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Not Enough

"And I don't know how many people I've helped today, but I can tell you every other person who has died." pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: Still in the thick of the hospital’s response to the mass casualty event, Robby is fracturing under the weight of it all. You’ve both seen too much. And tonight, it’s your turn to hold him together. warnings: descriptions of violence, blood, panic attacks, grief, mentions of death a/n: because this show has me in a chokehold and noah wyle at the end of 1x13 broke me. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (And Through It All | Feels Like Trouble)

As soon as the mass email came, you rushed out from your apartment and sprinted to the hospital. The moments are seared into your memory—the trauma bay full of bodies, the sharp smell of iodine mixed with blood, a teenager’s hoodie torn open beneath your hands as you searched for the source of the bleeding.

You remember the small hand that slipped out of yours as the patient began coding. 

The parents screaming for their children. 

The quiet ones were somehow worse, never fully there but not all the way gone. 

The muffled chaos from the pit beyond the glass door are the only real sounds. Alarms, voices—frantic and fatigued—bleed through in faint, distorted waves, like a war raging just out of reach. It’s distant, but not far enough to forget

You got the text while changing out of your blood-soaked scrubs, hands still trembling as you peeled the fabric away from your skin. It clings to you anyway—in your hair, your skin, the backs of your eyelids every time you blink. With blood still drying on your sleeves and the adrenaline long gone, you closed your eyes to breathe in a moment of quiet when your phone buzzes four times.

Hey I know you keep things quiet but Robby’s not okay.

He broke down in front of Jake.

He’s falling apart.

He needs you.

You find him in peds, cowering in the far corner like he’s trying to disappear. The room is cold—refrigerated, sterile—and smells faintly of antiseptic, sweat, and the awful tang of blood that never quite leaves. You recognize the scent of grief and aftermath of trauma hanging in the air like smoke.

One of the gurneys near the wall is still streaked with drying blood, its sheet half-pulled back like someone had to leave in a hurry. A pair of tiny shoes sits on a tray nearby, splotched red, forgotten, out of place, obscene in their stillness.

He’s on the floor, curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He’s sobbing—ragged, uncontrollable, like something vital inside him has broken loose. His chest heaves as he tries and fails to breathe through it, and you can hear the panicked gasps, the wet hitch in his throat, the tremors rattling his whole body.

This isn’t just grief—it’s a full-blown panic attack. And he’s drowning in it. 

He’s curled in tight, arms wrapped around his knees, body rocking slightly as if the motion might keep him from falling apart completely. His eyes are wide, but unfocused—bloodshot and glassy, locked somewhere far away. He’s still gasping, each breath too shallow, too fast. His hands are shaking violently, fingers digging into his own sleeves like he’s trying to anchor himself to the fabric.

You take a step closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Robbie?”

His head jerks up at the sound of your voice, eyes wide and disoriented like he’s just surfaced from underwater. He blinks at you, breath still catching, and it takes a second for recognition to flicker through the haze.

“Did Dana call you?” he asks hoarsely.

“No,” you say softly, taking careful steps towards him. “She texted.”

He lets out a dry sound—not quite a laugh. "Figures."

You kneel beside him. The air is heavy, dense with everything he’s not saying yet. Slowly, you reach out and take one of his trembling hands in yours. His fingers twitch, then tighten, clinging to you like a lifeline. The squeeze is weak at first, then firmer—as if just the touch is enough to remind him he’s not alone in the dark.

He doesn't look like Dr. Robby right now—the sharp, fast-acting physician who can command a hospital with a glance and make impossible calls on the fly. The man beside you is just… a person. Shattered.

His scrubs are soaked in blood, some of it dried, none of it his. His hands tremble even after he’s wiped them down. You know that shake—adrenaline crash mixed with the sickening aftermath of decisions no one should ever have to make.

You bring your other hand to his back, rubbing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. "You're safe," you whisper. "Just breathe with me. In... and out." His breath still stutters, but he tries. His chest jerks with the effort of each inhale, panic still lodged deep in his lungs.

For a moment, it feels like he’s not hearing you at all. But then you feel it—his shoulders drop just slightly beneath your touch, his grip on your hand loosens just enough to shift from desperation to something like trust. His sobs taper to ragged exhales. He's still shaking, still barely holding on, but he's with you now. He’s coming back to himself.

“I lost five people today,” he says finally, like he’s reciting a number that won’t stop ringing in his head. “Two of them were kids.”

You don’t speak. You don’t interject. You just let him have the space.

“I did everything right. We all did. We didn’t waste a single second. And they still died. Just like that.” His voice cracks on the last word. He runs a hand down his face, leaving a smear of something—blood or ink, you're not sure.

“I keep telling myself to focus on the ones we saved,” he whispers. “To hold onto the lives, not the losses. But tonight… all I can see are the family members I had to talk to. The look in that mom’s eyes when I said her daughter was gone. It’s like it burned into me. I can’t shake it.”

He looks at you finally, eyes rimmed red and glassy. “I save so many people. I do. I know that. But tonight it’s like… all I can see are the ones I didn’t.”

You press your hand gently to the side of his cheek, grounding him. As he closes his eyes and leans into your touch, a stray tear that paints his cheek. “You were there for them, Robby. You did everything you possibly could. I know that. The entire team knows that.”

His eyes flick to you, glassy and raw. "But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. I'll never be enough."

