Chapter Text
It’s just another shift.
Too many patients, not enough hands, the usual controlled chaos of the ER. Monitors beep in uneven rhythms, voices overlap at the nurses’ station, and somewhere down the hall, a man is shouting about the wait time like that’s going to make anyone move faster.
Robby barely registers any of it.
He moves through it the way he always does: coffee in one hand, chart in the other, eyes scanning, assessing, prioritising. Years of practice have worn the motions into him until they’re second nature. Muscle memory. Survival.
The coffee’s gone lukewarm. He drinks it anyway.
“Morning, Doctor Robby,” someone calls as he passes.
He gives a slight smile and nods in acknowledgment without slowing.
The hub is already busy when he gets there. A cluster of nurses, a couple of residents, someone arguing quietly over a chart. Normal. Good. Normal means predictable, and predictable means manageable.
“Dana,” Robby says, slipping in beside the station.
She glances up, already halfway through writing something. “You’re late.”
“I’m two minutes behind,” he replies, setting his coffee down. “That’s not late, that’s fashionably delayed.”
She snorts. “Tell that to the guy in central seven who’s been asking for you every five minutes.”, she looks up and point towards the closed room right opposite her with her eyes.
“Is he dying?”
“No.”
“Then he can wait another five.”
Diana shakes her head, but there’s a hint of a smile there. “We’ve got a new batch today. Interns, med students. Fresh meat.” Robby glances toward the door, then adds, "Remember your first day?" His voice softens just a notch. “Huh don’t I? Shit was terrifying. But I’m sure they'll settle in, they always do.“ Dana chuckles as she scribbles something on the chart in her hand.
“Great,” Robby mutters. “Just what we need.”
“Alright,” he says, straightening slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”
Robby taps the counter once, as if sealing a promise, and for a brief moment, he straightens, ready to greet the newcomers with something like encouragement.
And right on cue, a small group filters in; nervous energy practically radiating off them. Some try to look confident, while others appear as though they’d rather be anywhere else. Clipboards clutched a little too tightly, posture a little too stiff.
Robby exhales, already bracing himself.
“Dr. Robinavitch?”
Robby’s head snaps up. “Yeah.”
A young woman steps forward, posture straight, already trying to look like she belongs there. “Melissa King. I’ll be joining you today. Just finished two months at the VA.”
Robby studies her for half a second, then offers a hand. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
She takes it immediately; firm grip, a little too eager. “Thanks. I’m really glad to be here.”
More staff and trainees begin filtering in behind her, the morning shift assembling into place. The usual controlled spill of bodies, coffee, badges, and half-awake focus.
Robby raises his voice slightly.
“Alright. Morning, everyone. Over here.”
The group drifts closer, forming a loose semicircle around the station.
He gestures lightly toward Melissa. “Second-year resident, Dr. Melissa King. Just came over from the VA.”
She corrects him quickly, almost reflexively. “Everyone calls me Mel. And I’m happy to be here.”
Robby nods once. “Good. Try to stay that way.”
A few quiet huffs of laughter ripple through the group.
Then the introductions begin properly.
Names. Levels. Institutions. The usual rhythm; fast, rehearsed, slightly tired.
“Trinity Santos, intern.”
“Victoria Javadi, third-year medical student.”
One after another, they step forward, voices blending into the familiar pattern of a new shift trying to establish itself.
Robby listens with half his attention, the other half already running ahead; bed status, staffing gaps, incoming patients. He nods when appropriate, files names where they matter, lets the rest fall away.
“Alright,” he says once they’ve finished. “You’re here now. That means you’re working now. Welcome to the Pitt.”
He’s done this a hundred times.
Maybe more.
He doesn’t notice him at first.
Why would he? There’s nothing unusual about a new med student. Early twenties, nervous, trying not to look it. They blur together after a while; different faces, same expression.
Robby’s already moving on, explaining how things run here: who’s in charge of what, how the flow works, and what not to screw up if they want to survive their rotation. He throws out a few quick tips, practical and real. Do: write everything down, even the stuff you think you’ll remember. Do not leave your pager unattended. Ask questions before you act, not after. Never ignore a nurse calling your name. If you don't know the answer, say so; guessing can get someone hurt. Trust your team, and learn fast. The little things make the difference between chaos and just another day.
“You’ll be assigned—”
He stops.
Not fully. Just a fraction of a second. A hitch.
There’s a feeling. Subtle. Irritating. Like something just slightly out of place.
