Work Text:
“Rose, honey, have you seen my—”
Ray freezes in his bedroom doorway, the word camera dying in his throat as he stares ahead, his blood running cold. Bobby’s sitting on the edge of Ray’s bed, Ray’s favorite hunting jacket folded on the mattress next to him, a book in his hand. This wouldn’t be concerning—Ray and Rose have always had an open door policy in their home, and Ray knows Bobby prefers wearing Ray’s clothes to his own except for on his very best of days—except Ray recognizes the book he’s reading. And it’s not a book Bobby was ever supposed to know Ray had.
He stops, swallows, takes a slow deep breath because the last thing he wants is to make Bobby think Ray’s upset with him. “Bobby?” he tries. “What are you—I mean, what have you—um…” He clears his throat, opens his mouth to try again, but he doesn’t know the right way to say this, how to ask without scaring Bobby away. He doesn’t know what to do here. He considers calling Rose in to help, but this is his fault, in the long run, so he needs to be the one to deal with it.
Bobby flips a page without looking up. “Was looking for your jacket,” he says, voice low and monotone. “Found this on the top shelf.”
Ray scans him for his usual signs of distress. Bobby’s jaw’s a little tight, but other than that he seems fairly relaxed, his posture loose, his color good. Ray can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or just confused, but he can’t imagine reading a book titled Interventions with Bereaved Children that Ray bought two weeks ago and has been trying to subtly slip ideas from into casual conversation ever since could possibly leave Bobby completely free of negative emotion.
Slowly, Ray steps further into the room, approaches the bed with the utmost caution. “I… I’ve been reading that… I thought m-maybe it might help…”
His own words make him wince. He’s already racking his brain for ways to fix this after the fact, what to do if Bobby’s furious at him, if Bobby backslides terribly when he’s been doing relatively well recently, if Bobby never forgives him for getting too invested in what Bobby will see as none of Ray’s business. But Bobby just raises his head, frowns a little, and says, “Help with what?”
And that leaves Ray a different kind of speechless. His mouth works, but no sound comes out.
Bobby snorts, his confusion crumpling into amusement, and he closes the book, putting it aside. “Relax,” he says, lying back on the bed and stretching his arms out above his head. “I’m kidding.”
“Oh.” Ray still doesn’t know if he can relax, if he even should. He steps even closer, slowly lowers himself onto the bed next to Bobby’s hip. “You’re not upset?”
“At you?” Bobby checks, like the concept baffles him. “For… reading?”
Is it possible Bobby hasn’t figured it out? That he thinks Ray just… bought a book about PTSD for his own amusement? “Well… You see, I only bought it because…”
He’s got two options here. He could lie, for no reason other than to defuse the situation as quickly and cleanly as possible, and there might even be a chance Bobby would believe him, because as much as he hates to admit it, Ray is a really good liar when he wants to be. Or, he could tell the truth and admit that he’s been reading and buying psychology books to try to understand the mental illnesses Bobby definitely has.
He really doesn’t want to lie. But he also doesn’t want to make things worse.
Before he can make a decision, Bobby picks up the book again. He holds it open with one hand, his thumb and pinky finger bracing the bottom of the page, and places his other hand gently on Ray’s knee. “I know,” he says, even though Ray never actually told him anything. “Did you have any luck?”
Now it’s Ray’s turn to be confused. “Luck with…?”
“The book.” Bobby doesn’t look away from the open page, and his expression is hard to read again. “Did you find a way to fix me?”
Ray’s heart shatters. Suddenly, he feels no urgent need to protect Bobby’s feelings anymore, or respect his privacy, or whatever other bullshit reasons he’d convinced himself he had for tiptoeing around this. Now, all he feels is anger—not at Bobby, but at everyone who ever hurt him, and a little bit at himself, for not having this conversation months ago.
