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"Struggling with all that time alone to self-reflect already?"
Robby isn't expecting the sudden rush of homesickness that hits him the minute he hears Jack's voice.
He's only been gone a week.
He can't quite believe that seven days ago he left Pittsburgh behind, knowing he wouldn't be returning for three months. He hadn't looked back as the familiar skyline grew smaller behind him. Instead, he'd kept his eyes on the long stretch of highway ahead, his motorbike rumbling between his legs, a freedom he hadn't felt in far too long growing with every mile he put in between him and home.
There was no real plan beyond getting on his bike and travelling around the country. There was no itinerary, no list of tourist destinations to visit, and no hotel rooms booked. The lack of a plan could have been terrifying, not knowing where he would be resting his head each night; instead, Robby has found it liberating.
Even with his newfound freedom and a thousand possible options of where to travel to next, there's a feeling that follows him from town to town, like he's forgotten something. It's not anything he's forgotten to pack, and he left work in the capable hands of Dr Al-Hashimi, and yet that niggling sensation is still there.
Maybe it's just the people he misses. The faces he's so used to seeing almost every day. It's a shock to the system to suddenly go without. It's the reason why he calls Jack. Sometimes he can't believe there was a time in his life when he and Jack didn't know each other. Jack has been a constant presence in his life for years, so much so that life before Jack feels almost like someone else's memories.
It's late when he grabs his phone from beside him and finds Jack in his recent calls list. On any other night, Robby knows a call to Jack at this time would go straight to voicemail, but he has his schedule memorised and knows he's off for the next couple of nights. He also knows Jack'll be up, keeping to his usual sleep pattern.
"It's actually much easier to think out here without your constant jabbering in my ear," Robby returns easily.
He likes how they're long past 'hello' and 'how are you'. They get right to the heart of the conversation.
"Where are you?"
"Kentucky, you?"
"My kitchen, making tea."
Car headlights pass his motel room window, temporarily illuminating the strikingly retro wallpaper. It's not what he would have picked, but beggars can't be choosers.
"And work? Everyone surviving without me?"
"You really want to know?"
"Wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"You just want to hear that the place is falling apart without you," Jack notes.
"Hmm, is it?"
"It's not the same," Jack answers without really answering the question.
Robby sits with the answer for a moment, letting the words tumble around in his head. Not the same for who?
"So, where next?"
"I don't know, Memphis maybe? Just letting the moment take me."
Jack snorts, "Not sure you've ever let a moment take you anywhere. Where's the Robby I know and-" he stops himself. "I'm glad you're doing okay out there. I worry about you alone."
"Me? I'm a doctor, I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, yeah," Jack sighs, "Tea's done, I should go."
"Yeah, okay," Robby tries not to sound disappointed.
"Keep me in the loop, yeah? I'll sleep better knowing you're okay."
Robby swallows hard, "I promise."
"If you don't hear from me ever again, I'm staying in a motel that looks like something out of Psycho," is the first thing Robby says when Jack answers his phone the next day.
He's on the outskirts of Memphis after a long day of riding. His thighs are sore, his hands stiff, and as soon as he saw the inside of his motel room, all he wanted was to hear Jack's voice.
There's a pause as Jack digests what Robby has said.
"Are you scared the owner might stab you to death in the shower, or…?"
"Okay, the old guy at the front desk seemed sweet, but the place is sketchy as hell. I have quite the choice of outcomes here to look forward to. I'm pretty sure there are bedbugs; there's a good chance I'll be leaving with dermatitis from touching, well, any surface, typhoid from even looking at the water coming out of the tap or tetanus from the multiple rusty nails sticking out of the bathroom door. If none of that gets me, I'm pretty sure the batteries haven't been replaced in the smoke detector since the eighties."
"I know how much money you make. Why are you staying in a dingy motel?"
"It's the only place for miles, didn't exactly have a choice."
"What's wrong with roughing it? Surely you managed worse conditions during your MSF stint."
"That was a long time ago. I was young, stupid, my spine was still intact."
Jack laughs. "Sometimes I wish I'd met young, idealistic, energetic Doctor Robinavitch."
Robby's breath catches in his throat. For a split second, he almost thinks Jack is flirting with him. Despite the thought dissipating quickly, easily dismissed as ridiculous, his heart rate spikes involuntarily.
"Sometimes I wish I'd met Jack Abbot before he went to war," Robby admits, changing the entire tone of the conversation in one sentence.
Jack doesn't say anything immediately, his breath soft and steady down the line.
"He was full of himself," Jack finally says. "A cocky, dumb, know-it-all who thought he was untouchable, you wouldn't have liked him."
"I'm not sure you would have liked young, idealistic Michael Robinavitch. Far too wide-eyed and oblivious, had a bit of a saviour complex."
"You? A saviour complex? Doesn't compute."
Robby huffs, "Alright, alright."
For a moment, neither says anything. It should be awkward, but instead, Robby finds the sound of Jack breathing brings his pulse back down to normal.
"Jack. If this place takes me, I need you to avenge my death," he says finally.
"I promise," Jack replies solemnly.
"Goodnight."
"Night."
When Jack asks him where he's heading next, Robby answers honestly. He doesn't know. But somewhere along the route, he realises he knows exactly where he's headed. He gets onto the 55 and lets it take him towards New Orleans.
The night before he reaches the city, he stops at a small inn for the night. It's simple, but cosy, the bed comfortable enough for one night. He waits until he's in bed before he reaches for his phone and makes his usual call.
