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There is no predictor to what events will cause post-traumatic stress disorder. It's about how a body reacts, how the mind decides to deal with that reaction. Often, it's the most grief-inducing situations people face that lead them to developing PTSD, but Michael hypothesizes that even the most mundane things can trigger those already fucked in the head.
It's been a rough night, sleepless in a way only someone who's seen the same horrors, carries the same grief he does, can have. He showers when he gets home, sits down in front of the television with the dinner Jack always prepares for him before getting ready for shift, in the same way he prepares breakfast for when Jack gets home from his shift. He does the dishes, locks the door, and turns the hallway light on, leaving the bedroom door open. Sometimes he'll turn on Jack's police scanner, listen to the never ending stream of events that happen in a city to small to house its people, other times he'll turn the news on to low and let the droll voices of newscasters and meteorologists slip through his skull and into his dreams.
Tonight he struggles to stay asleep, jolting awake at the creak of an old floorboard, at the shrill whine of a siren outside the window, at every announcement of a new dead person in the news. When the clock reads 3:38 am, he sighs and sits up, reaching for his glasses on the night stand and slipping his feet into the slippers sat just in the right spot. There's no use in trying for something that's never going to come, so he dresses and grabs his coat, sat where he last placed it on the back of the unused kitchen chair.
The lock clicks when he turns his key, righting it before pulling it out. He tries the knob, once, twice, a third time for good measure. The porch light illuminates his faults, hands cracked and dry, bags under his eyes so deep sometimes he thinks they're endless, clothes rumpled and mismatched from his frantic search in their hamper. Luckily, the shadows cast by trees and buildings so tall they sway with the wind keep him hidden and unnoticed.
Walks help when he's finding it hard to sleep, hard to sit with all the mistakes and screw-ups he's made. It doesn't fix anything, hardly gets him to stop in his downwards spiral, but the smell of freezing pine in the winter or freshly cut grass in the summer grounds him in a way he never thought he'd find. There's a windchill tonight—as predicted by Jill Szwed—a breeze that cuts through his thin hoodie, worn down from years of use. The shiver reminds him of hours spent on the cool tile of bathroom floors, head in hands trying to just breathe.
Without meaning to, he heads in the direction of the hospital. It's natural, the way he seeks out the cause of most of his pains, in the same way someone might cut themselves to feel the relief of crushing loneliness. In the same way an addict seeks out their drug of choice knowing the consequences of what's to come once the high fades. The hospital lets him forget in the way it forces him to remember. It's a vice, a form of self-harm so niche almost no one picks up on it. They all always focus on the motorcycle.
Determined to not do this to Jack tonight, he turns right when he should turn left, heading towards all the cheap, 24-hour establishments that host almost exclusively the patients and staff of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. There's a diner that makes Jack's favourite pancakes, always massive and slightly burnt. They won't be warm when Jack finally finds them in the kitchen fridge with a note, but, then again, Jack's always preached about the benefits of re-warmed pancakes, so maybe it'll be a welcome surprise.
He seats himself, not grabbing a menu. He won't eat, coffee enough to settle his stomach until shift start makes him forget all about it, and he knows Jack's order by heart. Neither Michael nor Jack are regulars by any means, but he still recognizes every face on shift tonight, knows them by name. They know him too it seems, if the cup of coffee and tray of cream that Stella brings by is any indication.
No one bothers him as he settles into the far corner booth he's chosen, only Stella coming by once to refill his mug. He lets himself drift, mind wandering to thoughts mundane enough to not dredge up the panic and grief. It's nice, the atmosphere of the diner so late at night very few people have come to sit for a meal. There's a slight hush of discussion that flows through the entire diner, but it's a mumble that he lets wash over him like the police scanner or the news.
Everything breaks when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
It's Dana. He lets it ring until it stops, not bothering to pick up just to listen to her scold him for not being asleep, like she isn't awake herself.
Then a message comes through, unusual for Dana. When he doesn't pick up she knows to leave him alone.
"Pick up," she writes.
"Busy," he types back.
"Lena's worried Jack might hurt himself. Get over to the hospital."
And everything just stops. His heart stops beating, the people around him stop moving, the earth ceases to spin. Jack, his Jack, with severe PTSD from the army and grief so deep from his dead wife that Robby finds him on the edge of a roof more often then he finds him sleeping. Jack, with a will so insistent that it reads like a suicide note. Jack, who he knew was suicidal, who he knew struggled to find himself again, who's been going to therapy and getting better.
