises his eyebrows with a nod. “That’s a new nickname for me, but shockingly not the worst one I’ve had today.”
“Sorry.” You grit out through your teeth, the embarrassment giving way to the far more prevalent and overwhelming pain.
“Don’t apologize,” he continues to assess, his touch gentler now. “You’re pretty dressed up tonight, are we interrupting anything important?”
You shake your head then wince at the feeling. “N-No, I just– I was walking back from my friend’s Christmas party, and then there was this patch of ice that came out of nowhere, and–”
Robby makes a humming noise. “Any drinking that might have maybe thrown you off your balance?”
You level him with a look, aware he’s referring to your previous encounter. “No, I was– I was supposed to be designated driver, and then my car wouldn’t start, so… I walked. And then suddenly I was flat on my ass on the curb outside my neighbour’s house.”
He huffs a soft laugh, nodding along as you speak, all the while continuing to examine you – gentle but thorough, fingers lightly poking and squeezing along your arm and up to your wrist – and then he pauses.
“When you fell,” he asks, “Did you hit your head?” His tone shifts, eyes narrowed as he suddenly becomes focused on your face.
You meet his eyes and frown. “I… yeah. I think… Maybe? On the curb?”
“I’m seeing photophobia and a slowness to answer.” He says all this to the nurse, then turns back to you. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.” You swallow, suddenly anxious about your injuries.
“Vision go dark around the edges? Nausea? Confusion? Trouble keeping your eyes open?”
You blink. “Just dizzy. And maybe a little nauseous. And everything feels… floaty.”
He nods, jaw tightening slightly in focus. “Okay. That changes the plan.” He stands and rattles off orders efficiently. “Let’s do a CT head – non-contrast. Wrist series: AP, lateral, oblique. Let’s keep it NPO in case ortho needs sedation for reduction. Neuro checks every hour.”
“Reduction?” You echo weakly, frowning at the scary words being thrown around.
“Realign it without surgery,” he says with a soft, comforting smile. “We do it all the time. And not just for patients who call me hot.”
You wish your fall had knocked you out properly. “Damn, and here I thought I had a shot.” You mumble, watching Robby’s expression twist into a surprised smile.
You lose track of time in a haze of scans, and ice packs, and bright lights, and the sharp sting of pain meds settling into your veins. Snow begins to drift harder outside the windows, turning the night sugar-white.
As the night progresses, the chaos of the ER is in full swing, filled with drunks, slip-and-fall victims, someone claiming holiday-related mercury poisoning – but whenever Robby passes your bay, he makes sure to check in, which only serves to solidify your budding crush on him.
You’re alone for a moment, wrist throbbing under ice packs, when your phone buzzes. Jules. You answer because it’s either that or wake up to forty frantic voicemails tomorrow.
She gasps, face filling the screen. “Oh my God, are you dying? Eleanor said you fell and broke your whole ass–”
“My wrist,” you sigh. “And I’m fine. Just… Stuck here for a while. But you’ll never guess who my doctor is.”
Jules freezes, eyes widening. “No. No. Shut up. Is it the hot one?”
You cringe. “Yes.”
She screeches. “Shut up! Babe. This is fate! This is a Hallmark movie! This is–”
Footsteps approach. “Oh shit,” you hiss, hanging up on her mid-monologue. It’s too late. Robby appears around the corner, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in deeply entertained judgment.
“That the same friend from last time?” he asks.
You cover your face with your good hand, unable to believe this is happening. Again. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations?”
“It’s my ER,” he says, smug. “And your volume control is… Questionable.”
You gape at him. “Questionable?”
He shrugs, far too casual for someone witnessing your humiliation. “I’d say adorable, but I’m trying to keep things professional.”
Your heart stutters – is he… Flirting with you?
Before you can come up with a retort, he lifts the clipboard in his hands. “I come bearing good news.” A beat. “Well, good news and slightly-less-good news.”
Your stomach drops. “Which one is the bad one?”
“That depends on your holiday plans,” he says, flipping the chart open. “Let’s start with your wrist. You’ve got a distal radius fracture – non-displaced, which is the best-case scenario for a fall like yours. No surgery needed, no heroic measures. Just a reduction, a real cast, and a few weeks pretending you’re left-handed.”
You let out a breath. “Okay. I can handle that.”
He nods. “Now the head CT…” He holds up the page, tapping it with his pen. “No bleeding. No skull fracture. Just a mild concussion.”
You sag back against the bed in relief. Then you notice he hasn’t moved. Or smiled. Or stepped away.
“…And?” You prompt.
Robby sighs and crosses his arms. “You’re staying here.”
Your eyes snap open. “Staying how long?”
“At least overnight. Longer if your neuro checks are still abnormal.” You groan loudly.
“You have a concussion,” he says, leaning one hip against the wall, his tone firm. “You’re dizzy, photosensitive, and you nearly fell off the wheelchair when radiology brought you back. We need to keep you around for observation.”