As it begins to ring, a thought occurs to him that leaves him frozen. Jack knows enough about his time in New Orleans to have a strong opinion about him returning. If it were any other city, if the visit didn't come with the memories of the hurricane, maybe he wouldn't care.
"Hello? Robby? You there?"
Realising Jack answered the phone a while ago and has been trying to get his attention, Robby finally clears his throat, "I'm here."
"Fuck, I thought something was wrong, don't do that to me, man."
"Sorry," Robby winces. "I was just…my mind was elsewhere, and I don't really know why I'm calling…I should go, sorry for bothering you."
"Wait," Jack says sharply, breaking through Robby's mess of a mind to stop him from hanging up. "Don't hang up, you never bother me."
Robby takes a deep breath, loud enough for Jack to hear down the line.
"I like hearing you talk…I like when you call, it's the closest thing I'll get to our usual handovers for a while."
"I don't have anything to say."
"Doesn't matter to me…where are you?"
"Shreveport," he lies a little too quickly, "On my way towards Texas."
"Yeah? You been to Texas before?"
"Uh, maybe, I… I don't know, can't remember."
There's a bitter taste in his mouth, like his lie has left it behind as it left his mouth.
"Are you okay?" Jack asks suddenly, because even over the phone, he seems to know when something is wrong. "You sound…off."
"Just tired, long day on the road today," he forces the words out and hates himself a little more. "I should probably go, get some sleep."
"Call me tomorrow, okay? I'll try and pick up, even if I'm working."
Robby doesn't promise to call, just wishes Jack a goodnight and hangs up.
The drive into New Orleans is somehow both familiar and strikingly strange at the same time. There are buildings he recognises, streets that hold distinct memories, and yet it's like driving through a city he's only seen in photographs. Things have changed; it feels nothing like the city he did his residency in.
He feels different, too.
He's so far removed from the young resident doctor who walked into Charity Hospital all those years ago and, on his first day, worked on a five-year-old patient who had been shot by his brother playing with their father's gun.
He's not the same man who worked in horrific conditions during a hurricane that brought the whole city to its knees. Saving lives with no power, no clean water, and a small amount of hope that didn't stretch to everyone who needed it.
The journey to Charity Hospital is so ingrained in his mind he finds himself stopped outside the imposing building before he's even realised where he is. Like everything else in the city, the sight of it feels like no time has passed, but Robby's knees hurt a little more now, there's grey in his beard, and he's a better doctor than he was twenty years ago. The abandoned building no longer looks like a place of healing. Instead, its presence is foreboding and bleak. It stands not as a testament to all the good that happened inside its walls but as a constant reminder of failure.
Failure's something he knows a little about.
His hands shake as he stares up at the broken windows, each window a dark hole where light should be. He remembers the rain and the humidity and the back-breaking, heart-breaking work he did during those long days. He recalls so vividly how his hands shook back then from lack of sleep, putting in IVs, administering medicine with a tremor he couldn't shake.
He doesn't remember the names of everyone they lost, and that just makes him feel guiltier. He should remember them.
When it gets too much, his chest too tight, he stumbles away from the dilapidated building and steps through the doors of the first open bar he finds.
"Whiskey, whatever's open," He asks a little curtly.
The bartender doesn't seem to mind, sliding a glass in front of him and pouring a measure of the amber liquid into it.
Robby downs it in one gulp, then taps the bar for a second. He lets this one breathe a bit before taking a sip.
"Michael Robinavitch?"
The voice is unfamiliar, and he looks around sharply to try and find who said his name.
A woman steps forward, leaning against the bar beside him. She seems to notice the lack of recognition on his face.
"Della Rossi, I joined Charity as a med student about a year or so after you started your residency," She prompts.
Oh.
The memories hit him like a runaway train. The young med student with jet-black hair and shocking green eyes who had followed him around the corridors with far too much enthusiasm.
"Della," he says her name on an exhale. "I remember you, of course."
She looks older, but her eyes are still the same forest green. He looks her over, noting the gold band on her finger and the old, healed scar on her arm. He remembers the night she cut it on a window smashed in by the high winds.
"What are you doing here? I thought you'd moved up north," She asks, sliding onto the empty stool beside him.
"Uh, I did, Pittsburgh, I'm just passing through."
He still can't believe it's her. After he left New Orleans, he tried to stay in touch with people but it got far too hard and life as an attending in Pittsburgh kept him too busy to keep up old relationships. He feels bad about it now.
"What about you? Surprised you're still here."
"I'm at University Medical Center, though I'm only working there part-time, got four kids to wrangle at home."
"Oh, wow, congrats?"
"It's tiring, but I love it," she laughs softly. "What about you? Any kids?"
As usual, when someone asks him that question, his first thought is always Jake. In the past, he's given some kind of complicated answer about none biologically, but there's this kid who he loves like his own.
"No," he says instead, ignoring how it hurts to admit. "No kids, no partner, running the ED up there keeps me busy."
She looks like she's about to placate him with some kind of empty platitude, so he quickly changes the subject.
"Do you still catch up with any of the old crowd? Lee? Peters? Franklin?" He lists out some of the good doctors he remembers working alongside.
She gives him a sad look, "Lee was forced into retirement about five years ago. Peters was quietly asked to leave when his drinking started getting in the way, and we uh, sadly lost Franklin during COVID...among others."
Fuck.
