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Dennis has no idea what wakes him up.
Not at first anyway. Blinks up at the ceiling. Thinks maybe the cat, Protein Bar, knocked something over. He does that, gets the zoomies at two AM. Has made several items casualties to his fun. But no, it’s not PB, can hear him snoring at the foot of the bed. Listens, suddenly too alert. Waits to hear someone in the house. Waits to hear footsteps, or something. Something to tell him that someone got in. To explain what woke him up. Hears nothing. Breathes a sigh of relief. Wonders what it was then.
He hears a noise. Turns his head, instinctively, towards it. Hears it again, recognizes it for what it is. A whimper. Realizes what woke him. Robby. It was Robby. Judging by the noise and the expression on his face, he’s having a nightmare. Wishes it was the first time this has happened, that he’s been woken up in the middle of the night by Robby having a bad dream. It isn’t. Not even close. Robby’s head jerks to the side, and he whines, just a little. Dennis has to suppress the urge to reach for him, to shake him awake.
Had made that mistake exactly one time. Had just wanted him to wake up, to stop making those awful noises. Hadn’t expected him to wake up swinging. Took a hit to the face, one that knocked him off the bed. It hadn’t been a big deal, Robby hadn’t meant to hurt him. He’d been scared, hadn’t known where he was or who Dennis was. Had lashed out on instinct. An accident. Except Robby hadn’t been able to stop staring at the bruise, until it finally healed and disappeared. Had beaten himself up for hurting him for days.
Dennis knows better now. Knows not to try to bring him out of it, no matter how badly he wants to. Knows it’s better to let him wake up on his own, even if the noises break his heart, make him want to throw up. Tries to help him come out of it faster. Talks, repeats it’s okay, wake up, come back to me baby, over and over. Isn’t sure it helps him wake up faster, but it makes him feel better, makes him feel like he’s helping, so he does it anyway. Robby makes another of those awful noises, a cross between a mewl and a yelp. Dennis sits up, crosses his arms to keep from reaching out for him.
Another whine, a jolt of his body. PB leaps from the bed, with an annoyed meow. Dennis can barely make out his tuxedo pattern in the dark. He flees with a glare in their direction. Pays him little mind. Knows he won’t hold it against them in the morning. He never does. Robby’s hand lurches, reaches out like he’s grabbing for something. Another noise, a word this time. Feels tears spring to his eyes when he realizes it’s his name. Hears Dennis, drawn out and pleading. Scared. Wonders if it was him he was reaching for. Digs his fingers into his arm so he doesn’t wake him up. Knows it’s better to let him wake up on his own. A twitch, a writhe, a thrash.
“Dennis,” Robby shouts, sitting upright, chest heaving.
“You’re Michael Robinavitch,” Dennis starts, like he always does on nights like this, “I’m Dennis Whitaker. We’re at home in bed.”
Isn’t sure Robby even hears him, but he says it anyway. Says it because he needs the reassurance just as much as Robby does. Robby’s breathing heavy. Too fast, too frantic. Is gonna work himself into even more of a panic if he doesn’t slow it down. Knows in his state he probably can’t. Reaches out, takes one of his hands in his. Brings it to his own chest. Lays it flat, breathes deliberately in and out. Hopes it’s enough to trigger Robby to breathe with him. To breathe slower, more normal. Robby’s eyes follow the movement. Trace down his arm, to Dennis’ chest, up to his eyes. Seems to lock there for a second, processing.
And then he’s moving. All but leaping at him. Dennis panics for a second, thinks maybe he hasn’t woken up enough. Is still in his nightmare. Thinks Dennis is someone he isn’t. But that worry goes out the window when all Robby does is tackle him to the bed. Bowls him over, pushes and shoves until he’s flat on his back. Until he can drape himself over him. Lays his entire weight on him, squishes him into the bed. Chest to chest, legs tangled together. Arms on either side of Dennis’ torso. Shuffles down just a little, just enough that he can tuck his head into the crook of Dennis' neck. He lets him, wouldn’t even dream of stopping him. If this is what he needs, it’s what he’ll get.
“We’re okay, we’re okay,” he chants, bringing a hand to Robby’s back.
Strokes up and down his spine. Over and over and over. Up and down, up and down. Feels him shudder under the touch. Hears a sniffle in his ear. Doesn’t draw attention to it. Just repeats, it’s okay, we’re okay with every pass of his hand. Occasionally brings it up into his hair. Presses a kiss to the top of his head when Robby burrows deeper into his neck. Spreads his legs, lets Robby fall into the gap between his thighs. Brings his legs up, wraps them around him. Stops stroking his back long enough to bring his arms under his armpits, hooks them around him, goes back to stroking his back. Feels Robby sink into his hold, squeezes him with all four limbs, hopes it’s helping.
