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sikayeto · 2 months ago

Text

[0500] Monday the 13th

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[michael robinavitch x offspring/daughter reader]

[tw: depressive thoughts]

[summary: no matter what your dad might think, the spreadsheet doesn't lie]

[a/n: this series is going to be incredibly self indulgent. i'm writing this for me, and I'm kind of really proud. no matter how this turns out. hope you enjoy :)]

MASTERLIST

[2] [3]

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[0500] Monday the 13th

Monday is a fucking bitch. You wake up groggy as hell, with your body refusing to cooperate an inch. Monday isn’t any different from any other of the week. The same grogginess. The same frustration. The same crushing, desperate plea from your body to stay and rot in bed. There’s nothing for you out there. Not anymore, at least. You’re a failure, and reminded of it everyday.

Wait. Stop. You have to stop thinking those thoughts and believing them. Remember they’re just thoughts. Okay. Thank you, and goodbye useless thoughts. This suffering serves no purpose. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Repeat. Repeat.

Your hand reaches out to grab your buzzing phone, turning it on displays a bright light that reads 5:35am. Eyes squint to adjust to the offence against your pupils. Monday, the 13th.

Scroll through your feeds. Answer texts from Emily. Check your email. Sitting up, you feel around your bed for the earbuds that fell out of your ears overnight. Small hard lumps touch your fingers and you grasp them. Arising from the safety and comfort of your bed, as you get ready for the day.

Brush your teeth, take a shower. Get dressed, moisturizer and deodorant. A spritz of perfume. Grabbing your comforter and fixing it over the bed to make it look neat. Fluff the pillows.

Meow, you hear outside your bedroom door. Opening it reveals your cat, Reginald. A true gentleman, here to remind you that he would like his breakfast served, preferably on time and before 6am. He sits so prim and proper in the hallway, impatiently waiting for you.

Crouching down, you pick up his small potato sack of a body. Placing him to rest against your shoulder. You make your way to the kitchen of your 2-bedroom apartment. You pause at your Dad’s bedroom door, putting an ear against it. Loud slumbering snores can be heard through the wood. You remember him coming home last night, but you don’t know if he ate, or just went straight to bed. You were in your room trying to study for an upcoming exam this week. The creak of the front door opening alerted you to his arrival home. A couple of shuffling sounds and the closing of his bedroom door was the end of it.

The full plate of cellophane covered lasagna on the kitchen island, tells you that no, your Dad didn’t eat last night. But maybe he’ll eat breakfast this morning. He never works this day, ever since Dr. Adamson died. When you look at him, you know that it’s still a wound that never stopped bleeding. And the day drains all the blood from his body through that opening in his heart.

Maybe you’ll finally be able to spend the day together. It’s been so long since you’ve spent quality time with him. You understand that his job is important, and that he saves lives every day. But you’re important too, aren’t you?

Conversations are had between doorways, texts, or voicemails. They’re short and brisk. You actually see your Dad, maybe a total of an hour a day. 30 minutes in the morning if he eats breakfast, and 30 minutes at night if he’s not too tired to eat dinner. Sometimes you don’t even get to see him at all. Both of your schedules never allowing a time to interact. Him, busy with his job. You, busy with college. That’s the excuse you use, anyway. If anybody bothered asking.

Independent. That’s what you’ve been called by your peers and elders since you were old enough to remember. It’s always just been you and your Dad. Had to be independent. Had to be able to survive on your own for long periods of time. Dad’s working a shift. He’s gonna be there a while.

The sting of bacon fat on your hand brings you back to reality.

You look at the clock hanging above the fridge. It reads 6:30.

The bacon looks crisp and ready to be taken off the heat. You grab a pair of tongs and plate the bacon. Taking two eggs from the fridge, you crack them over the pan, letting them drop and sizzle on the leftover bacon fat. The toaster makes a sound, and you look over to see that the bread inside is done, and sprung up.

Watching the sunny side eggs sizzle, you hear familiar shuffling sounds. Strange, he normally sleeps for longer if he has a day off. You didn’t expect your Dad to be up for another half hour. He sounds hurried. A prickling, heaviness, crawls onto your shoulders. They involuntarily make you hunch. You massage and roll them, in a poor attempt to shake off the oncoming dread.

It’s his day off. It’s your day off, too. You’re going to spend time together. Finally.

He steps into the shared kitchen, dining, and lounge area with a hastiness to his step. He was wearing scrubs underneath his zip up hoodie. Making a beeline to his work bag, he greets you with a, “Morning, sweetheart”.

Your eyes furrow, the dread becomes a sinkhole in your throat. You cough to clear it before replying, “Morning. Dad, where are you going? You never work today”.

He’s still rearranging the things in his bag. He won’t look at you. “I know, honey. But they called and asked me to come in. They’re short on staff, and it’s gonna be a busy day”.

“They’re always short on staff. And it’s busy every day”.

