Chapter Text
Do you wonder why
The bird is bored of flying
It never asked to be alive
To be a bird
Jack: 5th Sept 10:38am
You enjoying the Canadian hospitality? That moose is fucking huge.
Robby: 5th Sept 10:40am
It's beautiful. Coffee is unbelievable. The moose are absolutely enormous.
Jack: 5th Sept 10:42am
Glad you are enjoying yourself. You ok?
Jack: 5th Sept 1:48pm
Robby - you ok man?
Robby: 5th Sept 2:30pm
Hey, sorry. I had no signal. All good.
He comes back from his sabbatical on a wet, brisk Thursday evening in October. The fat, weighty rain hammers down from swollen clouds that hang in the skyline like an oppressive tarpaulin. The road is slick and shimmering as the front wheel of his motorcycle shudders and edges with the threat of an aquaplane.
Robby glances down and watches himself, feels himself, ever so gently release the handlebars. The motorcycle drifts... he squeezes his hands tightly back to steady the grip.
Now that would be fucking stupid. Haul your ass all the way up to Canada and back with only 2 near misses to his name (which he tells and insists to himself weren't intentional), only to skid out in the city he calls home and find himself in the hospital he was trying to escape from in the first place. So no, he's not going to take that risk; he's not giving everyone who thought and told him that his sabbatical was some sort of suicidal vision quest, or whatever the fuck, the pleasure in knowing that they were somewhat accurate in their assessment.
The sabbatical has done him some good, he tells himself in a weak internal voice that will crack when any sort of pressure is applied.
It has! Honestly.
He feels more controlled, more open, more willing to engage, less likely to snap internally if he hears Gloria bellow his name across a frantic ED, less likely to need to grab the back of his neck and writhe his own fucking head off.
Surely these are positive steps in the right direction. Forward motion. Out of the tunnel and into the light. That sort of thing.
But who’s he fucking kidding...
What one feels and what one is are two very different things indeed.
He's aware of the precarious nature of his own brain chemistry. He's been here before - far too many times than he is willing to admit to himself, never mind to Jack or, god forbid, a therapist.
He's always been frequently able to grab the lip of the dank well he finds himself in and hold on until his fingers bleed, nails split, and he slips back down again to restart the grim and seemingly unending cycle, but he never seems to gather the strength to truly pull himself out. He usually manages to find reprieve, not escape. A surge of energy when really what he needs is a concerted, long term effort. But then maybe he likes it in there. It's something dark and comforting and recognisable to him where he knows all the contours, shapes and feelings; he knows where to grasp and reach and hold on with the least amount of effort so he's just, just present and clear-eyed enough to be competent and functioning as a human being.
But he knows he has stumbled hard of late. His grasping, aching fingers were still clinging, but his strength and grip depleted as each day shift passed and the death toll under his hands increased. He'd seen too much and he'd felt too much. And not for the first time, he hadn't been sure if had enough in him to reach back up if he slipped again.
The sabbatical was his attempt at a reset. To give himself and his soul, wizened and dulled over the years, a small chance of feeling something that wasn't despair, self-loathing or fatigue, or a potent cocktail of all three. To give himself a feeling of peace amidst the unbridled and uncontrollable chaos he found himself in all too frequently. To give himself his own freedom, whether it was the freedom to regroup and try again or the freedom to let go of it all and careen hard into a gaping chasm.
He had really tried. Truly. He had even worn his helmet at least 60% of the time (which he will tell Jack was all the time).
But by the time he reached the Pennsylvania county line, he wonders if the sabbatical had just been a more poetic, romantic notion of a reprieve.
That bright flare of something joyful or peaceful that he wanted to feel as he sped through the wilderness, the crop fields, the soothingly monotonous highways, had only gently threatened an appearance before being wholly extinguished by the black, oily musings that passed for his thoughts.
His head remained in that unsettling no man's land of feeling everything and nothing all at once.
Fuck.
Robby senses the motorcycle drift to the right across the lane, and he realises he's loosened his grip on the handlebars again.
