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Handoff was going smoothly, or as smoothly as it could for such a shitshow of a day. The kind of day that made Robby question everything. His faith, his profession, himself. He was tired. But these few minutes with Jack were usually enough to get him through the next twelve hours, or at least through the ride home.
Jack smiling at him, joking with him. Jack’s fingertips brushing lightly over his bare forearm where his undershirt had been pushed up to his elbows. Maybe if he’s lucky, Jack’ll even have the chance to walk him to the door and see him off with a kiss. Maybe.
“Motorcycle crash, two victims en route. ETA 3 minutes. Motorcyclist coming into Trauma 2.”
Looks like he isn't lucky.
They both perk up, shifting into working doctor mode. Staying on for one more case never hurt anybody, Robby can ignore his aching joints and growling stomach for a little longer. He was running on empty, but he was still running.
They wash up and tie each other's gowns, finishing getting ready right as the EMTs pull up with two new patients. The driver from the car is sitting up in his gurney, alert and talking with a nurse as he’s wheeled into one of the rooms, Jack doesn’t pay attention enough to notice which one. His eyes are trained on the other gurney. The motorcyclist.
There’s blood. So much blood. Road rash. A crushed leg. A handful of broken bones. Blunt force trauma to his head. He’s unconscious, and it’s probably a good thing, too. God knows how much pain he would be in if he was awake. Seconds feeling like agonizing minutes as he waits for the painkillers to kick in.
Robby springs to action, acts like he wasn’t supposed to be heading home half an hour ago. He moves around the trauma bay like second nature, effortlessly in sync with Dr. Ellis as they attempt to stabilize the patient. He can feel Jack’s eyes on him. Staring holes into him from the corner of the room. What if? scenarios no doubt running through his head.
What if Robby had left ten minutes earlier today?
What if Robby was riding home right now?
What if the car had hit Robby instead?
What if Robby was on the table in Trauma 2 five minutes into Jack’s shift?
Anger. Seething anger.
Jack’s hovering. He isn't being helpful. Spends the entire time Robby’s working glaring daggers at him from the corner. Robby wants to yell at him, force him to get out—do something useful—but he can't find it in him to snap at him right now.
Dr. Ellis calls the time of death at 7:23 pm.
Robby is on the roof at 7:25 pm.
He can hear Jack. The telltale footsteps of the other man behind him, memorized from over a decade of working together, years of living together. Grips the safety rail behind him a little tighter in anticipation. Sways forward, pulling against his white-knuckle grip like he’s testing it. Testing himself.
“And that was with a helmet on, you fucking asshole.”
Jack’s voice breaks, cracks a little at the end. There’s no heat behind his words, but there is passion. Fear and concern wearing anger as a mask. He rests his forearms against the railing, leaning closer so he can see Robby’s face. It’s blank, eyes trained on the skyline in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” Robby replies in a monotone. He’s not. He’s so far past the point of caring about his own wellbeing that he can’t even fake it. Not even for Jack. He wishes he could, doesn’t want to concern him, to be a burden, but he’s tired. Has been tired for hours. For years.
Jack shakes his head. Scoffs. His jaw clenches. Tries to choke back the tears that are threatening to spill and get caught in his throat.
“I know this is a fucked up thing to say, Robby but you should know I—I wouldn’t survive losing someone I care about as much as this again.”
That gets a reaction from Robby. Brows furrowing in concern and mouth opening and closing a few times before he can actually force himself to make any noise. “Jack what are you—”
“I’m saying that I don’t give a shit if it makes you feel guilty—actually, I hope it makes you feel guilty—the day you die from doing some stupid shit not caring about yourself is the day I die too.”
Robby’s crying. They both are. Silent tears trailing down their cheeks. Neither of them acknowledge it. It isn’t the way Robby had imagined a talk like this would go. He thought it would be louder. Angrier. More shouting and shoving. A part of him wishes that Jack would shove him now. Right over the edge of the hospital roof. Thinks that at least it would take the choice away from him. Absolve him of any guilt.
But what he says is: “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to blame me for—”
“And you don’t get to do any of the shit you’ve been doing lately! You don’t get to ride around with no helmet and a death wish. You don’t get to skip meals during a twelve hour shift just to come home and drink half your body weight in whiskey. Or shut yourself away on days off, letting your phone die so nobody can contact you. But you still fucking do. And you’re doing it acting like nobody would care if you died. Like nobody loves you—like I don’t love you. Like I’m not a little afraid every time I drive home to you that you’re not going to be there—or even worse, that you are going to be there but it’s going to be too late for me to do anything about it.”
Jack’s arms curl around Robby’s waist protectively, pulling him in as close as he can with the guardrail separating them. His forehead rests against Robby’s shoulder, taking in deep, shaky breaths. Salty tears soak into the jacket he's wearing. Robby smells like sweat and sanitizer. He smells alive. He's warm. Jack can feel the erratic beating of his heart from where one of his hands is pressed securely against his sternum. Alive. And when Robby speaks, Jack can feel the deep rumble in his chest before he hears it.
“I'm sorry.” It’s shaky, like maybe he's finally starting to believe it.
Jack’s arms squeeze impossibly tighter. “I love you. You fucking asshole. So get it together because I can't do this without you.”
Robby nods minutely. Pulls away so that he can cross over the railing back to safety. Wipes at the drying tear tracks that pollute his face with a rough palm. Jack’s holding a hand out in front of him, waiting. He knows what Jack wants: the keys to his bike.
“Jack,” Robby laughs, but there's no humor in it, “I need to get home.”
“Dana’s gonna drive you. She’s waiting out by the ambulance bay for you to go down.”
Robby rolls his eyes, firmly planting the keys into Jack’s hand regardless, knows that another fight wouldn't be worth it. “Dana has a family to get home to, why would you make her wait around for my sorry ass?”
“She offered because she’s trying to make sure her family,” the word is punctuated with a finger to Robby’s chest, “gets home without leaving brain matter all over the fucking road. People care about you. Deal with it. You have tomorrow off?” Jack knows the answer, but he waits for Robby to nod anyway. “Good, I’ll see you when I get home. You better have eaten and slept in that time.”