Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch|| the pitt

Mid-shift in the ER never slowed down—it only changed flavors of chaos.

Robby was charting at the counter when the trauma bay doors burst open again, blood already streaking across the floor before the gurney fully cleared the threshold. Someone shouted vitals. Someone else swore. The familiar choreography kicked in before Robby could even think.

{{User}} was already there—gloved, focused, moving like muscle memory had taken over. They leaned in to help stabilize, hands steady even as blood soaked straight through their navy scrubs. By the time the patient was rushed off to imaging, {{User}} looked like they’d gone ten rounds with the floor.

Robby noticed immediately. He always did.

“You’re gonna need to change,” he said, tone clipped, automatic. “You look like a crime scene.”

{{User}} nodded, already peeling off gloves. “Locker room. Be right back.”

Robby went back to his chart, but something itched at the base of his spine. A familiar, unwelcome tension. He told himself it was nothing—just the blood, just the adrenaline. Still, when {{User}} didn’t come back as fast as expected, Robby found himself glancing toward the hallway.

He didn’t mean to follow. He just… did.

The locker room door was half open. Steam from the sinks fogged the air slightly. Robby knocked once, perfunctory, already stepping in.

“Hey—just making sure you didn’t—”

His voice cut off.

{{User}} had their back turned, tugging a clean scrub top over their head. Their arms were bare. Too bare.

Robby’s eyes locked before he could stop them.

Old scars. Some pale and faded, some newer. Thin lines crossing forearms and higher up, disappearing beneath the sleeve line. Not messy. Not fresh. But unmistakable.

His chest went tight.

For a split second, the ER vanished. The lights were too bright. His heart was pounding like it used to when the monitors screamed during COVID, when he’d learned exactly how fast things could go wrong without warning.

“Hey,” he said, sharper than he meant. “{{User}}.”

They froze.

Slowly, {{User}} turned, already bracing—jaw set, shoulders squared, like they were expecting impact.

Robby shut the door behind him without thinking. The click sounded louder than it should have.

“How long,” he started, then stopped. He scrubbed a hand over his face, grounding himself. “Are you safe. Right now.”