'We're not doing that,' he grumbles under his breath as he wraps his fingers tightly to reorientate himself and the motorcycle.
Robby wasn't compos mentis enough to plan ahead and pack any waterproof clothing before he left 11 weeks ago so when he finally arrives at Jack's apartment block, he's soaked to the skin.
He's kicking the excessive rainwater off his shoes when Jack answers the door, looking every bit as tired as he expected him to look.
"Well, well. The wanderer returns.' Jack cocks an eyebrows and reaches out to unzip Robby's sodden jacket. 'Jesus Christ brother, did you not have a poncho or leathers? You look like you've been down a water slide face first.' He turns Robby round by his shoulders and peels the jacket off his back before giving it a shake out the door. 'Get in here.'
'Nice to see you too.' Robby mutters.
'Shoes off.' Jack stood hand on hips, observing Robby awkwardly fumble the shoes from his feet to expose his equally damp socks. 'Socks too.'
'No foreplay first, Jack?' Robby reaches down, his back aching, and peels the socks from his feet.
'Oh, there'll be foreplay later but at the moment you look like a dog that has emerged from a lake. You need to get yourself warmed up and changed.'
Robby pauses for a second, unsure what to do, what to say or how to react. His guts twist as a feeling of internal pressure wells up beneath his sternum. He can't fucking do this.
Jack cups a hand on Robby's face, leans in and smiles. 'I'm so glad you came back to me...' he whispers '... in one piece.' He places his soft, wanting lips on Robby's and the feeling is returned.
'Mmm.' Robby mumbles. The kiss lasts a few seconds longer than Robby is expecting and a weird, solid chunk of some emotion catches in the back of his throat; his neck flushes and his eyes feel hot. God. God. Stop, Jack. Please.
Jack doesn't hear him, but moves back anyway, releasing his lips from Robby's. He hitches his mouth into a grin before turning to limp mildly into the kitchen. 'Now go and get that hot, wet old ass of yours into the shower while I make you some dinner.'
Jack had been gracious and kind enough to leave him a clean towel on the bathroom rail and had even stocked up on the body wash that he knew Robby enjoyed using.
Robby peels off his shirt, pants and then his underwear, and sets them in a sodden heap in the corner of the bathroom.
He adjusts the temperature of the shower to his liking - so scalding that it could technically be seen as hazardous to the human body - and locks the door.
He catches himself in the bathroom mirror; worn, damp and unable to make sense of what he has walked back into. Everything is just so calm and ordered. Jack has made an effort, and is being very Jack - warm, tactile enough to Robby's liking, considered and soothing in that off-kilter way of his. Robby had expected some anger and a sprinkle of recrimination from his partner as Jack hadn't want him to go in the first place, and thought the whole sabbatical was Robby's way of avoiding difficult conversations and truths.
To be fair to Jack, he wasn't wrong.
And to be fair to Jack again, he nearly didn't come back to Jack in one piece. Twice. Maybe more. But Jack doesn't know this and will not know this.
Robby stared dead-eyed at has own reflection and pressed his forehead against the cool, slightly steamed up mirror.
He doesn't deserve this. Jack doesn't deserve this. You need to do better.
You need to do better you piece of shit. Or you'll worry him again.
Robby forcefully headbutts his own hand.
'We're not doing that,' he growls at himself in the mirror before hanging a small towel over it so he doesn't have to look at that stupid fucking face of his.
And it's seen the earth
For what it is, the big ball of inconsequence
Robby pulls on an ancient old t-shirt and loose hanging pants. He can smell whatever Jack is cooking and it smells good. Spectacular even.
Certainly better than the fried, grease-heavy food he's been cramming down his throat for the last 3 months.
He always assumed Jack was a little like himself in the sense he was rather incompetent when it comes to food, but Robby was wholly off-base. Turns out Jack was a great cook with a habit of throwing any old crap together and making it taste delicious. He, on the other hand, could fuck up toasting a Pop Tart on a good day.
He pads through to the kitchen to find Jack plating up eggs benedict (?).