"It's been hard…time hasn't healed all wounds, COVID reopened a lot of them."
"I'm sorry."
He doesn't know if he's apologising for what she's gone through or for not being there for any of it. It was like the minute he drove out of New Orleans on his way to his brand new job up in Pittsburgh, he hadn't looked back. If he'd had, he would have seen the people he'd left behind still struggling. He should have done more.
"I'm sorry too." She reaches out, places her hand on his, "But I'm glad you're doing so well up in Pittsburgh."
He wants to scoff, tell her the real reason he's far from home, but instead he nods.
"I knew you'd end up running an ED someday, even when you were just a young resident."
"You did?"
"You didn't?" She shakes her head, lips pressed together in amusement.
"It wasn't the plan."
He thinks of Adamson. Wonders briefly what he would think about his sabbatical.
"Neither was four kids, but when you meet the right guy, all the greatest plans in the world just fly out the window… speaking of, my eldest has soccer practice, but it was really nice seeing you again, Robby."
"You too," he tells her honestly.
After she leaves and he finishes his second drink, he ends up back on the street, feeling like he wants to puke. Coming to New Orleans was a mistake. All it has done is bring every raw feeling back to the surface. Everything he's been trying to avoid.
Seeing the hospital again just brought back bad memories. Bumping into Della brought guilt that alcohol couldn't wash away. He feels the tightness in his chest grow, the ringing in his ears drowning out the jazz music being played in every bar he passes.
He doesn't know why he calls Jack. Maybe it's because he knows he'll always pick up. It feels like the phone rings forever before he hears Jack's voice, apologising for taking too long to answer.
"Jack," He licks his dry lips, "I fucked up…I'm in New Orleans."
"Whoa, hey, it's alright," Jack says to him, instantly forgiving Robby for the lie.
"It's really not," Robby wheezes, "There are too many memories here, I feel like I'm being haunted by them everywhere I turn," he admits, "And maybe I deserve it, because I left and didn't look back, and I didn't stop to think about how Katrina affected them too. I didn't stop to think about the people I knew dying of COVID, and maybe if I had cared more-"
"Stop," Jack says sharply enough to cut through Robby's spiralling. "No one could ever say you should have cared more, you hear me? You care so fucking deeply. That's why you're hurting right now."
"I can't fucking breathe in this place," Robby admits through a sob.
"Then leave, get on your bike and go."
If only it were that easy, "I've been drinking."
"Fuck, okay, is there somewhere quiet nearby? A park?"
"Yeah."
"Go find a bench, don't hang up, let me know when you're there."
On autopilot, Robby does as he's told, walking the five minutes down a couple of streets to a small park. There's an empty bench surrounded by trees as he drops down into it, like his body is a lead weight.
"You still there?" He checks.
"I'm here," Jack confirms without hesitation, "Just breathe, alright? Slowly, don't think about anything else, just focus on breathing"
His eyes slide shut, and he does his best to focus on the way his lungs fill, the stretch of his chest, the slight burn before he exhales, but behind his eyes, all he sees is Della, Lee, Franklin, Peters, Adamson.
"Again," Jack urges, "breathe in slowly."
Robby does as he's told, listening to Jack count to four.
"Hold it, four, three, two, one, okay, exhale."
Robby lets out the air slowly.
"Again."
Jack talks him through the simple breathing exercise two more times, the faces of the people Robby failed fading away a little more with each breath.
"How's your pulse?" Jack checks.
Robby slides two fingers over his radial pulse. "Not great, not terrible either," he answers truthfully. "Better than before."
"Can I trust you to go get yourself something to eat?"
Robby nods, then remembers Jack can't see it, "Yeah, I can do that."
"Call me when you're past the city limits. I want to know you're okay."
He doesn't call hours later when he's finally good to ride again, and he doesn't respond to Jack's messages. He feels ridiculous about the whole thing. He's a grown man who can't even manage a fucking road trip on their own without needing to call home. He shouldn't have gone to New Orleans, and while Jack would never say 'I told you so' he hears it anyway.
Can you please let me know you're okay? I'm worried about you.
Jack messages later that evening.
I'm not going to stop messaging until you respond.
With a sigh, Robby finally types out a response.
I'm fine, just need some time.
He messages Jack when he finally crosses the border into Texas, though doesn't call. He's nearing his first month away, and there's a sinking feeling that's growing that he'll return to Pittsburgh in two months with nothing to show for it. That nothing will have changed.
He doesn't know what he's doing out on the road on his own, and he certainly can't admit to Jack that he's not sure if all of this was such a good idea. He keeps hoping there will be a sign from the universe to give his trip purpose. Until then, he keeps riding his bike and savouring the quiet. There are no alarms going off, no shouting, no crying babies or sirens. Just quiet. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like.
When he needs a break, he finds a diner on the edge of a small town with enough other motorcycles parked outside that he knows he'll be welcome. The diner is loud and busy, but he finds an empty spot by the window and orders a burger, fries, and Coke. As he eats his lunch, he listens to the conversations happening around him. Two men across from him share war stories and scars from motorcycle trips, and another group is talking about some of the more scenic journeys they've gone on. Despite his own bike, dusty from the long arid roads, he doesn't feel like one of them. They're bikers. He's just someone passing through on something Dana called his midlife crisis.
