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After he discovers Frank’s addiction, Robby questions everything.
How a cocky intern could have possibly seen in one day something Robby had been missing for months. How a man who so frequently struggles not to say the first thing that comes into his head could have possibly kept such a big secret.
Because Frank’s always been a bit larger than life. A bit too keen to use his wide blue eyes to their best effect. A bit too quick to smile, to ask for favours, to sidle up. Frank wants attention. He wants connection. He wants shiny new toys to keep him entertained when he gets bored.
All of Frank’s focus has to hone in on one thing, or else it bounces all over the place. There’s not a lot of subtlety with Frank. Robby’s known Frank to exaggerate, sometimes, and to volunteer all kinds of information Robby never asked to hear, incessantly. He’s never known him to downplay or hide.
Frank is a child in a man’s body. That’s how Robby’s treated him since day one.
Somehow, Robby can’t figure out what he got wrong.
There’s a phrase he keeps turning over in his mind. He hears Frank recalling that he made fun of him, for hurting his back.
Because if Robby’s honest, he did.
He made a crack about youth being wasted on the young. He said Frank looked silly trying on an old man’s shoes. And Frank joked that Robby didn’t have a monopoly on old man problems and then bragged about how he convinced his son to play the penguin token in Monopoly Junior so that he could play the T-Rex.
It never occurred to Robby that Frank was hurt badly enough to be prescribed opiates or benzos. And maybe if he’d know that, he wouldn’t have been so blindsided by what followed.
So, Robby has to wonder. He goes over every interaction he remembers. Goes over them all again, when he’s halfway between awake and asleep.
Take an example.
Frank had complained of headaches a few times. He’d stare at a monitor at a nursing station and thumb down the screen brightness and smush his fingertips into his temples. And then he’d groan loudly and whine theatrically and say stupid, fantastical things about how someday charting would literally make his head explode. And Robby would tell him to finish up already and move on to the next patient and Frank would do exactly that.
Was Robby supposed to take that seriously?
Or when the last round of staff vaccines came in. Frank had disappeared for half an hour and when Robby asked him where he’d been he’d performed an entire radio drama about side effects and how he would have thought he’d puked up his own arm if the damn thing didn’t ache so much.
Was he supposed to believe that, too?
It wasn’t exactly unusual that Frank would huff and whine and laze his way through charting, until a trauma came in through the door and then he’d perk up and take conduct of the case with laser focus.
So, he was fine. Right?
When Frank comes back, their exchanges are terse, if not avoided entirely.
He tries to talk to Robby, sometimes, and Robby shuts him down. Because they’re not friends and no good has ever come of letting Frank think they were. Frank pulls a face and backs off. He’ll be standoffish for a few days and then he’ll get it in his head to try again.
Robby’s gotten used to the pattern.
The next time Frank tries to talk to him, he says, “Don’t suppose you’d let me hand over early today, huh? I’ve been running around in so many circles I can’t tell what I’m going to do first, throw up or pass out.”
Plaintive and melodramatic. It doesn’t strike Robby as unusual, but this time he actually looks at Frank.
Rosy lips, gone grey. Vibrant face, gone slack.
Frank observes his reaction uncomfortably. A long moment goes by before he shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Nevermind,” he laughs, but he does sound tired, “Next patient on the list. You got it, boss.”
Robby plants one hand on the counter beside Frank’s hip to stop him from leaving. He reaches up to his face with the other. Frank looks startled, tries to shirk away, but Robby has him cornered. There’s nowhere to go.
He palms Frank’s cheek. Frowns. Presses the back of his hand against Frank’s forehead.
“I don’t even have a fever,” Frank complains, squinting. He’s tilting his head as far away from Robby’s hand as it can go.
Frank’s skin is dry and hot to the touch.
“Yeah,” Robby says, swallowing disbelief and something stronger, “Actually, you do.”
He wraps his hand around the back of Frank’s neck, tugs Frank’s head forward against his shoulder, and breathes deep for a second. Guilt waves over him, and a perverse kind of gratitude that slithers deep down into the pit of his stomach.
If Frank didn’t have a fever, would he have even believed Frank was really asking to go home? There are about a thousand reasons to go home sick that might not present with fever. Body temperature cannot be the metric Robby relies on to determine when Frank is bullshitting.
It doesn’t matter. Robby believes him this time. Maybe next time he’ll believe without proof.
“You’re sick,” he says, “Finish your charts and you’re done. Go home and go to bed. You’re off until Monday.”
Frank’s whole body sags into him, suddenly boneless. Robby steps back to brace himself against Frank’s weight. He holds Frank up as Frank nods against his shoulder. Frank’s breath hitches, hot and moist through the thick jersey of Robby’s hoodie.
The transformation is surprising. Is whatever bug this is really that bad? It sounds like Frank wants to cry.
That’s the last thing they need, Robby thinks.
“Go on,” says he, and sets Frank on his own feet. “Get out of here.” He claps him on the shoulder. A little squeeze. Releases. “Take care of yourself.”
He doesn’t know what Frank hears, and he doesn’t stop to think about it.
Not yet. Maybe next time.