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sikayeto · 1 month ago

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[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

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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!”

#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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