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Robby’s been having a bad week. Hell, Robby’s been having a bad year.
It’s been months since the shooting at Pittfest, since Leah and Langdon and a hundred others, and it feels as though every hour is another body for the mausoleum. Droning asystolic ghosts smudge his days and nights together into muddy washes of grief.
Running himself ragged with work, Robby’s been spending his off hours picking up dangerous habits and dumping therapists. If he were his own patient, he’d recognize his behavioural escalations as warning signs, as something to keep an eye on. As it stands, he trades high-risk for the high-reward of keeping his head above water in between shifts.
Then again, he hasn’t done a psych rotation since the 90s. Maybe this is what the kids would call liberated.
This week has been a different flavour of misery, though. Every so often, in a pattern that's gone on for as long as he can remember, he’ll sink low enough that no amount of nighttime motorcycle rides or beautiful women in his bed can drag him back.
He falls into old, old habits- cruising through his shifts on adrenaline and anxious energy alone, coming home just to choke down some easy food and stare dead-eyed at his ceiling fan with a bottle of something that burns. He hasn’t slept without the drone of his television set in weeks.
The normally bright spots in his routine– joking with Dana, helping his students, and handoffs with Jack– barely register as blips through the heavy cloud of this kind of mood. He’s been a bastard to be around and he knows it, snapping at his colleagues and patients alike. Now, with a couple days off, he’s hoping to wrangle himself back into shape. It’s proving difficult, given how herculean he’s been finding getting out of bed.
It’s there, drifting in the grey, dreamless fog of half-sleep, that Robby’s startled into full consciousness by a familiar knocking pattern on his apartment door.
Rising from his tangled sheets, he swears that every bone in his body cracks as they shift in a graceless readjustment to the new position. Goddamnit, Jack’s right, he really does need to be better at keeping up with his physio.
Tugging on a sweater he hobbles down the halfway, feeling dazed and offbeat. A little nauseous, in that empty-stomach kind of way. Light is shining in through his east-facing windows, signaling mid-morning. Time has been… slippery.
He expects to find Jack when he opens his door, but seeing his friend still sends a quick kick of pleasure through his nervous system anyways. He feels a watery smile tug at his mouth, fragile but genuine.
“Jack. Hi,” he sighs, a bit, and it sounds wistful and stupid to his ears.
“Hey, Robby.” Jack’s still in his work scrubs, familiar go-bag slung over one shoulder. He looks rumpled and sweaty, either from the shift or from the walk over. He must have come straight from the hospital. “You gonna invite me in, or what?”
Belatedly, Robby steps out of the way. His mind is still working at half-capacity, stuck on the 5-o'clock shadow that, for Jack, tends to show around 8 in the morning.
“Vampire,” He mumbles, affectionate, and it comes out slow and dragging like a pet-name.
“Please feel free to spread that rumor,” Jack crosses the threshold, “it’ll be great for night shift’s mystique.” He drops his bag into the floor and unceremoniously pushes up into Robby’s space, wrapping his arms around him tightly.
Robby takes only a second’s pause to process this course shift before returning the embrace, letting himself fold into Jack’s warmth. He pushes his face into those curls, an instinctual gesture by now. He smells like the hospital, latex and peroxide, but underneath just himself– that sweet homey-smell Robby’s never been able to identify as anything other than Jack.
“Mmm. Hi.” Jack smiles, and Robby feels it against his collarbone. “Missed you last night.”
Robby snorts, shaking his head, enjoying the way his beard catches a little in the hair behind Jack’s ear. “We only woulda seen each other for five minutes, anyways.”
Jack pulls back a bit, but keeps his arms around him. “You tellin’ me those five minutes aren’t the highlight of your day? C’mon man, I thought we had something here.”
Robby still feels strange, unbalanced, and he can’t help but wince. Jack’s joking, obviously, but it hits a little too close to the truth. He ducks his head to avoid the shorter man’s gaze– a futile effort with how close they're standing.
“Hey. Hey,” Jack cranes his neck, forcing eye contact. “What’re you looking so jumpy for, didn’t I just say it was mutual?”
Robby nods– aborts, shakes his head– and then nods once more.
Jack hums, a short decisive sound, and reaches up to hold Robby’s cheek, swiping a thumb under his eye. Robby hasn’t exactly been spending much time with his reflection lately, but he can guess at the general state of things. When faced with Jack’s unwavering good-looks he always gets a bit self-conscious, especially during times like these where he’s sure his restless nights are etched across his face.
“Alright amigo, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Jack says, with calloused fingertips still pressed to Robby’s cheek, “I’m gonna shower, fix us something to eat, and then we’re both going to try and get some sleep, okay?”
Sighing, Robby nods again, taking a moment to turn his face into Jack’s hand. As usual, Jack indulges him, flattening his palm more firmly against his cheek before scratching up through the short hair on the side of his head. The look in his eyes is… something. Half affection and half concern, overlaid with post-shift weariness.
“You shower, I’ll make us something,” Robby says, guilt chewing at his stomach. Why is Jack here and not home in his own bed– was it really just to check on him? Was Robby sending off enough distress signals for his friend to forgo his own comfort to preform a fucking wellness check? He closes his eyes against the onslaught of shame– a compulsory defense mechanism.
A second hand cups his other cheek, pulling him up from the widening spiral of self-deprecation. “Robby, brother, you still with me?”