He just chuckles, as if you’re telling a joke. And not telling him a statement.

He moves back to his bedroom, presumably to grab another item. You face away from the stove and toward the hallway, calling out, “You’re still going to eat breakfast with me, right? You didn’t eat the lasagna I put out last night”.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I can’t. I’m running late already, and I need to go”, he shouts back to you. Remorse isn’t what you hear, but an awkwardness instead.

He rushes out of his room, straight to the doorway, putting his airpods and sunglasses on. Opens the front door, and leaves with a parting, “Bye sweetie, have a good day!”

A slam is heard, as he shuts the door on his way out. The smell of charcoal wafts into your nose. Hurriedly, you turn back to the stove. The eggs are burnt.

Reginald, forgotten by both you and your Dad, makes figure eights around your legs. Butting his head against them. Telling you that, at least, he’s here.

You pick him up, and press his little warm body against your. Burying your face against his soft fur. Wetness gathers in your eyes, and itchiness in your throat. A small sob escapes from your lips. You squeeze Reginald, just a touch more.

—

A short cry session later, and you get your shit back together. Just because your plans for the day were disrupted, doesn't mean you don’t have other things that need to be done. There’s a list of errands to be settled today, and you have a practice lab session in the afternoon.

Turning on your tablet, you review the lists of tasks to be completed today. You open a spreadsheet folder, containing an ins and outs record for both Reginald and your Dad. After writing down what food Reginald was served for breakfast, and how much he ate, you open your Dad’s.

01/10/2025

Breakfast: Eggs and Bacon [X]

Dinner: Spaghetti [X]

01/11/2025

Breakfast: Pancakes and Fruit [X]

Dinner: Steak, Mash, and Asparagus [X]

01/12/2025

Breakfast: Oatmeal with Granola and Yogurt [⅓]

Dinner: Lasagna [X]

01/13/2025

Breakfast: Eggs and Bacon [X]

He’s been running on nothing. Basically hasn’t eaten at home for days. Is he even eating at work? With how busy he is, you doubt he even leaves the ER to drink water. Is he even drinking water? Do you need to start monitoring that too? How would you even be able to tell if he drank any or just dumped it out? Assess skin turgor, maybe. Asking your dad what colour his pee is and getting a renal panel might be too much. You don’t think you could trust him to be honest if you asked him how much water he drinks. Coffee doesn’t count, that’s a diuretic. Whatever water you drink from it gets peed out anyways.

STOP. Stop. stop.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. In. Out. In. Out.

Okay, if he doesn’t want to eat at home, that’s fine. He should at least have something filling and homemade to eat at work then. Where he doesn’t have to worry about whether it's contaminated with hospital infections or not.

Check the time. 11:30. Close enough to lunch. You can make a quick stop by the ER to deliver him some of the lasagna you made last night. Heat it up in the oven, pack it, stop by the ER, errands, and then to practice lab.

The lasagna gets a quick blast in the microwave, before being packed in a thermal lunch bag. You shrug a light coat on, and grab your shoulder bag.

One last glance at Reginald before you leave, “Bye, Reggie. Behave yourself, okay?”

He opens his eyes to give you the most judgemental expression a cat could muster. You smile and peck him on his head.

You leave the apartment and make your way to your Dad.

—

You don’t visit the ER often. Could count your visits there on one hand. The bright light bothers you to no end. And the busy noise and endless chatter makes a buzz in your head that’s hard to ignore. This place is a kind of hell. Lives are lost here, but they’re mostly saved. You wonder if that’s why your Dad keeps coming back. Because maybe he feels that, if he leaves, the scales will tip to the other side. Does the God complex come before, or after he became a doctor?

You bypass the waiting room, there’s no point in waiting to be seen for a medical issue when yours isn’t an emergency, unless assessed by a professional that you’re a danger to yourself or others. If you stay too long at the ER, you just might be. Best to be in and out then.

Making your way to the nurse’s station, you spot a comforting face.

“Dana!”

Dana Evans swivels her attention to focus on you. Her eyes widen slightly, in recognition.

“Sweetheart?”, she calls out. “What are you doing here?”

Her perfectly plucked brows are making groves between themselves. Seeing you here is a rare occurrence. Like a unicorn sighting. She knows how much you hate visiting the ER. Hates that it takes your Dad away from you. She’s scared you might be here for something serious.

“I’m here to drop off lunch for Dad,” you explain. “Do you know where he is?”

“I’m sorry honey, but he’s kind of all over the place today. Why don’t you leave it here with me and I’ll make sure he gets it.”

You pout, and pause.

Dana catches it, and with concern, asks “What’s wrong, hon?”

Your eyes flutter back and forth from Dana’s eyes, to her scrubs, the desk, her ID badge, and back to her face. A sigh is released, and you look her in the eyes. “Dad hasn’t been eating well at home for the past few days. Or like, at all.”