'Jack, it's...' Robby checks his watch '...6:30 at night. Why are you cooking breakfast?'
'It's brunch.'
'Which also usually takes place at an earlier point in the day.'
'Food is food is food.' Jack turns around with a plate in each hand and throws a judgmental look in Robby's direction. 'My guess is that you haven't eaten since breakfast. And I'm also guessing that whatever you did eat it was either one of those dry ass protein bars that you love so much or something that is currently greasing the wheels for your inevitable STEMI.'
Robby chuckles. 'Guilty as charged.'
'Eat up. Try and embrace what a nutritious meal actually tastes like when its cooked by these beautiful fair hands.' Jack places a plate in front of Robby, and holds out a knife and fork for Robby to grab.
'This smells so good.'
'You say this every time. Like it's a surprise that I understand how to put together something that is edible.' Jack cuts into the soft yolk of an egg. 'I lived on my own for 8 years before we moved in together. Part of that life was cooking and eating food like a normal human being.'
'Well what's my excuse?'
'Do you really want me to open that can of worms, brother?'
Robby holds up his hands in defeat. 'Valid.' He nods slowly and begins cutting into the soft muffin on his plate.
'When are you back on shift?' Jack handles a fork of egg and ham into his mouth.
The question unmoors something in Robby's brain a little. He didn't expect Jack to ask him so quickly, so directly. But Jack was always good at getting to the heart of the matter in an effectively blunt way without seeming like an asshole.
'Next Thursday, I think.' The thought makes his veins constrict all at once and he feels unable to breathe. One week. Jesus, how has that happened?
It's terrifying in one sense. He, a man who can't even bear the thought of sorting his own shit out, being responsible for the lives of others. But, like he had said months ago, PTMC is where he feels useful, where he can help, where he doesn't have to think about what he is at his very core until someone dies under his hands. And even then, there's always something else waiting in the wings to pull his attention and his care. He's good at being...
Incompetent. Shitty.
...a doctor. Isn't he?
Jack notices Robby pulling inward and tilts his head forward in attempt to get the other man's focus. He tongues a sliver of ham from his teeth. 'How are you feeling about it?'
At this moment in time, Robby is deeply terrified about the thought of walking back into the ED and terrified to admit that he's deeply terrified.
'I'm fine/ it's fine' is his tell. He and Jack have played enough emotional Texas Hold 'em over the years to know when one of them is bluffing. If he says it, Jack will know immediately that he's avoiding acknowledging something deeper, more knotty; something with teeth. So Robby gives a little — a small kernel of truth wrapped in a layer of obfuscation. 'I'm feeling ok about it. I think. Just nervous... you know, I don't know how well I left it with a few people.'
Jack exhales hard through his nose. 'Yeah. You weren't exactly at your best when you left. But you might be surprised how much you've been missed, man.'
Robby pauses mid-chew and looks up. His and Jack's eyes meet. 'Really?'
'Really.' Jack nods softly. 'You're a big part of that place, you know. I mean me, you and Dana are like furniture at this point, Robby. I think even Gloria has been missing your impassioned rants about contract management companies and metrics.' He ingests another piece of egg.
'Fucking metrics.' Robby groans and rolls his eyes.
'Still a thing. Still annoying. But Al-Hashimi seems to be taking the brunt of those conversations, and enjoying it.' Jack shoves a ball of muffin into the side of his mouth. 'And long may it continue.'
The conversation falls into a lull as they mop up the rest of their food.
When they've finished, Robby picks up the plates and cutlery, and places them carefully into the sink, whilst Jack wanders over to the couch and begins removing his prosthetic from his swiftly aching knee.
Robby begins running water into the sink.
One fucking week. Jesus Christ.
His mind starts cycling through all those awkward conversations that he is going to have to have, all the 'difficult to answer honestly' questions that he's going to be asked.
Langdon, Santos, Whitaker, Dana, Caleb...
One cold comfort is that he has a few days to get his head on straight before he is thrown once more into the violent, comedic tragedy of the ED.
He can straighten out his stories and anecdotes, collate the pictures and videos on his phone, make sure he gives the positive precis of his time away to his peers.