He doesn't hang around once he's full, he pays, tips generously and leaves. As he makes the trek across the parking lot to where he left the bike, movement catches his eye. A few bikes down there's a woman, short, older than him, perched on a bike. Her hair is short and greying, and there are tattoos down her arms, some of them blurry from age. He's surprised by the leather vest hung over her handlebars with a distinctive patch across the back. She looks nothing like the typical biker gang member, but there are scars and a toughness to her that suggest she's been out on the road most of her life.
It's the way she's trying to patch up a wound on her shoulder blade that really makes him stop. She's struggling to reach around, and she huffs in frustration. He might be far away from PTMC, but he'll never stop being a doctor.
"Can I help?" He finds himself offering.
She freezes and looks up at him sharply.
On instinct, he raises his hands up in the air. "I'm a doctor, just noticed you're having some problems tending to that wound, can I?"
Her eyes narrow at him briefly, then she nods. While she has a tissue in her hand to mop up the blood, Robby has a whole first aid kit stashed in his bike, and he rushes over to retrieve it.
"I'm Robby."
"Lita," She replies after a moment, still wary of Robby's intentions.
She watches him cautiously as he pulls out a pair of gloves and walks around the other side of her bike to inspect her wound.
"Ouch, how'd this happen?" He prods at the graze carefully. There are a couple of pieces of gravel embedded in the wound and a longer laceration down the middle that's steadily bleeding.
"Idiot driver swerved in front of me," she growls. "Fucking jackass didn't look where he was going."
He tears open a sachet to reveal an alcohol wipe.
"This is going to sting," he warns, and she hisses as he gently wipes it across the wound.
It cleans up quickly, but he still needs to do something about the gravel. He finds a pair of tweezers in the kit and warns her again before working to remove the gravel pieces.
"So, where are you from?" She asks as he works.
"How'd you know I'm not from around here?"
"That bike of yours," she answers confidently, nodding towards it. "I know every bike in the area, and it's not from around here."
He laughs softly, impressed. "Pittsburgh."
"Far from home, what are you doing out here?"
"Good question…not really figured that out yet." He winces.
He digs out some Dermabond glue next and begins sealing up the larger wound.
She hums. "What's your story?"
"Not particularly exciting, I'm afraid."
"Tell me anyway," she insists.
Where to start?
"It's a sabbatical, technically. After nearly twenty years at the same hospital, running the ER for the last five, I needed a break, though I've been on the road a few weeks, and I still can't figure out what I'm supposed to be doing out here. I drive from place to place, but I don't feel any different. I think maybe I was trying to escape some things, and maybe I just brought them with me." He sighs, trying not to dwell on the fact that he's spilling his guts to a complete stranger.
She doesn't say anything immediately, and he finishes patching her up, wiping some antiseptic cream over the graze.
"All done," he announces, snapping off the gloves with practised ease.
"Thanks."
"Try not to get the wound wet for the next day or so; there's still a chance of infection, so keep an eye on it and go to the ER if it starts to look inflamed."
"Will do."
He smiles, packs up his first aid kit quickly and strolls back over to his bike.
"Hey, Robby?"
He looks up just as she makes her way over to him. "Can I give you some advice? As payment for services?" He nods, "I uh, I lost my wife about ten years ago. Ten years, two months and four days, actually. Fucking cancer."
"I'm sorry," Robby interjects.
"I didn't ride my bike for a long time after she died. Rusty was my partner in everything, and it just didn't feel the same without her…then one day I realised, by not riding I felt further away from her than ever, it was being out on my bike that helped me to feel close to her…Anyway, I have this rule. I don't return home until I've found one thing that brings me joy. Yeah, sometimes that means I'm out for hours longer than planned, but you know what? Nine times outta ten, that single thing I find that brings me joy is something that reminds me of her."
Robby swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat.
"So, while you're out on the road, maybe start looking out for some things that bring you joy, you never know what'll come from it."
He nods, "It was nice meeting you, Lita."
She nods back, "Likewise, Doc."
He calls Jack for the first time in over a week that night. He suddenly can't remember if he's working or not, so he gambles and hopes Jack picks up.
"Thank fuck, are you okay?"
He's at a bed and breakfast with far too much florals, lace, and pictures of cats. He lies back on the bed, stares up at the four-poster bed and feels something inside him settle.
"I'm good, really good actually, I had a good day today."
"Yeah?" Jack asks carefully.
"What about you? Tell me about your day," he quickly turns it around on Jack before he can press Robby for details.
"Oh, not that exciting, I did a load of laundry, fixed that damn heater in my bedroom finally, made some progress on a paper I'm writing."
"Yeah? Tell me about it."
"You really want to hear about it?" Jack sounds surprised.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"Okay, uh-"
Jack starts talking, sharing the general outline of the paper and what inspired it, mentioning some similar research that he plans to cite and build on. Robby closes his eyes and listens to Jack's voice, sure and steady. He can hear the passion in Jack's words, and he pictures him standing in his kitchen, gesticulating wildly while his coffee drips slowly into a pot beside him.
The image is clear in his mind, and it leaves him with both a warmth in his chest and a pang of homesickness in his stomach. It's not a longing for Pittsburgh, though, or even his empty townhouse. He wants to be sitting on Jack's couch with a beer or standing with him on the roof watching the sun come up.
"You still there?" Jack checks, snapping Robby out of his thoughts swiftly.
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Thought I might have sent you to sleep," Jack jokes.
Robby smiles, "Almost, keep talking and I'll get there."
"Jerk."
Lita's words stick with him over the next few days. As he travels up into Colorado, he starts looking out for things that might bring him joy, just like she said.