You take out your phone and pull up your Dad’s meal record. Handing the phone over to show her. “See? He’s had almost nothing at home for the past couple of days. And I don’t know if he eats lunch at work. Even if he does, that can’t be enough for the amount of energy he burns here”.

Dana hands back the phone to you and purses her lips. “Kiddo, I know you’re worried, but don’t you think keeping a record for what your Dad eats is a little invasive?”

“I know, but if I didn’t keep a record, then I wouldn’t know that he’s been too busy and tired to even meet his basic metabolic needs. Besides, I keep an ins and outs record for Reggie.”

With raised eyebrows, Dana gives you a look and admits, “You got a point there”.

She takes your hand in hers, and the thermal lunch bag with it. “Okay, how about this. I promise to get this to your Dad. And, to take a picture of him eating it. I’ll send it to you during his lunch break. He’s due for one soon anyways”.

Warmth and gratitude fills and overwhelms you. Your arms wrap around Dana in a tight embrace. You press your face to her scrubs, and you can smell antiseptic and hand sanitizer.

“Thank you so much Dana”, you mumble into her clothes. “You don’t know how much this means”.

She returns your embrace with the experience of a mother, who’s hugged her children the same way more than a hundred times over. She rubs your back in gentle circular motions. “Of course honey, it’s no trouble at all”, she reassures you.

Pulling away from each other, Dana takes a good look at you. Holds you by the shoulders, and declares, “Now get outta here, before you start smelling like hospital”.

You giggle, and Dana sees how exhausted you look. There are bags, deep under your eyes. Despite worrying about your father’s dietary habits, you should worry about yours too. Cheeks, more sunken than when she saw you last.

Walking to the exit, you turn back to look at the man made disaster of the ER one more time before. And then you leave. There are errands to do after all. Someone has to get them done.

—

Dr. Robby wouldn’t say this day has been horrible, but he wouldn’t call it peachy fuckin keen either. Gloria on his ass all day. Students here for their rotation. Collins is acting weird. And he can’t even get a minute for himself to take a goddamn piss.

“Robby!” He hears Dana call his name out from the nurse’s station. Her arm is raised, and it’s holding up a bag.

He squints. It looks familiar.

He jogs up to Dana, “What’s up?”

Dana gives him a look, “Your kid was here earlier to drop this off”.

He looks at the lunch bag that she holds in front of his chest. He grabs it and places it on a nearby desk. Unzipping it reveals a container of lasagna, still hot. Love, affection, gratitude. They all bubble and rise in him. When he got home last night and saw the lasagna, he was so excited to eat it. His kid makes the best lasagna he’s ever had. He knows that they make it with love. Make it because they know it’s his favourite. But then he reached his bed, and promptly passed out.

He always felt bad whenever he skipped a meal at home. It was really the only family time he ever spent with his child anymore. He really couldn’t call them a child. They were a young adult now, and in college. All grown up, and it happened so fast. One day, he was packing their lunches. And now, apparently they were packing his.

“Honey says you haven’t been eating at home,” Dana states. “Are you doing okay?”

Robby looks up from the lunch bag, and brushes off Dana’s concerns. “Hm? Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’ve just been forgetting to eat every now and then”.

“Robby, 3 days of not eating a solid meal isn’t ‘every now and then’. Your kid is worried”, she exclaims. “And did you know they has an ins spreadsheet on you?”

A spreadsheet? On him? He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet. “Are you sure it’s on me? I know they have one for Reggie, ever since he got diagnosed with CKD”.

“In big bold letters, the title read ‘Dad’s Meals’. So yeah, I’m pretty sure it was for you”.

He could feel an oncoming headache building in his cranium. Robby takes his hands out of his pockets to rub his face. “Mm, I should probably talk to them about that”.

Dana quickly checks her nurse’s watch, “It’s past lunch. Go. I promised your offspring you would eat, and I need evidence that you actually did”.

He chuckles, feeling a bit mad. “Y’know I would love to actually take a lunch break. If it wasn’t for this”.

He gestures to the chaos of their shared circus of a workplace.

With the will of a charge nurse who’s tired of all his bullshit, Dana grabs the lunch bag and shoves it into her colleague’s arms. “Take this, and go. I’ll cover for you. And take a picture of you eating it so I can send it to your kid. They worry enough about your ass”.

A smile forms on his face, and he says before departing to eat his well overdue lunch, “You’re the best, Dana”.

As he walks away to devour his lasagna made with love, he hears Dana shout to him “And don’t you ever forget it!”

