Work Text:
Robby
The motorcycle roars to life underneath me.
The engine vibrates through the frame, the night air is cool against my face, and the hospital sits behind me. It’s lit up against the darkness, still full of people who need help.
But it’s not my problem anymore, not for the next three months. Maybe longer. Maybe it’ll never be my problem again.
I twist the throttle and the bike rolls forward, out of the ambulance bay.
No one is trying to stop me now. Not Jack, with his pro-therapy nonsense. Not Dana, with her witty, snarky comments. My house keys are with Whitaker and he has been given free run of the place.
Now it’s just me, the motorcycle and the road.
Freedome—or something close enough to it, perhaps.
The city begins to slide past as the motorcycle speeds up. There are streetlights, storefronts and bridges. It’s the same roads I’ve walked and driven for years. I know this city better than I know myself. I know every shortcut to my or Jack’s place. I know every traffic light and crossing. Even every gas station where ambulance crews stop for coffee when they’re not out on call.
Maybe the fact I know this city so well is part of the problem.
But I have three whole months ahead of me, with no schedule, no trauma calls, no administration. No twelve-hour shifts that somehow become fifteen, no watching people die, no watching people live. For three months I have no responsibility to anyone but myself.
It should feel freeing.
Instead it feels like I’m giving up.
I grip the handlebars tighter and the motorcycle surges forward. The city gets smaller in the mirrors, but the feeling of giving up doesn’t.
As I stop at a red light, Jack flashes through my mind. All the times he’s tried to talk me out of this for the past few months. All the conversations we’ve had in the past few hours while our shifts overlapped.
It’s an unfortunate thought to have, which is on par with every time I think about Jack. It’s not because of anything he’s done, but because of everything he is.
The light turns green and I can’t get myself to twist the throttle.
A horn blears behind me.
‘Fuck,’ I mutter as I start accelerating through the intersection.
Jack is still back in the Pitt, probably drinking terrible coffee and making fun of Shen’s Dunkin coffees. Or perhaps he’s busy with patients, because he can’t stop himself from always being on the move. Most likely, he’s also worrying about me.
The idiot.
The motorcycle hums beneath me as I change lanes.
Jack had several conversations with me today, and for most of them I could hardly look at him. Granted, for the most part, I try not to look at him too much—but in conversations I am allowed to look. So I take advantage of that. Today though… Fucking today.
It’s just been a downhill battle. An abandoned baby, Langdon showing up for a shift he wasn’t scheduled for, Dana walking around with a needle in her pocket just in case, fucking ICE arresting Jesse, Al-Hashimi not being medically fit to run my ED department. I wanted to leave it in a better state than I’m in, but… It might actually be worse than it has been in a long time.
The road stretches ahead, dark and endless. I do have an itinerary, but what’s to stop me from deviating from that? It’s just me and the bike on the open road.
I pass another exit, another bridge, another stretch of highway.
Then suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m a fifty-two year old man trying very hard not to examine why disappearing sounds so appealing.
The bike wobbles, and my hands tighten on the bars. Not now, not fucking now. My chest is too tight, the air feels wrong. Everything feels fucking wrong.
I pull off the highway before I cause an accident that will bring me into the Pitt as a patient instead of the Chief. The bike rolls into an empty parking lot at the gas station just there.
Silence rushes in as the engine dies.
I just sit there, staring straight ahead, as my hands shake on the bars.
This is just fucking fantastic, I snap to myself inside my own head. A fifty-two year old Chief attending of one of the busiest emergency departments in the state, having a fucking panic attack in a parking lot.
I rest my forehead against the handlebars, hoping the cool metal will bring me out of whatever shit I’m stuck in. My heart pounds against my ribs, wanting to get loose. The shaking gets worse, taking my whole body with it instead of just my hands.
The cool metal—as well as the fact I know what’s going on—doesn’t make it stop. It doesn’t even help. Nothing helps.