Desperately, he forces everything to start up again. His heart races, his breathing quickens, he feels tears threaten to spill from behind his eyes, pricking with the discomfort of being held back. It becomes a race for him, to seem normal while trying to get to Jack as fast as he can. A strange, large man seen sprinting down the sidewalk is nothing but suspicious in the middle of the night, and he'd never forgive himself if his own freakishness is what stops him from saving the only love of his life.
He pays his bill for the coffee, never having had the time to buy Jack his pancakes, shakily tells whoever takes his money "thank you" before rushing out and into the cool winds. He can distantly hear the jingle of the bell above the door crash in a way that suggests he was too forceful, but he doesn't care, can't care. Jack could be standing on the edge of the hospital roof, ready to step off and Michael isn't there to catch him.
It's not Michael's job, not his burden, to carry the weight of Jack's consistent want for the peace of death. That's what the therapist says, anyways, but he does, he carries all that shit, blames himself for every set-back, keeps count of all the stupid shit he does that makes Jack worse. It'll be his fault, for not being there, for not being reliable enough for Jack to feel like he can count on him. It's his fault every time, it needs to be his fault. So, despite not being the person who should reasonably be dealing with a situation like this (why haven't the called down psych??), he will anyways because he needs to.
He crosses the street desperately, barely looking for cars before jogging across, relying on any driver's ability to turn on their headlights as his signal one might be coming at him. It's only three blocks down to the hospital, eight flights of stairs to clamber up, one heavy door to shove open. That's if Jack's not already in Trauma One when he gets there.
The thought alone is enough to set him off again, carefully crafted calm shattered into a million little pieces to be left scattered on the sidewalk as it trails behind him on his hunt. There are endless ways to hurt, to die. Robby knows this, Jack knows this, every healthcare professional knows this. It's impossible to not be aware of the death, of the harm, that comes into the ED every day. If Jack wanted to hurt himself, if he wanted to die, in a less conspicuous way, if he wanted to keep his promise, to not let himself fall from the roof to the pavement of the hospital grounds, he could do so many other things.
Drugs potent enough to kill in seconds at their fingertips, scalpels available at every turn, empty room and lockable bathroom doors. Places to hide, to stay hidden until the sweet relief of death. There's too many opportunities, too many chances. Maybe he'll provoke an angry, grieving patient, desperate to not carry the blame, unaware that Michael will carry all of it himself.
How will he be able to save him? How can he make sure Jack is safe, alive, without spooking him into rushing it? How does one force another to live?
Michael doesn't have the answer, often doesn't have any answers. He's bullshitted his way through life, living off of lucky chances and pure and utter determination. The students look at him like a mentor, like someone who knows things, but the truth is he can't help them, can barely guide them. He works on instinct, relying on years of muscle memory built up over time, and that's just not something that can be taught, it's not something that should be taught. He stumbles through a dark life, offering what little light he does have as he goes, but it's never enough.
He won't be enough.
Jack's going to die. Everyone dies—old age, sickness, accidental, intentional—but it takes a very strong person to be able to accept that fact, and Michael is not, and has never been, a strong person. He's someone who crumbles, who breaks and refuses to rebuild, when faced with the realities of the world. He is not optimistic, not off in some wondrous mental land where everything is sparkles and rainbows, but he's also never been able to force himself into the reality of death and grief.
Simply put, he doesn't want people to die. He has great wishes of never losing anyone to sickness or hurt ever again, a thought that simultaneously keeps him going and wrecks him; because it's not realistic. People die, they get hurt and they come into the ED and Michael sees every single one of them, knows every single one of them, for however long they can stay. He keeps them with him, carries their hurt and sickness like it's his own because it is, in a way.
But Jack is going to die, and he won't be able to prevent it. He won't be fast enough, won't pick the right route through the hospital, won't get to Jack on time. He hasn't been enough, hasn't carried his fair share of their grief, hasn't noticed the usual signs of a depressive episode or flare up, hasn't been open or honest enough for Jack to feel like he can ask for help. There's so much he wishes he could do, so much he wishes he did do, but it's impossible now.
He sees the hospital up ahead, notices the bright lights and murmured chaos before the ambulance bay comes into view. Without stopping to check-in with Lena, without signing in or answering any of the muffled questions of the night shift around him, he forces his way into the stairwell, trips on the first stair and forces himself to climb.
Emergency, Pediatrics, Surgery, Hospice, the floors pass by him as he loses himself in the desperation. The roof door comes into view quicker than he anticipates, an old, squeaky things that you need to shoulder open because it's so worn. He practically flings himself into the door, falling through it and onto the roof because it was already propped open by the brick left just inside the door.
"Michael?" he hears Jack's voice ask from not too far away.