He takes a slow, deep breath, and lies back on the bed so that he can sort of look Bobby in the eye. He places a gentle hand on Bobby’s wrist, tugging the book down away from his face, and says, “No. Because you’re not broken, Bobby.” He waits, until Bobby cuts his gaze to Ray’s, and then continues, “But I think this book—and, I’ve got a few others—they might help make things a little easier. If… if you’re willing to try them.”
Bobby just looks at him for a long moment, his face inches away, the book still held up between them like a barrier. And then he nods, and hands the book over.
After dinner that night, Ray tells Rose he’s got some work to take care of, that he’ll come to bed when he can, and then he goes into his office with all the books he’s bought that might have anything to do with Bobby’s situation. He knows he has to deal with this delicately—if he presents Bobby with too much information at once, it might overwhelm him, and the last thing Ray wants is for Bobby to give up on helping himself before he’s even really tried. But at the same time, he can’t just hand Bobby a book at a time and leave it to him to broach what methods he thinks might work. For one thing, Bobby has trouble reading when he’s distressed, and confronting his own mental health is almost guaranteed to distress him.
So, Ray stays up all night, reading and taking detailed notes. He turns those notes into intricately organized outlines, like he used to make for his psychology courses in college, writes them out in his neatest penmanship on black construction paper with a white correction pen, because he knows white on black tends to be a little easier on Bobby’s eyes. First thing in the morning, he brings his stack of outlines and notes to Bobby’s bedroom, knocks gently on the door and waits for Bobby’s soft, “Come in,” before he pushes his way inside.
“I… brought you something,” he says awkwardly, holding up the stack of papers. He starts to put them on Bobby’s desk, adding, “Whenever you feel like taking a look—”
“Mm-mm,” Bobby grunts, making Ray pause. Bobby’s still in bed but already dressed, lounging on top of the covers in jeans and Ray’s hunting jacket (Ray can’t help but wonder if he slept at all). He reaches out to Ray with both hands, jerks his head to the side, like, Come here.
So, Ray slowly approaches, papers still in hand, and kneels up on the bed. Before he can ask what’s up, Bobby grabs at his shirt and tugs him down onto the bed next to him. Ray doesn’t even have time to be startled. Bobby snuggles up close to him, head tucked under Ray’s chin, closes his eyes, and says, “Read it to me.”
Ray feels a hot blush creep up his neck, but he tries to relax, to lie back against the pillows and comply with Bobby's request.
For the next while, they lie there together while Ray hunches over his notes. He reads them slowly aloud, glancing down at Bobby every few minutes for any sign that the information is making him upset. But Bobby’s eyes stay closed, his jaw loose, and he seems to be listening intently.
Ray reads about PTSD and complicated grief and Bobby nods a little to himself, a silent, Yeah, that sounds like me. He reads about survivor’s guilt and Bobby stiffens, so Ray pauses and waits for Bobby to think the idea through, process whatever he needs to process, and then settle down and nod for Ray to continue.
Sometimes, Ray will get to a big word and Bobby will grumble, “the fuck is that supposed to mean,” without any real heat or anger in his tone. Other times, Ray will bring up a concept and Bobby will tap him twice on the knee, and Ray will go, “Oh, like, uh—” and relate the concept to something specific in Bobby’s life.
It seems to work. At the very least, Bobby doesn’t seem angry with him for trying. They talk about triggers and coping mechanisms and breathing techniques. Ray offers solutions to things Bobby didn’t even realize were problems, and Bobby says, “Yeah, I guess we can try that,” with just enough emotion that it warms Ray’s heart.
“Thank you,” Ray says, when they take a break for breakfast and Bobby sits up off of Ray’s chest. “For being open to all this. I’m sorry I was trying to be sneaky about it, I just wanted to help.”
“I know.” Bobby offers him the tiniest of smiles, and straightens the collar of his jacket. “But I’m not giving this back. I don’t need to find any more secrets hidden in the back of your closet.”
Ray snorts, and Bobby’s grin widens, and Ray knows, despite everything, things are going to be okay.