I close my eyes and try breathing slowly in, then out. Again, and again, and again. It takes a while, but the panic slowly recedes. It doesn’t disappear completely, but enough for me to think. Which turns out to be a mistake, because me and thinking recently… We’re not on the greatest terms, to say the least.
While I told everyone where I was going, while I have a whole plan and itinerary and all, I don’t actually want to follow it. I don’t need to follow it. I can go wherever I want. No one is here to keep on my set path, no one to know if I drive in the complete opposite direction of where I planned.
I hunch over the handlebars, my eyes wet and stinging.
As I told Duke, just hours ago, I don’t want to be anywhere anymore. I don’t want to keep doing what I’m doing. I keep looking at trauma patients and envying them for being unconscious… and for dying.
This whole sabbatical is about that.
Dying.
I let it out there to Dana, and to Whitaker, and to Duke… That maybe I wasn’t going to come back. Did I let that little tidbit slip to Jack? I can’t remember what Jack and I have said to each other today, not verbatim.
If Jack suspected that, he probably wouldn’t have let me out of the Pitt tonight. Jack’s the only one who dares to go toe to toe with me. I mean, Dana can too, about work at least, but she’s a little more careful when it comes to my personal life.
The wetness escapes my eyes and streams down my face. I don’t even have the energy or will to wipe it away.
It dries up on its own eventually, but my eyes are now red and sore and my whole face is probably blotchy.
I don’t know what to do.
I gave my housekeys to Whitaker, so it’s not like I can just skip on back home. My plan for this sabbatical is absolutely shit.
‘Fuck.’ I straighten up, my back protesting having been hunched over for so long. I’m having a panic attack and an emotional breakdown at the same time, I’m way beyond tired, and I have no idea what to do with myself or how to get through this.
I start the bike again.
There’s only one place to go.
Jack
I almost walk past the bike before doing a double take and blinking, then rubbing my eyes. Am I hallucinating from some serious lack of sleep right now, or is that actually Robby’s bike?
For a second I just stare at it. It looks exactly the same as it did this morning when Robby and I had our little discussion over it.
It’s not supposed to be here though.
Why is it here?
At my apartment?
Did he forget something?
But, no. This is my apartment. Robby doesn’t have anything at my place. Certainly not something that requires him to postpone his trip.
Maybe something’s happened?
I double it to the door before I can go through scenario after scenario in my head. My backpack, which is only slung over one shoulder, hits my back repeatedly as I run up the stairs. My prosthetic complains, but I ignore it in favor of getting up to my floor.
I’ve been on a twelve-hour shift and the socket’s rubbed the same spot all day. The familiar ache is spreading through my thigh, which means it’s time to chill on the couch or the bed and take life easy.
But Robby is here instead of off on his death-trap of a bike.
I can’t give myself a second now.
My front door is locked, which is usual when I’m not home. What is unusual is Robby actually using the spare key he has, especially when he knows I’m not home.
‘Robby?’ I call the minute I’m inside. The entire apartment is dark, and there’s no answer, no movement.
I step inside and shut the door behind me. It clicks shut silently. Still no sound, no movement anywhere in sight.
The apartment is exactly as I left it. There’s a coffee mug in the sink, my shoes are by the door, the jacket I forgot to hang up is draped over the back of a chair. Nothing looks disturbed.
‘Robby?’
The couch is empty too. He has spent the night on it before, whenever we’ve been up too late watching a game, or too drunk to get himself home.
My stomach knots.
What reason would Robby have to let himself into my house and then ignore me? I don’t like the suggestions that come to mind.
The hallway, living room and kitchen are empty and untouched. So I move through the rest of the apartment, trying to keep my thoughts from going haywire.
The bathroom door is open, but there’s no light. When I push it, I see the room itself is empty. It also looks untouched, like no one’s been in here. I can’t remember if I left the door partially open before I left for work or not.