Robby sighs, hard. Like the kind of sigh PB does after he’s finally found the perfect place to sleep in. Like he’s never been more comfortable in his whole life than he is right now. Hopes Robby’s sigh means the same. Tips his head to kiss his hair again. Because it’s there and he wants to so he does. Feels Robby’s lips move against his neck, knows he’s smiling. Presses his lips into his hair before he smiles too, so he can feel it. Continues rubbing his hand up and down his back. Feels the tension in him leave bit by bit until he’s all but melted into Dennis.
“Want to talk about it?” Dennis asks, after who knows how long has passed.
Asks because sometimes Robby doesn’t want to. Never pushes. Understands. Has nightmares of his own. Memories that come to haunt him when he closes his eyes. Of his time being homeless. Of his childhood, back before he came to Pittsburgh. Of his Pa’s temper. Doesn’t always want to talk about it, when he wakes up. Understands that it’s the same for Robby. Always asks, always offers to listen, in case he does want to. Robby does the same, on nights where their roles are reversed.
“PittFest,” is all Robby says back, like that explains it all.
Which, he supposes, it does. Knows even all these months later, he still blames himself for not being able to save Leah. Blames himself for not being able to do the impossible. For not being able to save a girl who was dead as soon as the bullet hit her. She may have still been breathing, but she was already gone. No one could have helped, could have fixed her. Not even the great Michael Robinavitch.
Dennis knows that. Robby does too, he thinks. Still blames himself for not being able to do it. For failing her. Failing Jake. Thinks that’s the real issue. Not Leah, but Jake. Because he still hasn’t reached out. Robby gets updates, from Janey, sometimes. A quick he needs time or therapy seems to be helping. But Jake still hasn’t reached out himself. Hasn’t said anything to him since those words in the ED, the ones meant to hurt. He didn’t mean them, Dennis knows he didn’t. He was hurting, and he lashed out because he needed someone to blame. Robby was just the convenient target. Knows Robby knows that too, deep down. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
“You did everything you could for her. More than everything.”
“It wasn’t her.”
And that catches Dennis’ attention. Because every PittFest nightmare Robby has had has always been about Leah. Wonders what it was about, if not her. Not that there isn’t plenty to have nightmares about, when it comes to that awful day. There’s certainly plenty of material to work with. Lord knows his own subconscious has taken a crack at it a time or two. And he wasn’t even with the critical patients. Didn’t see the worst of it, not the way Robby did. Waits, for Robby to give him more information. To tell him, if he wants to.
“It was you.”
Robby nuzzles closer, as he says it. And Dennis, Dennis uses his arms and legs to hold him tighter. Because he was expecting a lot of things, but not that. Assumed if it wasn’t about Leah, it was about the other grievous injuries. The DOAs. The families who were separated, forced to wait and wait and wait for news about their loved ones. Didn’t think that he was even an option.
“I was, working on a patient. Lost their pulse, couldn’t get it back. And I, I looked up, and it was you."
“Oh, baby.”
“You, you were dying, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t fix you. I couldn’t save you.”
“I’m here, I’m okay.”
“You died, and I had to just let it happen.”
Feels tears well in his eyes when Robby’s breath hitches on a sob. Clutches Robby to him with his limbs. Makes soothing noises in the back of his throat. Goes back to rubbing his back, over and over. Hopes feeling his hands, feeling him will help. Will help remind him that he’s here. Not dying on a gurney from a gunshot wound. He’s here, holding him. Warm and safe in their bed.
“I didn’t die. I’m right here.”
Robby slides further down, so his head isn’t in the crook of his neck but rather over his heart. Turns so his ear is pressed right over it. Brings up one arm from where it was resting next to Dennis’ ribs to rest on his chest. Taps out every beat onto his skin. Like he needs the proof it’s still beating. Needs to hear it, to count it. Needs to know for himself that it’s real. That Dennis is under him, alive. Tears, warm and wet, soak into the skin over his heart. Reaches up with one hand to wipe them away. Doesn’t think Robby even realizes he’s crying. More replace them, but that’s fine, he wipes them away, too.
“We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” Robby agrees.
Neither of them moves. Robby keeps tap, tap, tapping out his heartbeat. Dennis keeps rubbing his back. Up and down, up and down. After he has no idea how long, Robby’s hand stops. Comes to rest on his chest, the tapping grinding to a halt. He doesn’t stop stroking his back, though. Hopes it’ll get him to fall back asleep again. It’s too early to be up, and they're both off today. Thinks they could both do with a little more sleep. Can tell that Robby’s breathing is slowing down, in that way it does before he falls asleep. Hitches his legs up a little, to get more comfortable. Has a feeling he won’t be moving from this position for quite some time, not that he minds. Closes his eyes, starts to drift off, too.
Crash.
“Your son is being a menace again,” Robby mumbles into his chest.
“Our son.”
“When he’s knocking things over at two in the morning, he’s your son.”