Around him, the group shifts; small movements, exchanged glances, the quiet recalibration that comes with realising this isn’t orientation anymore. This is work. Already.
Someone clears their throat. A pager goes off down the hall. A nurse calls out for labs that should’ve been drawn ten minutes ago.
Normal resumes, like it always does.
Robby exhales through his nose and continues, voice steady again.
“Right. You’ll be paired up with senior residents depending on the board. You’ll report to your senior residents, either Dr. Collins or Dr. Langdon, who will report to the attending on shift, which today is me.” He tilts his head slightly, indicating the two residents at the edge of the hub. “If you’re not sure where you belong, ask before you waste time standing around looking lost.”
A few nods. Someone scribbles too fast to keep up.
He gestures loosely toward the corridor.
“This is an ER. Things move fast whether you do or not. Keep up, or don’t. But don’t slow it down for everyone else.”
A beat.
“Alright. That’s it. You’re here now. So start working.”
That should be the end of it.
It usually is.
Robby turns slightly, already half-moving back toward the hub— and then stops.
Not because he meant to. Because something is off.
At first, it’s nothing specific. Just a weight in the air that doesn’t belong. The feeling of being observed a second too long without the usual nervousness that follows it.
He ignores it.
Takes a step.
Keeps talking.
“And if you have questions, don’t hesitate to ask questions, but don’t get in the way either. This is a teaching hospital, but it is also a working ER first and foremost, not a classroom—”
But the feeling stays.
Still there.
Still fixed.
And then he feels it again.
Someone’s staring at him.
Not unusual.
Robby’s used to it. New rotations always mean fresh eyes trying to figure things out. Who’s in charge, who to impress, who to avoid. It comes with the territory.
He ignores it.
Keeps talking.
First days always come with nerves; wide eyes, stiff posture, too eager or too quiet. He’s seen it a hundred times.
But this one doesn’t look away.
Robby’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward the group.
And finds it.
A pair of eyes that haven’t moved.
Not scanning the room. Not looking away. Not adjusting to the noise or the movement around them.
Just on him.
Waiting.
And something in Robby’s chest tightens; small, immediate, uninvited.
Not recognition yet.
Not fully.
Just the sense that something in the pattern of the day has gone slightly, impossibly wrong.
Finds him.
And pauses.
There’s nothing obviously wrong. Just another face in the crowd. Dark hair. Pale, maybe, but that’s not exactly rare in a hospital setting.
Still—
There’s something… familiar.
Robby frowns, the words he’s saying slipping into autopilot as his mind shifts focus.
Where have I—
No.
He looks away.
Keeps going.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
It lingers.
Pulls at him.
He glances back again.
The kid is still looking at him.
Not nervously. Not uncertainly.
Just… looking.
And that’s—
That’s what’s wrong.
Robby’s chest tightens, just slightly.
He studies him more closely now, trying to place him. Running through faces, names, and years of memory like flipping through a stack of charts too fast to read properly.
It doesn’t make sense.
He looks like him but—
No.
No, that’s—
That’s ridiculous.
It’s been thirty years.
Thirty.
People don’t just—
His gaze sharpens.
Really looks this time.
And the thought lands, heavy and unwelcome:
Twenty-three.
The kid can’t be older than twenty-three.
Robby’s throat goes dry.
That’s impossible.
Faces change. Age, time, life; it all leaves its mark. He knows that better than anyone. He’s seen it happen over and over again.
But—
It’s the eyes.
That’s what it does.
Not the face; not really.
The eyes.
Robby knows those eyes.
He’s known them for years. Stared into them across library tables, across stacks of books, across too many sleepless nights to count. He remembers the exact shade—the way blue and green catch in the light, the tiny speckles that most people wouldn’t even notice.
He always did.
His heart stutters.
No.
No, that’s—
That’s not possible.
Because if it were—
“…Vlad?”
The name slips out before he can stop it.
Quiet. Barely there.
But in the sudden, strange stillness that seems to wrap around them, it might as well have been shouted.
The student freezes.
Just for a second.
Just a fraction too long.
And that’s all it takes.
Something cold settles in Robby’s chest.
The student’s expression shifts; subtle, controlled. Whatever flickered there is gone as quickly as it came, replaced with something neutral. Polite. Distant.
Shuttered.
“I think,” he says evenly, “you’ve mistaken me for someone else, Dr. Robby.”
Robby doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Just stares.
Because he knows that face.
He knows those eyes.
And somehow—
Somehow—
They’re looking at him like he’s a stranger.