He'll leave out the worrisome stuff; the two near misses with other vehicles; that night on the 53 in Chippewa Falls where he had nearly given into the looping intrusive thought to speed up and plunge into the river below; the numerous passing thoughts of careening head first into a tree in some backwater county where he would never be found by a human until his bones had been chewed up and spat out by the wildlife.
No one needs to know all that shit.
You need to do better. Or you'll worry them again.
He's already got a set of carefully curated photos that he had sent Jack throughout his travels. And more than enough carefully composed vistas and views of mountains, lakes, animals and woodlands to keep Jack's mind at ease when they eventually chat in great detail about what he got up to while he was away.
Not tonight though. He's too tired.
'Something interesting in the water, Robby?' Jack leans over the sink, and knocks Robby's foot with his crutch. 'Where are we man?'
'Sorry what-' Robby blinks back into the room and rubs his eyes. 'Sorry, I'm just tired. Driven pretty far today.' There's a coil of tension in the air. He can sense Jack is waiting for something more substantial. 'I think I just need some sleep on bed that actually accepts my back for what it is.'
'Strained and crumbling?'
'Just like me.' That's more of an admission than Robby would like to admit, but he hopes there is just enough of a self-deprecating tone to his voice that it passes the Abbot vibe check. It probably won't. Jack will store it somewhere in his mental filing cabinet and retrieve it when he and Robby have one of those inevitable 'I'm fine' conversations.
Jack eyes widen in surprise. 'Was that an attempt at humour?'
'Maybe,' he shrugs.
Jack nudges his shoulder and gestures towards the hall. 'I know it's only 7, but I'm beat, and I'm sure you're saddle sore as hell. You wanna go to bed?'
He sighs warmly, and looks at the ceiling. 'I thought you'd never ask.'
Shoot it down
And pull the wings out
I am waiting
He lies curled in a gentle foetal position on his side. Positioned just right, so his lower back is resting in prime position as to not stiffen up overnight.
Jack fell asleep about 3 hours ago. He, on the other hand, finds himself wanting. His muscles ache, his bones vibrate with fatigue, his very essence feels drained and on the verge of collapse, but sleep will not come.
He's spent the last 4 months getting very good and staring at things in the dark.
Jack is facing him, eyes closed, his brows knitted, indicating to Robby that Jack was somewhere else and that somewhere else wasn't all that great.
He wasn't the only one to get lost in his own head, and Robby hates himself for thinking whatever he was going through was ever going to be on the same level compared to what Jack had been through. War, amputation, loss — he doesn't know how Jack got through and continues to get through it. Sure, he could argue he's lost things, his father; his mother; his sister; a child, but he never really had them in the first place.
Not fully. They are just vagaries in his timeline — memories that occasionally resurface when he's at his lowest ebb.
But Jack's wounds. These were fresher, rawer, more able to be seen.
He admires Jack. His willingness to not bend, to face shit head on, to just be, despite everything.
God he fucking loves Jack.
And Jack loves him for some reason. This a square he cannot circle no matter how hard he tries. It's an undeserved reciprocation. What is a strong man like Jack doing with a weak man like him. A man who heads to the horizon instead of admitting that maybe what is wrong cannot be fixed by exchanging one view for another.
Maybe he has to do something about himself, about the underlying structures that had coalesced to create the foundations of Michael Robinavitch. Maybe he was built wrong. Maybe he came out of his mother's womb a tangle of broken DNA that was always going to be beyond saving. Where does he even begin to fucking start...
Robby doesn't realise for a few moments that he's started crying and hasn't taken a breath for at least a minute. His chest shudders as he tries to slowly blow out the air he's been holding in for too long.
He freezes as Jack gently shifts and grunts, and reaches his hand out to rest on Robby's thigh.
Jack can't quite muster the strength to wake up fully, so he sleepily moves himself closer into Robby's chest and mumbles 'I'm here Robby, ok?'
Robby shifts his head up and squeezes his eyes shut. We're not doing that, he thinks to himself.