You throw your head back, sulking like a child. “You’re ruining my Christmas.”
“Trust me, I don’t have the time or energy to ruin your Christmas, I’m too busy ruining about twenty other people’s holidays right now.”
Despite everything, you snort. “Wow. Spreading holiday cheer everywhere you go.”
He shrugs. “I can call your friend for you, ask if she wants to come keep you company–”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, smirking. “If you’re good, I’ll let you pick a color for your cast.”
“Wow, Merry Christmas Eve to me.” You retort.
He gives you the faintest grin as he backs away. “Thought so.”
You have to bury your face in your blanket to keep from laughing.
When early morning comes, the ER is slightly quieter. Snow falls outside the huge sliding doors, and Christmas music plays from a too-cheerful speaker someone should be yelled at for bringing in. Robby reappears, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and you frown at him.
“You’re still here? Don’t you guys take shifts?” You find yourself asking with a disbelieving look, and he shrugs.
“It’s the holidays, we’re even shorter staffed than usual.”
“You know, some people go home sometimes.”
He shoots you an unimpressed look. “Well, if I’d gone home, I wouldn’t be here to tell you…” He flips through your chart one-handed, then taps the page. “…that your neuro checks have been stable for six hours, your repeat vitals are rock-solid, and you’re no longer showing delayed responses. In layman’s terms? You’re good to go home.”
Relief washes over you – then fades into something gentler. “Sorry you had to spend your Christmas night babysitting me.”
“I didn’t mind.” He says this too quickly, too casually. Then clears his throat. “I mean – you were an easy patient. Cooperative. Good sense of humor. Minimal cursing.”
“I distinctly remember calling you a motherfucker.” You cock your head, and he laughs, the sound bright and surprising. The moment hangs there, warm and maybe just a little vulnerable.
Not much later, a nurse comes in to fit your sling, giving you instructions while Robby lingers in the doorway, watching you with a sort of quiet attentiveness that isn’t strictly professional. When the nurse leaves, he steps closer, careful with his hands but unmistakably present.
“You’re safe to go home. Just.. take it slow. No more ice ballet.” He pauses. “How’s the pain?”
“Oh, you know. Terrible.” You give him a tight smile.
“Good.”
“Wow, thank you, Doctor. Bedside manner of the year.”
“No, I meant – pain means you’re alive. Means you’re healing.” He grins – tired, lopsided, but real. “Maybe this is why my patient satisfaction scores are so low.”
“Well, you can consider this patient satisfied,” you say to be nice, and then immediately grimace, shaking your head. “Oh, that sounded– Jesus. Please ignore me.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, and you swear you see a pink tinge dusting his cheeks when he glances back up at you.
There’s a weird ache in your chest at the thought of leaving, despite the fact that all you’ve wanted to do for the last day is go home.
Suddenly, you remember something that had occurred to you that morning, and you reach into your bag and pull out the tiny red knitted mitten keychain you’d bought on a whim a few days ago.
“Um. This is for you,” you say, holding it out awkwardly. “Thanks for… Well. Everything.”
He blinks, glancing between your hand and your face. “For me?” He reaches out and lifts it up, putting his glasses on to get a look at it, and your heart melts at the sight.
“It seems… Fitting,” you mumble. “Given the injury, and all.”
He clips it onto his badge, looking down at it with a lopsided smile. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”
Warmth blooms in your face and your chest. And because you’ve survived pain, humiliation, and many scans in the last twelve hours, your courage sparks. “Robby?”
He looks up immediately, cautious but open.
“Since I’m officially not your patient anymore,” you say slowly, “I was wondering if… You’d want to get a drink with me sometime.”
He blinks. Hard. “You’re… Asking me out?”
“Yes.” You smile. “Properly. Not because of the holiday, not because I’m injured. Because I like talking to you. And because I think you like talking to me too.”
His jaw works for a second, like he’s debating something internally. Then he exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose, and mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like “Dana’s gonna win the bet.”
You frown, trying not to be disappointed. “Is that a no?”
He looks at you, and the softness behind his eyes answers before the words do. “I can’t believe this, but,” he says quietly. “It’s a yes.” He scratches the nape of his neck, suddenly somewhat flustered. “Why don’t you give me a call when you’re feeling better, and we’ll… Talk.”
Your stomach flips pleasantly. “Deal.” You breathe.
“Deal.” He echoes, already walking backwards down the hallway.
You turn to leave, and then frown, spinning back around. “Wait, I don’t have your–”
He points at your discharge papers, and you flip them over to reveal a sticky note – his name and phone number written in quick, slanted handwriting. Your heart sings at the revelation that he’d already left you his number before you asked.
“Hey, not bad for doctor handwriting!” You call after him as he disappears down the hall, tiny mitten bouncing on his badge, and you leave the ER with a broken wrist, a mild concussion, and something warm and bright flickering under your ribs as you smile down at the sticky note.
Pause.
“Wait– Mich– Michael? Your name is Michael?”