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#the pitt 2025 #michael robinavitch x offspring! reader #michael robinavitch x daughter! reader #dr robby x reader #kid fic #technically college kid fic #michael robinavitch x reader #angst #fluff #family dynamics #the pitt

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sikayeto · 20 days ago

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[0000] Friday the 28th

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[michael robinavitch x offspring/daughter reader]

[tw: descriptions of a violent assault]

[summary: robby hopes it's not too late]

[a/n: last part! i'm so excited for you guys to read it! thank you for all the support! if you want to talk about the series, please feel free to leave a message in my inbox or even a comment! enjoy <3]

[ source (CONTAINS SPOILERS) ]

MASTERLIST

[1] [2]

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He wasn’t a stranger to shame. In fact, he would say that they’re very close acquaintances. Every time shame, guilt, or fear shows up in his life, he tries to bury it six feet deep. Because if you don’t bury those negative feelings, they end up either burying you or, worse, your patients. Do you know who brings up those feelings? The ghosts of the fucking dead that you let die.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch is no stranger to shame, guilt, or fear. Would love to be a stranger to the ghosts that haunt him. He tries his goddamn best every day to bury those feelings so that he doesn’t have to bury any more patients, people, or family. But the hole you dig can only bury so much grief.

When you live hand in hand, married to your grief, do you really live life? Are you experiencing moments in their full capacity? The conversations you have with the people close to you. The things that you do with or to them. There have to be moments where you’re so weighed down that you’re not present at all. That you don’t remember small things. Where you put your earbuds. Eating a meal. Promising to have dinner with your kid.

Fuck. He forgot that he was supposed to be home at 8 to have dinner with his kid. He said he would be there. How long has it been since he’s even seen or talked to them in person? Fuck, they live in the same fucking apartment.

Shame, guilt, and fear of a different kind bubble and boil in his chest cavity and enter his throat. The taste of vomit threatening to overtake his taste buds He forgot; he completely fucking forgot.

There are weights in the soles of his shoes, pulling him down with each step closer to home. Dread is ice cold in his veins, and he’s scared that his heart isn’t circulating enough in his system to poison him. Maybe that would be for the better.

What’s worse than the ghosts of the dead hanging on your shoulders? The disappointment of your child. Who’s alive and here? Alert, awake, blood pumping, air in their lungs. He’s so focused on the people who are already gone that he forgot his fucking kid.

They said they had news. What news? Good news? Bad news? Did they talk to him about it already? He can’t recall what their last conversation was even about. Was it about the cat? Fuck. FUCK. FUCK.

He’s so fucked.

He rubs both hands against his face in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes and the increasing migraine at his temples.

Entering their apartment building, he jogs up a flight of stairs to get to his floor. The apartment at the end of the hallway is theirs. He tries to think of a justifiable reason for being 4 and a half hours late to dinner, with no text or call to warn them. Is there any reason he could give that he hasn’t already given before?

Unlocking the door, Reggie greets him with an escape attempt into the hallway. He quickly scoops up his frankly overweight cat before it could escape any further. Bringing Reggie up to his chest to rest on his shoulder. “Hey buddy,” he nervously greets.

Reggie was normally a docile, affectionate creature. But at times he would freak out on Robby and attack him for no reason. There are a few light scratch lines on his ankles from previous assassination attempts. But he never attacked you. Robby was just the spare human to Reggie.

He closes the door behind him and sets Reggie back down. The apartment is mostly dark, only lit by a singular light fixture above the dining room table. Upon closer inspection, Robby sees dinner. It’s untouched, most likely cold. Or is that just him?

Seeing the perfect dinner drops a boulder in his stomach. Acid more prominent on his tongue. He looks toward the door at the end of their hallway. Your bedroom door. He sees a soft light emanating from the open slit at the bottom of the door. He follows it to your door and knocks.

“Hey, honey,” there’s a tremble in his tone, “I’m so sorry I missed dinner. Time got away from me. And I know that’s not an excuse.”

There’s only silence from the other side of the door.

“You have every right to be mad at me; that’s totally understandable. But, can you please come out so that we can talk?”

Robby wonders if this is what they feel like. Being ignored.

A soft texture suddenly touching his leg makes Robby jump a little. He quickly looks for the source and finds Reggie.

Reggie, who jumps at the doorknob, turning it with his paws, and opening the door. It creaks open slightly, and he walks fluidly inside.

“What the fuck?” whispers a bewildered Robby. “Since when could you do that?”

He pushes the door wider ajar and scans your bedroom. Everything looks to be in its place. But you aren’t here.

Whatever fear of consequences Robby had earlier is replaced with absolute fucking horror.

- - -

“Hey kiddo, can you stay awake for me?” Jack knows fear like the back of his hand. It’s been an old friend for a majority of his life. He thought that he stopped letting it affect him years ago because he learned that if he let his fear control him, people would die. He knew that in this exact moment, if he let his fear spread through his body, he would be letting Robby’s kid die. “Someone get me a face mask with 10 litres of O2!”

After calling out his name, you became unresponsive. Jack’s never seen you so battered and bruised. “Let’s get them in a room STAT! And somebody get me a CT booked NOW!”

Getting your gurney into an open room, the team starts working on hooking you up to assess your vitals. Whitaker and Mel enter the room with a few nurses and one of the paramedics. Jack assesses you from head to toe and looks to Whitaker. “Alright, tell me what you see, Whitaker.”