That’s what really guts you—the way he says it. Quiet. Final. Like the math has been done and he’s come up short. Not loudly. Not violently. Just quietly, steadily. Like something that’s been held in too long, finally slipping free.

“You are,” you say fiercely. “You are more than enough. You gave everything. That's what matters.”

He drops his forehead to your shoulder. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is his breathing—ragged, uneven. Then, finally, it breaks. Quiet tears. No theatrics. Just silent devastation.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him like you’re trying to piece him back together. His body is wracked with sobs, shaking so hard it rattles through your chest. You feel it all—his heartbreak, his helplessness, the unbearable grief pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. Your own chest aches with the weight of it.

You tighten your hold, one hand cradling the back of his head as he buries his face into your shoulder. His breath stutters against your neck, gasping and uneven, but your presence anchors him. You stay that way, silent and steady, letting him feel it all—letting him fall apart without judgment, letting him not be strong for once.

"I told Jake I'd remember Leah long after he'd forgotten her..." he murmurs, voice frayed and trembling at the edges.

You pause, letting the silence stretch—just long enough to breathe, to feel the weight of his words settle between you. Then you speak, quiet but steady.

"Because you will," you say simply. "People grieve and learn to move on. But we don’t forget. We carry them with us—all the lives we've lost, every person we've watched die, every moment we felt helpless. The weight of it doesn't go away, Robby. It just shifts. Becomes part of who we are. The feeling that no matter what we did, we could've done better, the guilt that eats you up inside and lives with you... we learn to live with it. Not around it. Not despite it. And you're not alone in that." 

Robby doesn’t speak right away. He swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut as though he’s trying to keep it together—at least, whatever little there’s left to hold. When he finally pulls back and looks at you, it’s with a kind of desperation that threatens to swallow you whole.

“I don’t want to live with it,” he admits, voice wrecked. “I want to forget it. I want to go back and do something—anything—to save them.”

You nod, gently brushing your thumb along his cheek. “I know. But we can’t go back. All we can do is keep showing up, even when it breaks us. And let the people around us help carry the weight.” 

“I don’t know how,” he murmurs. “All of this pain, this loss—it’s too much.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you whisper. “Not tonight—not ever.”

And for the first time all day, he lets himself believe that.

For those without Twitter these days, I have compiled screenshots of this thread someone has put together about additional Hongo lore that doesn't appear in the show. I also wanted to put it together for archival purposes since I don't trust Twitter to not die out any day now. (the text for the tweets has also been put in the image decsriptions). Also sorry OP if you have a tumblr and I didn't know, this one felt like I had to archive it.

something rising from the deep

All of the St. Valencringe cards I made for the CRK server contest!

Idk who would even use these, but they’re all free to use with credit lmao

So much of the human experience is defined by how we react to things, even if we don't consciously think about it.

People like to define "humanity" as the emotions/empathy/sympathy/love you feel. Anhedonia and apathy combined with alexithymia is considered inhuman. No ordinary person would know this terminology, but when they see it in people, they consider it a "wrong" or "strange" or "inhuman" way to exist.

People might just assume you're depressed if you're not enjoying anything you're doing, or if you're unresponsive in a social situation. But when it comes to something dramatic, like a societal tragedy or a relationship issue or a death or something similar, if you don't react in the way you're expected to, you're judged.

These judgements could be in good faith, maybe they assume that you're in shock and you don't know how to react. But others will assume you're heartless and don't care at all. It depends on who you're with and how you navigate the situation overall, how your reaction will impact their reactions.

Beyond the surface level, it's also the little things, how you react to birthdays, holidays, marriages, pregnancies, medical events, children, elders, etc. We are a society highly defined by interaction with other people. When you don't interact as expected within your respective culture, you're looked at like something other.

I know what it's like to feel things, at least, I have some sort of memory of enjoying things and feeling strong emotions, but they feel so much like a distant memory far beneath the ocean's surface—muffled, colorless, far away, unreachable. Thinking back on memories don't trigger emotions for me anymore. Despite this, there's still things I don't like talking about, but that I can remember without triggering those traumatic feelings.

I'm sure the change seems drastic to people who've known me since I was a child. Or they didn't notice, which seems to be about right. I became so good at keeping things internal that there's so many things I haven't described even to my mother about my childhood, where she thought I was doing perfectly fine in the messes that were going on.

I started feeling like I was dying at the start of high school and that feeling never left. I feel like I've decayed and I've become something inhuman.

(Photo from the other night.)

Imagery like this was always something I connected with even as a child. Dark hallways, bare tree branches twisting up into the sky like twisted little things, dark churches (which I owe to having grandparents working at a historical church), dead forests, cemeteries, and other gothic imagery.

Now, it portrays the things inside of me that are difficult to verbalize. I do it in my artwork, I do it in my writing.

Even though my novellas are all very different stories, they contain very similar details, relating to an often cynical and unlikable protagonist, themes of bodily identity, neglect of self care, and how we appear to others. As for my art, I don't really like explaining it, especially my art that's unrelated to any of my stories. Writing artist statements for gallery showings and suchlike things has always been dreadful. I'd rather it just speak for itself.

So in the end, I consider myself something inhuman. It is not something I reject or am ashamed of, for I've lost my ability to feel shame. There's no reason to deny the truth.

the romantic tension between the blood related parent and the found parent is so fucking crazy gotta be one of my favorite ship dynamics

AM icon for 2day

a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted

their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"

"Every writer"?

come on