The first time he feels it is just as he passes through the Rio Grande National Forest. It's been nothing but trees for miles, and when he stops for lunch by the side of the road, he feels like he's the last person on earth. As he takes a bite of his sandwich, lovingly prepared by his bed and breakfast host earlier that morning, he notices a pair of crutches propped up against a tree. He can't help the smile in amusement as he looks over at them and as soon as he finishes his bite, he puts the sandwich down, pulls out his phone and snaps a picture.
Miraculous recovery in the middle of nowhere? He captions the photo when he sends it to Jack.
The next day, he asks his hotel for a recommendation for breakfast, and he's given the name of a cafe just a short walk down the main road. It's the kind of place that all the locals frequent, with their own mugs on a shelf behind the counter. He sits by the window and orders the biggest plate of breakfast food they have, and it comes out ten minutes later, still steaming.
He's never been one to take photos of his food like everyone seems to do these days, but the plate triggers such a distinct memory, he can't stop himself.
Do you remember that time, not long after you switched to nights and Withers called off, and I had to pull a double? He messages Jack.
And when the sun came up, we were both delirious from exhaustion, but we were somehow still wired and wide awake, and we ended up at that diner not far from work and shared that massive plate of eggs and sausages and home fries.
He sends the photo next.
Feel like I'm right back there again.
He eats slowly, dipping the fries into the over-easy egg yolks, and watches the way the town slowly wakes up around him, the cafe quickly filling with regulars.
A few days later, he passes a farm stand on a long stretch of road selling all sorts of items, including fresh lemonade, and he quickly finds a spot to turn around and makes his way back to it.
There's already a family perusing the goods, a young couple with a baby in a sling against the father's chest and a young boy running in between their legs, making buzzing sounds and flapping his arms.
"Afternoon," He nods to the older woman behind the stand.
She nods back. "What'll it be?"
"Just a raspberry lemonade for now."
As she prepares the drink, he looks down the long table of products. There are pies, chutneys, honey, jams, freshly made bread, cakes, as well as some cheeses and pickled vegetables. It all looks delicious, but there's only so much room on his bike and nowhere for him to store any items that'll go off quickly, so he just browses.
He doesn't notice the boy, not until he's almost pressed up against Robby's legs, looking up at him.
"Did you know bees can't see the colour red?" he announces.
Robby looks down at him. "Really? I didn't know that."
The boy's eyes light up, "And the buzzing is their wings, not them farting a lot," he says, giggling as he speaks.
Robby holds back a laugh of his own, "You know a lot about bees."
"Well-" The boy starts, looking at Robby with a far too serious expression for his age, "I was stung by a really big bee, like, ages ago, and it really hurt, but daddy told me it wasn't a bee, it was a wasp, and I felt bad, and now I like bees."
"Bees are very important, I know that much."
The boy nods, "What's your name?"
"Everyone calls me Robby. What's yours?"
"I'm Jayden."
"Hi Jayden."
Robby ignores the cracking sound in his knees as he crouches down in front of the boy and holds out his hand. The boy slips his much smaller hand into Robby's palm, and Robby shakes it.
"Jayden, come over, stop bothering the nice man," Jayden's mother calls over.
"It's alright, really," Robby responds to her. She gives him a grateful look and goes back to her inspection of all the jam jars.
"Do you have a job?" He asks next.
"I do, I help really sick people feel better," Robby answers.
Jayden tilts his head to one side, "Like a nurse?"
Robby laughs, "Exactly like a nurse."
"Why aren't you helping people right now?"
"That's a good question," Robby tells him, and Jayden beams proudly at the compliment. "I was working really, really hard, and now I'm taking a little break, but I'll be back helping people again soon."
"Good."
"Hey Jayden," Robby begins, lifting a jar of honey off the table and holding it up to the sky to show Jayden the golden liquid inside, "Did you know that the honey that the bees make is really special? People have been using it for thousands of years to make people feel better. People still have some when they're sick."
"Whoa, really?"
"Yep," he digs out ten bucks and slides it across the table towards the seller.
Jayden runs over to his mom and tugs at her pants, "Mom! When I'm sick, can I have honey?"
"Maybe," she answers noncommittally, like this isn't the first weird request from her son.
Once his mom has finished making her purchases, Jayden is ushered back to their car. Before climbing into the back seat, he turns and looks back at Robby, "Bye, Robby!" He calls over.
Robby waves back and sips his lemonade as the car pulls away.
He looks down at the jar in his hand and smiles, Lita's words on his mind once again. He puts the cup of lemonade down on the ground between his feet, digs out his phone and lifts the jar up to the sky once again, snapping a photo of it.
He sends the photo to Jack with a simple caption.
It's in our DNA.
"Fuck," Robby curses loudly when his bike starts to splutter, and the engine cuts out.
Aiming the drifting bike to the side of the road, he lets it come to a stop naturally and then hops off to try and figure out what the hell is wrong.
When he realises it's not going to be an easy fix by the road, he checks his phone for the nearest garage and finds one a couple of miles away. It'll be a trek, but he doesn't have a lot of choice.
Thankfully, he only makes it about half a mile down the road when an older guy in a pick-up stops beside him and offers his help. Between the two of them, they get the bike in the back of the truck, and he's driven the rest of the way.
"Well," The mechanic rubs his forehead after looking at Robby's bike, spreading the smudge of oil a bit more, "I can get you back on the road, but I'll need to order in a new part, might take a couple of days."