Whitaker looks up at him surprised and nervously reports, “Uh, they have a laceration on their scalp with foreign material embedded inside; it looks like glass. Echymosis around the throat.”

“It looks like they were choked” goes unsaid but hangs in the air.

He asks aloud to the paramedic, “What was her GCS?”

“13, responsive to speech but confused, able to follow commands,” the paramedic replies.

Whitaker attempts to wake you up. “Hello? Can you wake up for us?” He tries to rub your sternum to get a reaction from you, but to no luck. “They’re unresponsive to pain.”

Jack grabs his penlight, opens your eyelids, and shines it into each of your eyes separately. “One pupil is bigger than the other. What does this tell us, Whitaker?”

“Cushing’s Triad. BP is 222/106, bradycardia, abnormal respirations, and blown pupils. They’re in late-stage ICP; there’s increasing pressure on the side with the bigger pupil.”

Jack nods at him, “Not bad. What could be causing the ICP, Dr. Whitaker? And what do we need to do to make sure it doesn’t continue to increase and kill our patient?”

“The head trauma could have caused blood to pool and clot, causing ischemic stroke, or they could just be having an intracranial hemorrhage. We won't know until they get a CT and the results come out. But we need to decrease ICP and try not to have it increase any more than it already is,” rambles off Whitaker.

“Mhm, solid call. I need IV mannitol and 50 mcg of fentanyl IM. Dr. King, bring the head of the bed up 30 degrees.”

“On it!” Mel says as she rushes over to readjust the head of the bed angle.

“Dr. King, in cases of increased cranial pressure, do we treat the large differential BP?” Jack casually asks.

“No, not until we get a CT first. Treating a BP more than 220 if it’s an ischemic stroke is a bad idea because collateral blood flow is dependent on blood pressure. If we suddenly try to lower her BP without knowing if it's an ischemic stroke, we could be reducing circulation and oxygen flow to the brain.”

One of the nurses finishes hanging a bag and says, “Mannitol is up, and 50 mcg of Fentanyl IM has been administered.”

The vital sign numbers on the screen start stabilizing, and the tension in the room dissipates. Jack looks to Mel and Whitaker. “You two, clean and stitch up their head laceration. Monitor them until CT is ready.”

Jack moves to leave the room and doesn’t look back to answer Mel when she asks, “Dr. Abbot, where are you going?”

“To let the family know”

- - -

Hi, you’ve reached my phone! Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you!

“Sweetie, this is Dad. I’m really worried about you. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

Hi, you’ve reached my phone! Leave a message and I’ll

“Honey, I know that you’re mad at me. But I need to know that you’re safe. Come home. Please.”

Hi, you’ve reached my ph-

“Please. Just please call me back. Send a text. Anything. Please, be safe.”

His phone rings, and his hands scramble to grab and answer it. His shoulders fall in disappointment when he sees Jack on the caller ID. He swipes right to answer the call.

“Jack?” he greets. “Now isn’t really a good time.”

“Robby, your kid is here.”

His whole world stops. The worst-case scenario has arrived. He feels his heart rate spike and his vessels constricting to raise his blood pressure. He whispers back, “I’ll be right there.”

- - -

He thinks he must have broken a few traffic laws with how fast and loose he drove to get to the emergency room in record time. His vision is a bit blurry, and he’s got a headache behind his eyes again. Rushing through the emergency room entrance, he ignores the greetings of familiar employees. Dark brown eyes darting left and right, trying to spot one Dr. Jack Abbot.

“Robby!” he hears his name being called out. A quick turn reveals the man of his focus, and he runs to his friend.

Jack sees a dangerous kind of look in Robby’s eyes. The look of a man who’s on the verge of losing everything. When Robby reaches him, he puts his hands on the sides of Robby’s upper arms to steady him. “Brother, I need you to calm down.”

Robby looks at Jack like he’s fucking insane. “Calm down? My kid’s missing from home, and you call me telling me they’re here. I’m not fucking calming down.”

“Well, if you don’t calm down, I’m not going to be able to let you see them, and you’re not going to listen to me about their current state.” Jack replies with raised eyebrows, trying to get his point through.

Robby thinks he glares so hard at Jack that he should have a hole in him by now. He relents and takes a few deep breaths with his eyes closed. Opens them and raises his own eyebrows at Jack, silently asking him to continue.

“They came in with something in their system, a head laceration with signs of trauma, and rapidly developing ICP. We gave them IV Mannitol and 50 mcg of IM Fentanyl. Vitals stabilized, and they got sent up to CT. CT showed brain hemorrhage, and they’re in surgery now to fix it.”

“What happened to them?”

Jack looks conflicted. Doesn’t know whether or not to tell Robby that someone did this to his child. Someone hurt them. And that they were treating the bastard just a few rooms over for a collapsed lung caused by a stab wound. So instead of bearing that burden, he shifts it. “The police want to talk to you about that, actually. Two detectives arrived after the ambulance and wanted to ask them a couple of questions after they get out of surgery and stabilize.”