He blinks back tears, miserable and embarrassed of it. “Yes, yeah, sorry. Go shower, you know where everything is.”
Jack nods, mouth twisting in a worried little frown that Robby can feel in the pit of his stomach. He rises to his toes to press a firm kiss to his forehead before stepping away, grabbing his bag and disappearing down the hallway. “Be good!’” he calls.
The eggs Robby scrambles somehow manage to be both runny and burnt along the edges, but they’re passable enough on buttered toast, and Jack’s never been much of a picky eater. He was quick with his shower, emerging only minutes later in a fresh shirt and sweatpants– one of the legs tucked up into a neat knot where he’s foregone his prosthesis in favour of the spare crutches Robby keeps in his closet. He’s the picture of comfort, damp hair and flushed skin, and he slots back into Robby’s space easy as anything.
He hums happily, peering over Robby’s shoulder at the simple meal, and Robby can feel himself flush a little at the implicit praise. Jack notices, of course, because Jack notices everything.
“Looks great,” he says, all earnest approval as he leans in closer, hand gripping Robby’s shoulder, “Thank you, brother.”
When Robby moves to take their plates over to his small kitchen table, Jack smoothly re-directs them to the couch with a hand on his waist. They eat shoulder to shoulder, and Jack elbows him in the ribs no fewer than five separate times. Robby thinks that it might be the first meal he’s tasted properly all week.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Jack asks through a mouthful of eggs.
“Not really,” Robby pushes his own food around on his plate.
Jack scoffs, lightly chastising, but mercifully doesn't press. “You’re lucky I’m beat, man. C’mon, finish up with that.”
He’s really not that hungry, but Jack’s eyes are on him again, discerning, so he dutifully swallows a few more bites to appease him before standing and bringing both their dishes to the sink. Jack follows, leaning against the countertop and watching as Robby putters around, rinsing his cookware halfheartedly. He’s uncharacteristically reserved, a tell-tale indicator of exhaustion.
Another pang of guilt flashes through Robby, and he occupies himself in drying his hands with a dishtowel, head ducked low to hide the frustrated tears that are suddenly clouding his vision.
He hears Jack shift closer before a hand wraps around the back of his neck, squeezing reassuringly.
“Come to bed.”
Robby trails after Jack as he makes his way through the familiar hallways of his apartment towards the master bedroom. At the doorway, Robby hesitates for a beat and Jack turns to shoot him a questioning look.
“I don’t know how much sleep I’ll get so, uh, if you want the room to yourself-”
Jack scoffs, his hand coming up to grab at the collar of Robby’s hoodie, all but dragging him over the threshold.
“Don’t be a dumbass, man,” he says, exasperated. Robby can’t do anything but concede to the manhandling, ducking in closer to Jack as they amble towards the bed as a unit.
Jack is always so sure of his role when Robby gets like this– effortlessly taking the helm when Robby’s out of his depth, lost in a sea of emotional turmoil.
“You can read or whatever, I don’t care,” Jack settles into bed, placing his crutches within easy reach. He leans back into the pillows, wiggling around a bit under the covers to get comfortable. It’s ridiculously endearing. He’s inevitable– unavoidable– and Robby slides in next to him with a sigh.
It’s not often that they share a bed, but it happens enough for them to fall into a comfortable position easily. Jack curls closer to him, resting his head on Robby’s pectoral with a satisfied sound, arm draped over his stomach.
“You know I, uh, appreciate you doing this, Jack.” Robby mumbles into his curls, grateful that Jack can’t see his face.
Jack, for his part, lightly bats at Robby’s ribs with his hand. “This is a completely selfish endeavor, I promise.”
Robby snorts, shaking his head.
“No, really.” Jack lifts his head up from its resting place to look Robby in the eyes again. This fucking guy, he thinks, fondly exasperated. The emotion is lighter than anything he’s felt in days, and he feels almost dizzy with it. He lightly pushes Jack’s head back down, unable to bear the openness of eye-contact with this man so intent on sincerity.
Jack huffs, settling. “Seriously- this is nice. I like this. We should do it more often.”
Robby can’t speak, throat suddenly tight again with emotion.
They don’t talk about it, is the thing. Their strange co-dependency, their practiced domesticity.
Their habits have been built from years of lines crossed in moments of intensity, of the both of them getting caught in the blast radius of each other's breakdowns. The comfort they take in each other has been earned not through communication, but making the choice again and again to show up for one another. To hold the other close in stairwells, rooftops, and bedrooms alike.
Robby doesn’t trust himself within the definitions he could apply to their dynamic, knows how selfish and non-committal and downright cruel he can be in a relationship. He doesn’t want to be any of that with Jack. Never with Jack.
He must tense up, body voicing his distress, because Jack runs a hand up and down his side- obvious in its aim to soothe. Then again, he’s always had an almost supernatural ability to read Robby’s moods, and can always sense when he’s hit a wall.
“Yeah, I know. I know.” Jack assuages, “Quit worryin’ already, just rest for now. You can think on it later.”
Robby wraps his arms around him– tighter than he’s dared all morning– and nods once, jerkily.
“Love you,” he mumbles, rough, a kind of offering.
It doesn’t come close to covering it, but he feels Jack smile into his chest and thinks that– at the very least– it’s an okay place to start.