He's on his hands and knees, probably scraped from the harshness of the roof, breathing hard. He looks up, sees Jack leaning against the railing with a cigarette in his hand, almost to his lip like he was interrupted in taking a drag. It's so…normal. So safe, so unbothered. Michael looks, he really looks at Jack, sees the relaxed pose, the normal scrunch of his face, the peace in his eyes. This is not the Jack he was led to believe he'd find.
"Sorry," he apologizes, pushing himself back onto his knees. "Didn't know the door was already open."
"What are you doing here?" Jack approaches, dropping the cigarette as he does, aware of Michael's disdain. He reaches his hand out when he gets close enough, offering to help Michael up.
He takes the hand, trying not to put to much weight onto Jack as he stands, brushing his hands together to dislodge the gravel when he takes his hand back. "Bad night," he decides on telling Jack. It's obvious that whatever he thought, whatever Dana and Lena thought, was wrong, blown out of proportion. He doesn't want Jack to know, doesn't want Jack to worry or feel sorry for something that was never his fault. "Needed to see you."
Instead of saying anything, instead of berating Michael or being disappointed, Jack pulls him into a hug. He's still warm despite having been outside for at least half a cigarette without a jacket, still alive, still breathing. Michael lets himself melt into the embrace for a couple seconds, indulging in the very life that still runs through Jack's body, before he pulls away.
"I should let you get back to work," he tries hard to hold back a sigh. There are still a million thoughts running through his head, endless deaths swimming in a pool of grief, but he will not burden himself onto Jack, he won't let his own fears and insecurities muddle the shallow happiness they have.
"You sure? It's been a slow night. Could probably spend a bit longer up here."
A siren wails in the night, approaching them rapidly. "Jinxed yourself," he huffs a laugh. "You should know better by now."
Jack smiles at him ruefully. "Can't be helped I guess." He grabs Michael's shoulder, kissing him briefly on the cheek as he passes. "I'll see you at handoff in a couple hours," he emphasizes the last part. "Go home and get some sleep, Michael."
And with that he's left alone, alone on the same rooftop he'd imagined Jack falling from earlier. He finally breaks, fear and anxiety catching up to him, great heaving sobs climbing up his throat to be screamed into the night chill. His eyes prick with unshed tears, held back by what little will he has left. Bringing up a hand to cover his face, fingers spread to try and cover both his mouth and eyes, he curls into himself slightly, other arm wrapping around his gut.
He doesn't let himself make much sound, tries to keep his burden to himself, tries to keep his anguish hidden. Tears run down his cheeks, over his finger, into his parted mouth. He tries to breathe, tries to let air into and out of his lungs, tries to make himself feel alive, but it's not working. Heavy breaths come out and not enough air goes in. It makes him dizzy, makes him feel unsteady and more panicked than he already is.
For a minute, he lets himself stay like this, on the edge of life and death, not the same as being on the outside of the railings, but dangerous enough for him to feel something. But then he has to compose himself, has to let the tears stop, force his lungs to inflate and deflate like normal. He has to go back downstairs, has to let Jack see him leave, has to let everyone believe that nothing is wrong, that he's fine and Jack is fine and everything is fine.
He wipes his eyes with the inside of his sleeve, then his nose, hiding any evidence on the inside of his wrist instead of all over his face. He takes a deep breath, feeling his heart stutter as the too-full lungs push against it. He pushes away all of tonight's thoughts, puts them in a little box and hides them behind the easier things to grieve, to panic over. He stands straight, enough to keep his height without looking suspiciously stiff. He forces himself to be Dr. Robinavitch, stoic, professional chief attending, and not Michael, broken and insecure partner of Jack Abbott.
Tonight didn't happen. Tonight he couldn't sleep. Tonight he walked down to Misty's Diner and ordered a coffee trying desperately to put himself to sleep. Tonight, when Misty's coffee didn't work, he let himself stop by the hospital to say hi to Jack before heading home to bed. Tonight he deletes the message from Dana and the voicemail he'll never listen to. Tonight he walks down the stairs to the emergency department, smiles at Jack as he passes by, and walks home. Tonight he changes into his pajamas, lays down in bed, and turns on the news.
Tomorrow he'll wake up and live like last night didn't happen. Dana won't say anything, Lena won't say anything, Michael won't say anything. It's not a secret what happened, it just didn't happen, not to them. Jack is fine, Michael is fine, life moves on.
Tonight didn't happen and Michael's heart doesn't race every time Dana calls him at night. Tonight didn't happen and Misty's dinner doesn't fill him with an impending sense of doom. Tonight didn't happen and Michael doesn't spend most nights worrying about Jack.