"Fuck, okay, is there somewhere to stay in town till it's sorted?"
The mechanic winces, "'Fraid not, but hey, Charlie has a cabin just outside town that he rents out during the summer, should be empty, I'll give him a call."
Half an hour later, Bill the mechanic drops him off in the middle of nowhere with just his bags. He walks down the long track to a shack of a house, and as he walks up to it, an older man, probably in his 70s, emerges. He has a limp and walks with a wooden cane, and as he comes closer, Robby notes burn scars on his arms and neck.
"You Charlie?"
The man nods, "I am," he says simply.
"I assume Bill mentioned I needed someone to stay for a couple of nights, till my bike is fixed."
Charlie nods again, then jerks his head, which Robby understands to mean follow him, and then Charlie begins to slowly make his way through a wooded area, a barely visible path guiding his way. Charlie says nothing else on the journey, and Robby feels no need to fill the silence, just follows quietly until they reach a clearing and a simple cabin appears, sitting on the edge of a large lake. It's rustic, probably basic inside, but Robby doesn't need much.
Charlie stops and points his cane towards the building. "It's open…there's no real need for locks around here."
"Thanks."
Slowly, Charlie turns around and starts his trudge back to his own place. He stops after a few steps, like a thought has occurred to him.
"You got food for tonight?"
Robby shakes his head; he hadn't thought about what he was going to do for dinner.
Charlie sighs. "Come over at seven, it won't be much, but it'll fill a hole."
Robby thanks his host and continues on towards the cabin. He was right about it being basic. There's a simple wood stove. No shower, but a sink and a bowl, water probably provided by the lake, a metal-framed single bed with a hand-crocheted blanket on top and a pillow almost as old as he is.
Just before seven, after spending the rest of the afternoon exploring the lake and reading on the modest dock, he makes the trek back through the woods and knocks on Charlie's door.
Charlie is slow to open the door but shuffles back out of the way as soon as the door is open, welcoming Robby inside.
"Smells nice," Robby compliments him.
"I'm no chef," Charlie says with a roll of his shoulders, like he's uncomfortable with the praise. "Just some stew and bread."
"Well, I appreciate the invite…do you need any help with anything?"
"Sit," Charlie tells him, leaving no room for argument.
The table has already been set, so Robby takes a seat and watches Charlie head back into the open-plan kitchen. He brings out a bowl of hot beef stew, a huge chunk of bread perched on the side and puts it down in front of Robby before returning to the kitchen and collecting his own.
"So, you lived here long?" Robby asks over dinner.
"Since the 70s," Charlie answers. He doesn't offer anything else, and Robby soon realises Charlie is the kind of man who won't use ten words when he can use five. He doesn't offer more than is absolutely necessary.
"It's beautiful round here. You build the cabin yourself?" Charlie nods. "I'm uh, I'm from Pittsburgh, just travelling through…I'm a doctor." Robby explains, feeling the need to explain.
"Doctor, huh?" Charlie seems interested in that, and when he pushes his chair back and stands up, Robby wonders if Charlie's about to drop his trousers to show him a rash or a lump he's been ignoring for a decade. It's a common occurrence when you tell people what you do for a living. Instead, Charlie disappears down the hallway for a moment and comes back holding a photo frame.
He puts it down on the table between them.
The photo is old, in black and white, with some damage to one corner. In it, he seems a younger version of Charlie in an old military uniform, standing between two other soldiers, both holding guns.
"Vietnam?" Robby guesses.
Charlie grunts out a yes. "I was a medic."
"Oh, wow."
"Wasn't the plan…I was what you would have called a conscientious objector. I don't do violence, never have."
"What happened?"
"They sent me anyway…trained me up and put me into the middle of the war with no gun, just a bag of supplies and a little bit of knowledge in my head." He taps his temple.
Robby can't help but think of Jack, who, even though he'd been armed, had been sent out in similar circumstances. Huddling over injured men and women as bullets flew overhead. It sends a shiver down his spine just thinking about it. Robby can only imagine the horrors Charlie had witnessed and the nightmares that followed him home. No wonder he liked it out in the middle of nowhere. The silence must be bliss.
"That was a very brave thing to do," Robby notes.
Charlie glances over to another frame hung on the wall with a row of medals inside. "Not brave, stupid maybe," he mutters.
Robby doesn't tell Charlie about his time working on the frontline of a warzone with MSF. It's not a competition, and his six months could hardly compare to what he went through.
"I have a friend, a good friend, was an army doc. He came back from the desert without a leg and some scars on the inside that'll probably never heal," He says instead. "I wish I could help him more."
Charlie nods in understanding, "I had no one to help." His hand slides unconsciously over the mottled scars on his other arm, and Robby's heart breaks for him. "But he has you."
It's that simple to Charlie, and Robby can only nod back, his throat too tight to speak.
When they finish eating, Robby offers to wash up, but Charlie sends him away, clearly wanting his own space again.
With no curtains in the cabin, Robby wakes up early the next morning to bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He steps out onto the deck in his boxers, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and listens to the birds in the trees.
Movement catches his eye, and on a patch of grass not too far away, he watches two rabbits playing. The sight makes him smile, and he quickly goes back inside to grab his phone. Luckily, he hasn't spooked them, and he manages to snap a photo just as one perks up, almost looking straight at him.
As he sends the photo to Jack, he thinks about Charlie and his quiet life of solitude, and then he thinks of Jack and his own time in the military. Rabbit, his teammates called him. Quick under fire, alert at all times.