He points at two figures dressed in business casual near the nursing station, having a discussion with two coffee cups in hand. Dana is with them, writing down a few things and nodding along at them.

Robby takes long strides over to them, desperate to get an answer. His incoming presence catches their attention, and they look toward him.

“Robby! What are you doing here?” Dana exclaims in surprise.

“Dr. Robinavitch? You’re the father of the victim?” the male detective asks.

“I am. What happened to my kid?”

“Your child was the most recent victim in a string of rape and murder cases my partner and I are investigating. We think that the man that attacked the victim is our culprit. His MO is drugging potential victims with a roofie, isolating them, and using blunt force trauma to knock them out. After getting them to an isolated location, he chokes them until they die from asphyxiation,” the female detective answers, her tone and face equally serious.

Robby is in disbelief. His kid was almost raped and murdered. All because he didn’t come home for dinner on time.

“Wait, you said that he rapes them too. That wasn’t included in your description of his MO,” Jack mentions.

The detectives look at each other awkwardly. “He rapes them posthumously.”

The statement sends out a shockwave of disgust between all of them. Dana looks at Robby, his face deathly pale. Hearing news that horrible things could have happened.

The male detective coughs, “Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. Security camera footage of the club bathroom shows that the victim regained consciousness while being choked and managed to grab a shard of glass and use it to stab the suspect on the side of his chest. Someone found them, called 911, and paramedics arrived. Your child is a very strong person, Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Yeah, they are,” Robby barely manages to choke out.

“We have to take our leave; please call us when they regain consciousness and are ready to make a statement,” states the female detective.

“Wait,” Robby interrupts. “You said that he was stabbed. Where is he now? PTMC is the closest hospital.”

The detectives didn’t say anything, and neither did Dana. But they looked. Just a small glance. At the room behind Robby. The curtains were drawn closed behind the glass doors. Robby saw, and he walked with a purpose.

“ROBBY, NO!” shouts Dana.

He opens the door with force, enters, and closes it behind him.

Inside the room is the man who hurt his child, with Langdon, Santos, and Ellis standing beside him. They abruptly pause what they’re doing to look at Robby’s sudden interruption. Santos’ hands mid-insertion of a chest tube catheter into the man’s pleural cavity.

Robby wonders if the man knew what it was like. To not be able to breathe. The oxygen he deprived his victims of, using his own hands. The hands that wrapped themselves around the delicate throat of his child and attempted to squeeze the life out of it. Wonders if the sensation of drowning in his own blood is a similar one.

Langdon breaks the silence.

“Hey boss, a little early for your shift. Did someone call in?”

Robby doesn’t avert his gaze from the man. Like a predator watching his prey.

“Boss?” Langdon asks, concerned. “You okay?”

“He assaulted my kid.”

Santos’ eyes widen and stare at the man who currently has a tube halfway in. Nobody moves or says anything. They stare at Robby, the man, and at each other.

“Robby,” Langdon starts, “you can’t be here.”

“He roofied them. Bashed their head in. And then choked them. He only stopped because they woke up and stabbed him with a glass shard.”

Silence had never been so loud.

Robby stared at the man a bit longer. Burns the image of his face into his memory. And leaves the way he came in.

The room stays silent, even after he leaves.

- - -

Jack and Dana find Robby on the roof. Standing at the edge, where Jack has stood himself before. They approach him slowly.

Robby doesn’t turn to look at them when he speaks. “They said they had good news to tell me during dinner. I lost track of time and got home 2 hours late. There was a beautiful dinner on the dining table. Ham, mashed potatoes, all the works. It was cold. I thought they were angry at me for missing dinner and locked themselves into their room. But they weren’t there. They were missing. If I were home on time. If I just came home like I was supposed to. They would’ve never gone to the club and gotten attacked.”

Dana looks at him sadly and softly protests, “Robby, you don’t know that.”

He laughs, “Maybe not. But this was the last straw for them, you know. Too many missed meals. Plans I’ve cancelled because, apparently, I would rather be at work than spend time with my child. Who I now notice knows absolutely nothing about it. And you know why? Because I treat this place more like my kid than I ever did them. I put more of my time and effort into this place than my own goddamn child. Look where that’s got me. I’m going to lose them. I’m going to lose them before I even know them, and it’s my own fucking fault.”

“So you’re giving up?” Jack asks. “Just like that? Is this your attitude when they wake up after surgery? Feeling sorry for yourself?”

Robby doesn’t answer him.

“Get over yourself, Robinavitch!” Jack shouts. “They need you! They’ve always needed you! Don’t give up hope on them. That’s the worst thing you can do!”

Robby finally turned his head to shout back at Jack, “What am I supposed to do then?!”

“Be there for them, you fucking idiot!”

Realization hits Robby like a semi-truck.

“That’s all they ever wanted.”

Tears flood Robby’s eyes and flood down his cheeks. He lets out a sob. Dana and Jack rush to get him off the ledge of the hospital roof, and they bring Robby into their arms.

- - -

You look so fragile, lying there in the hospital bed. The only other time he’s seen you this fragile was when you were just born. Small baby, soft, delicate, new to the world, its horrors and beauties. And when your mom left, you stopped being so fragile. Stop asking him to patch up your scraped knees. Asking him to help with homework. Asking him for anything. He can’t say that a small part of him wasn’t grateful that you were an easy child to raise. Never had a rebellious phase as a teen. Top grades in every class. Robby never had to worry about you. He just got used to you not needing him anymore. At some point, he thought he needed you more. You took care of the house. Made sure he ate and took care of himself. Always there for him, but never for you.

He walks up to your sleeping form. Pulls up the chair by the wall towards your bedside and sits down. He places a hand against your face and rubs your cheek. You look so fragile.

He grasps your hand in his.

His vision is blurred, this time because of tears. The exhaustion from his shift and the day’s events catches up to him, and fatigue overtakes him. His eyelids feel heavy and slowly start to close. He lays his head down on the hospital bed, next to his child’s body. Dreaming of the future. Their future, together.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry for everything. I’m sorry for being such a shitty dad to you. For all the time together I missed. I’m sorry for never reaching out to you and checking in to see if you’re okay. You checked in on me. Thank you for that. For everything you did, I ever took for granted. I’m going to need you to do one last thing for me, okay? I need you to wake up. I need you to open your eyes, because I’m not ready to lose you yet. We still have so much time together, and I promise I’m going to be there for you from now on. For everything. I love you, sweetie. So please. Stay with me. Don’t leave me. I love you.”

He doesn’t know how much time passed while he slept. But he feels a soft, repetitive sensation on his hand. He forces his eyes to crack open, and he lifts his head from the mattress.

He sees you, eyes drowsy but open. Elation overtakes him.

Your eyes connect.

“Hi, Dad.”

‐---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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sikayeto · 1 month ago

Text

[2000] Thursday the 27th

-------------------------------------------------------

[michael robinavitch x offspring/daughter reader]

[tw: assault and violence]

[summary: another missed dinner, another gasp for air]

[a/n: this is unedited! but i hope you enjoy anyways!]

MASTERLIST

[1] [3]

-------------------------------------------------------

There’s an overwhelming sense of relief. Hearing the words, “You passed,” come out from your instructor’s lips felt like a dream. A dream you’ve had for the past 6 months. And it came true. It’s a reality. Wet tears stream down your face. A choked sob escapes from depth inside of you.

6 months ago, you failed your final nursing practical exam. Through constant practice, and weekly counselling sessions, you’ve overcome this obstacle that derailed you from your life plans. No longer would the label of “FAILURE” hang above your head. You’re back on track. Exactly where you need to be now.

Leaving the testing room, you pull out your phone and send off a text to your Dad.

[Hey! You’re coming home for dinner, right?]

[I sure hope so]

[Great! I’m making roast and veggies!]

[What’s the occasion?]

[You’ll find out soon!]

[See you at 8!] Read

Warmth rushes into you, and floods your carcass with each breath you take. The weight of the world placed upon your shoulders as you balanced on a delicate pedestal, no longer threatens to make you fall. The bright fluorescent overhead lights of the college didn’t burn your retinas. Instead they highlighted the shades and hues of the furniture and walls. Picked with the sole purpose of uplifting the moods of students. Is this what happiness felt like? Is this how normal people feel?

Ecstatic. Giddy. Delighted. Happy.

Excited. You haven’t felt excitement in who knows how long. You get to tell your Dad the good news. But first, you have to make dinner.

- - -

The apartment is bathed in the warm yellow of lamps and other light fixtures. Honey Glazed ham wafts through the kitchen and permeates the rest of the premises. Singing and dancing along to “The Winner Takes It All” harmonizing from the vinyl player, Reggie makes figure eights between your legs. You pause every now and then to stir a pot of sauce or saute a side dish on the stove. Eyes fluttering every now and then to the clock. Counting down the minutes to your Dad’s arrival.

Good news. You get to tell him the good news.

The oven timer reaches 0, and beeps. Snapping out of it, you grab the oven mitts nearby and take the roast ham from the oven. The glaze on the ham glistens and shines. Steam wisps from its flesh, teasing your olfactory senses with the promise of a sweet and savoury supper. Mashed potatoes are plated next. Whipped to perfection with thick cream and salted butter. A side of oil roasted seasonal vegetables are placed down on the dining table next. A fork stabs one of the carrot pieces and directs the morsel to your mouth. The carrots flavour blooms on your tongue. The texture, you find, is just right. Not too crunchy, and not mush either.