This you?
It's late when he checks into his Bed and Breakfast, a couple of days and a few hundred miles down the road later. The owner's eyes flick to the dark sky out the window and apologises for not having much in the way of food for him. Robby lets her know it's alright, he's not that hungry and takes the offered key.
"You like sunrises?" She asks before he leaves.
"Sure."
"If you're up early enough, there's a trail not far from here, takes about an hour to hike, but there's a viewing point at the top, and it's the best view in all of Oregon," she promises.
His habit of waking up just after five am every day has slipped a little since being on the road, but not by much, so he gets some more details from her and heads to his room.
Early in the next morning, he pulls on his boots and his coat, packs a bottle of water and finds the trail she showed him on the map. It's still a little dark outside, but the trail is visible enough that there's no risk of tripping over his own feet. It's so quiet, all he can hear are his own footsteps crunching on the ground and his heavy breaths as the path begins to incline.
Even at a slow pace, his long legs mean he reaches the top of the trail in just under an hour. The trees fall away to an open stretch of rocks as he walks almost all the way to the edge. His breath catches in his throat as he takes in the view. The vista is stunning, stretching for what seems like miles, and the sun, just beginning to rise, has turned the sky a bright orange. Everything, from the trees to the rocky mountainside, glows with the same warm hue. It's one of the most beautiful things Robby has ever seen.
Out here, with nothing but nature as far as the eye can see, Robby feels like the last person on earth. He feels so tiny and big all at the same time.
Then he thinks about Jack, probably standing on the roof back in Pittsburgh, watching the city wake up. Another sunrise, but a completely different view. Quickly, before the moment slips out of his fingers, he takes a photo and sends it to Jack.
Watching the sunrise, too?
"So," Jack says as soon as he picks up, "Where are you now?"
"Oregon, a little south of Portland, I can see Mount Hood out my hotel room, well, I can during the day at least…and where are you right now?"
"On the roof."
"Which side of the railings?" He asks, trying not to worry.
"The right side, I'm fine, just enjoying the view, I promise."
Robby relaxes again.
"I liked the sunrise photo you sent me."
"Yeah?"
"I like all the photos you sent me…any, uh, any particular reason for them?"
Robby hums and lowers himself down on the edge of his bed, "Back in Texas, I met a woman."
"Oh yeah?" Jack says, his voice suddenly tight and raised an octave.
"Not like that," Robby huffs, "Lita was this small, tough lesbian in her sixties, maybe, part of a biker gang, a real character." He smiles at the memory of meeting her, "I gave her a bit of medical help by the side of the road and in return she gave me some pretty good advice, and well, I've been following it."
"What was the advice?"
"To look for things that bring me joy, pay attention to them…I guess when I've found things that bring me joy, I've liked sharing them with you, too."
"Well, glad to know I bring you so much joy, brother."
Robby's eyebrows furrow. "What are you talking about?"
"The crutches, the honey, that breakfast, the sunrise, the rabbit," Jack lists, "Your big brain didn't notice all those things all connect to me? To us?"
Holy fuck.
Robby's stomach drops.
He hadn't noticed.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. His mouth goes dry. How did he not see what he was doing?
"Robby, you still there?"
"I've gotta go," he finally spits out, hanging up to the sound of Jack calling his name.
Jack tries calling him back almost immediately, but Robby rejects the call.
A minute later, a message from Jack pops up on the screen.
I like that you've been thinking about me…I've been thinking about you too…a lot actually. Can we talk? Please?
Robby stares at the message for a long time. Is Jack saying what he thinks Jack is saying?
He'd pushed his feelings for Jack down so deep, he'd been able to deny they even existed, and without realising it, all his feelings have surged back to the surface like a tsunami. Everything in his life leads back to Jack, and maybe, just maybe, there's a chance for them, if he's reading Jack's message correctly.
With trembling hands, he turns his phone off and climbs into bed. He doubts sleep will come, but he has to try. There's a plan forming in his mind. He knows what he needs to do.
He tries not to let the anxiety of a possible rejection overwhelm him as he walks up the path to Jack's front door. It's late, almost ten at night, but he'd logged in to the scheduling app briefly on the way home to check if Jack was working and was thankful to find he had the next couple of nights off.
On the doorstep, he drops his bag onto the porch beside his feet, steels himself, and rings the doorbell. Each second waiting for the door to open feels like torture, but eventually he hears footsteps and the door swings open.
Jack's eyes widen in complete shock.
"Hi."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Jack curses as he sees who's standing on his doorstep. "What the fuck are you doing here?" His eyes scan Robby up and down, like he's checking Robby over. Or maybe he thinks he's hallucinating. "You turned off your fucking phone. I was about ready to call someone."
"I'm sorry, was a bit busy flying across the country."
"Why the fuck did you fly? Where's your bike?" Jack searches past him for it.
"I sold it."
Jack blinks, "Wait, you sold your bike?"
He looks stunned.
Robby shrugs, "Riding it back would have taken too long. I needed to talk to you."
"Holy shit…well, fuck, come inside," Jack reaches out, his fingers curling around Robby's wrist as he tries to tug Robby inside, but Robby's feet are planted on the welcome mat.
"I need to say something first."
Jack frowns, "Okay?"
"I uh, I left I think, not because I was running away from something, despite what some people might say. I know I left because I was looking for something. I don't know what, a sign, a feeling, a purpose maybe. The point is, I have travelled thousands of miles across this country looking for something that was here all along. You."