Looking at the meal you’ve painstakingly prepared, another emotion emerges from you. Pride. You’re proud of yourself. It’s been so long, you’ve forgotten what that feels like.

A quick glance at the clock tells you that your Dad is due to arrive home soon.

You start cleaning up the kitchen. Washing the dishes you left in the sink, and wiping down surfaces. Losing yourself to the dulcet tones of the vinyl player and the peace that lays on you like a familiar blanket.

Eyes instinctively gravitate to the clock.

8:10pm

That’s not a problem. He’ll be here any minute now.

8:30pm

He probably just got held up. Any minute now.

9:15pm

He works at the ER. If he’s late, there’s somebody’s life on the line. He’ll be here.

10:00pm.

You sit at the dining table. The ham’s gone cold.

The screen of your phone illuminates from where it lays on the table. Hope sparks from within. Picking it up reveals a text message from one of your classmates.

[We’re at the Pearl celebrating! They’re playing Sabrina! Get here ASAAAAAAP!!!!]

[...]

[Be there in 30 :)]

- - -

“Busy Woman” blasted from the base speakers of the club. Bodies crowded each other on the dance floor, a flurry of motioning limbs. 2 drinks in and you’ve melded together with the rest of the population. The music replaces the neurotransmitters telling your muscles to contract and move to the beat. Bringing your cup to your lips, no liquid reaches them. Realization dawns on you that your cup’s empty. You grab the attention of your group of classmates on the dance floor with you, motioning to your empty cup, and then pointing at the bar. One of the girls nods in understanding.

You maneuver around the people blocking your way to your next drink. Reaching the sticky front counter of the bar, you catch the attention of the bartender.

“What can I get you?” he yells over the music.

“Gin and coke please!” you shout back.

He gives you a thumbs up and starts making the drink. You busy yourself with your phone as you wait. A glass with bubbling dark liquid appears in front of you. A quick thanks and you’re back to the dance floor.

That last drink might’ve been too much for you to handle. The world spins more than you're comfortable with. There’s a heaviness in your gut, and the faint taste of acidic vomit in the back of your throat.

Everything in slow motion. Strobe lights flash in and out of your view. Bones and sinew that used to be so hollow and light, are now made of lead. Trying its hardest in tandem with gravity to drag you down, down, down to the disgusting floor. Stumbling like a newborn fawn, making your best attempt at making it to the equally disgusting bathroom.

With all your withered might, the bathroom door swings open and bangs against the wall.

Leaning against the wall, hands reaching for the cold porcelain of the singular sink. The press on nails you put on in a hurry before you left the apartment, dig into your fingers with how hard you grip the sides of the sink. You see glimpses of the sequins of your too short dress, in between leaning your head down and looking at the cracked mirror.

Burning pain emerges from your scalp as your head is forcefully pulled back. A hand pressed against your mouth muffles your scream. In the mirror is the bartender. He grasps the back of your skull and slams your head into the mirror.

Everything goes black.

- - -

Regaining consciousness wasn’t a better experience. He straddles your prone body. You’re on the bathroom floor and his hands are wrapped around your throat. Every cell in your body burns because you’re starving for oxygen. Hands flailing to find some sort of relief or purchase. Trying desperately to pry away the bones that have viced your airway. Start patting aimlessly around the tiled floor. Pain shoots from the tip of your finger as it touches something sharp. The bartender looks as if he’s somewhere far away. You grasp on to the makeshift blade and stinging red blooms from your palm. With all your strength, you swing your arm towards the bartender. The large shard of glass you grabbed, deeply pierces the side of his torso. If you guessed, somewhere probably between the 4th and 5th left lateral ribs. The bartender falls back in shock at the sudden foreign body that entered his. Blood leaks from the open wound in steady rivets. You lean up on your elbows, gulping down gallons of air.

Now, the bartender lays prone on the dirty floor. Hands weakly trying to stem the flow of life leaving his body. Everything stills, and the only thing you can hear is the sounds of your breathing and the beat of your heart.

The bathroom door opens, and a random girl enters. One glance at the scene in front of her, and she screams.

You don’t remember the ride to the hospital in the ambulance. You remember the sirens, the lights, but whatever you had in your system was still wreaking havoc.

Wheeled into the ER on a gurney, you hear the paramedic yell out, “21 year old female, drowsy but oriented times 3, possible head trauma. Respiration rate of 8 and O2 sats at 85% on 10L. Heart Rate is 115 and BP is 95/80. We think she got drugged with something and gave her intranasal naloxone but it’s not having any effect on her vitals”.

The ER lights forcefully invade your pupils, and you squint in an effort to adjust. You hear your name called out in surprise. Trying to focus on the source of your name, your eyes adjust to reveal a doctor.

“Uncle Jack?”

‐------------------------------------------------------------------------

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#the pitt #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch x daughter! reader #michael robinavitch x offspring! reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #kid fic #angst #fluff #family dynamics #technically college kid fic

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