"Robby-"
"Please, let me finish," Robby begs, "I don't know if you feel the same, your message gave me hope that you did, but you're right, all those photos were about you, all the joy I felt was because of you and when you pointed that out, it was like I'd been shocked with the paddles and I couldn't hold back the flood of feelings that came with the realisation. So that's why I'm here on your doorstep, and if it's not what you want, if I'm not what you want, then we can forget this whole-"
Before he can get the words out, Jack surges forward. His hands clamp down on either side of Robby's face, and suddenly, there are lips pressed against Robby's. It takes Robby a split second to realise what is happening and to relax against Jack. The kiss is desperate and messy, whilst also soothing the ball of anxiety in Robby's chest. He gasps into Jack's mouth, lets Jack change the angle just slightly and lets himself feel every moment of Jack's lips against his for the first time.
When they pull apart, sucking in lungfuls of oxygen, Jack knocks his forehead against Robby's.
"You bring me joy, too, y'know. Just like she used to do," Jack admits.
Robby knows exactly who Jack is talking about, and his words send a shiver down Robby's spine.
"Fuck, Jack, I love you."
"I love you too," Jack replies without hesitation.
"Are we really doing this?" Robby asks in amazement.
"If I don't get you inside my house, no, inside my bedroom, in the next thirty seconds, I might just combust."
Robby barks out a full laugh at that, "Well, I wouldn't want that."
They kiss again, slower this time, arms wrapped around each other tightly. Reluctantly, Robby pulls away to pick his bag off the floor, and then he's letting Jack draw him inside, his eyes dark with hunger.
Robby wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. He should be used to that by now; he's woken in numerous different beds over the last couple of months.
This bed is different.
There's a person asleep next to him.
Not just anyone, either.
The sleep clears from his eyes, and they land on the wide expanse of Jack's back, the light streaming through the blinds leaving dark and light stripes across his pale, freckled skin. The sheets have shifted down in the night, low enough to show off the dimples in Jack's lower back, just above the swell of his ass.
It would be so easy to tug at the sheets and reveal Jack's naked body. The one he explored for the first time less than ten hours previously. There's no sense of urgency, though. Robby is happy to lie there and take in his fill. There's still plenty of time for round two, and three, and four.
He itches to reach out and touch, to trail his hand across Jack's warm body, memorise each mole and scar, to take what Jack has offered up to him on a silver platter, but he doesn't want to wake Jack up. Not quite yet.
Jack's face is turned towards him, not a hint of worry as he sleeps. Robby's never really seen him like this. The result of good sex followed by a good night's sleep. It makes him smile like an idiot.
Carefully, so he doesn't make the mattress dip, he reaches across to the nightstand where he left his phone before they fell asleep. There's only a few percent battery left, but there's just enough to unlock his phone, open the camera app and aim it in Jack's direction.
As soon as he presses the capture button and his phone emits a sound effect of a camera shutter, one of Jack's eyes snaps open.
"What are you doing?" He asks, although half his face is pressed into a pillow, so it sounds more like "Wa ru ooin?"
"Nothing," Robby denies quickly. He shuts the screen off and slides the phone under the sheets out of sight.
With a groan, Jack shifts onto his back, showing off the purple hickey on his chest and heating the back of Robby's neck at the memory of leaving it there.
"Did you take a photo?"
It's not an accusation. He's not offended. Just curious.
"Maybe," Robby finally admits.
Jack's eyes, still just thin slits as he battles against the bright morning light, drift over to meet Robby's. He gives Robby a sleepy grin, "You don't need a reminder, I'm not planning on letting you leave the bed for the foreseeable future."
"It's not that."
Robby finally runs out of self-control and reaches out, splaying his hand across Jack's firm chest, fingertips ticking soft fuzz. Jack's body responds to the featherlight touch, his breath hitching softly.
"Tell me."
"You're the thing that brings me joy today, just wanted to record it."
Despite being home and finally figuring things out with Jack, he liked the idea of continuing to record the things that bring him joy. It's funny, the longer he's kept up the habit, the happier he's felt, like the more joy he looks for, the more he finds. As casual as he sounds, just looking back at Jack makes his chest feel like it might burst with happiness.
Jack's eyes soften, and he reaches out towards Robby, opening his arms wide enough for Robby to sink into the embrace.
"Just so you know," Robby continues, mumuring into Jack's jaw. "A lot of the photos from now on might be of you."
Jack twists his head around and ducks down enough to capture Robby's lips against his own.
"I think I can live with that," he responds, then, without warning, pushes Robby onto his back, lowering his whole body down on top.
Robby groans as Jack settles between his legs, his entire weight pressing Robby into the mattress below.
Jack looks down at him in awe, "I still can't believe you sold your bike and flew across the country, with a whole month still left of your sabbatical, to tell me you loved me."
"Well, when you meet the right guy, all the greatest plans in the world just fly out the window," Robby grins.
Jack grins back, then, without missing a beat, tucks his head under Robby's jaw and presses kisses across his collarbone and up his neck. Robby slides his fingers through Jack's hair and cups the back of his head to hold him in place.
"Welcome home," Jack offers into Robby's skin, just loud enough for Robby to hear.
Robby's eyes slide shut, his whole body tingling with contentment as Jack's hips start to roll deliberately against his. He stops thinking and finally lets himself enjoy the moment.