Next up is the spare bedroom, which is used as both office and home gym. It’s also empty, as expected. Why would Robby be in there, after all? I doubt he’s up for working out right now.
That only leaves my bedroom. The door is almost closed. I also can’t remember how I left it this morning.
I stop with my hand pressed against the wood, my heart beating against my ribs. For one ridiculous second I wonder if I’m about to find him collapsed—or worse, dead—in my fucking bedroom.
Not being a man in the habit of putting off the bad stuff—anymore—I push the door open. The bedroom’s dark too, but there’s a lump on my bed.
I step closer slowly, peering at that lump. It’s Robby and he’s breathing, thankfully. He’s asleep, still wearing the clothes he left the hospital in this morning. He’s got one arm tucked beneath my pillow, face halfway smushed into it.
His boots are lined up neatly beside the bed, and his jacket’s folded over the chair I use some mornings before putting on my prosthetic. At least he had enough presence of mind to take it off before he completely ran out of energy.
‘Jesus.’ The word comes out quietly. The relief hits me so hard I sit down on the aforementioned chair to calm my heart and my breathing.
He’s here, he’s breathing, he’s alive. His breathing is slow and even, meaning that he’s deeply asleep. How long has he been here, sleeping in my bed?
I can’t remember the last time I saw him look this peaceful. He’s always stressed at work, spiralling downward the longer and harder a shift gets.
It gets me then, how deeply worried I’ve been. Not just tonight, though it was a bitch of a shift for him to have as his last. I’ve been worried about him for quite some time. Long before the motorcycle or his sabbatical entered the picture.
I’ve watched Robby sleep in call rooms, on couches, sitting upright in uncomfortable chairs during the five minutes somebody managed to cover him. He’s always exhausted, even while asleep.
But now, here, in my bed, he looks rested and at peace. The lines around his eyes aren’t as deep and his forehead isn’t creased. His jaw isn’t clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He just looks… quiet.
When my panic finally calms down, I sink into the chair in relief.
Robby doesn’t so much as stir by the creaking of the chair, which I’m not sure is a good thing or not. Normally he’d wake the second I walked into the room. This is just another thing to add to the list of my worries.
I finally unclip the prosthetic. The pressure disappears all at once, leaving behind the familiar ache that always follows a long shift. I rub absent-mindedly at my stump, trying to work some life back into it, but my gaze doesn’t leave the bed.
‘What happened, brother?’ I don’t expect an answer to my question on account of him being asleep. Maybe that’s for the best. I’ve been asking this question for months and have never received an answer. I’m not sure I’ll like the answer even if he gives me one.
Something’s been wrong with Robby for months. It’s not been one big thing, I think, but a hundred little ones. Whenever I try to ask, to bring it up, he deflects. He can hardly look me in the eyes anymore during these types of conversations.
He laughs less, he snaps harder, he stays later at work, he stops answering texts unless they’re work-related. The only answer he gives me when I ask is that he’s fine, but he can’t look at me when he does. It’s all so clearly a lie, but I can’t force the truth out of him.
Robby’s never been good at lying, but when he says it often enough, people eventually stop arguing. It’s hard to argue when you hit a brick wall every time. I’ve never believed him when he says that, but he’s as stubborn as a bull.
Perhaps that’s why he planned on going to Head-Smashed-in-Buffalo-whatever. A horrible name for a likely horrible place that he has no business travelling to in his state. Especially not on that death-trap of a motorcycle.
But now the bike is here, in front of my building. Robby is here, in my bed. He didn’t go home, he didn’t go to Dana, he came here.
I’m not sure what that means exactly, except that he perhaps trusts me. I don’t dare think of it as anything else, no matter how much I want to. This is not the time for anything to change between us. Robby is in crisis, and he needs help to deal with that. Perhaps he trusts me enough to help, finally. Because when everything finally became too much—or so I assume, considering his presence here—this is where he ended up.
Maybe he was simply too tired to go anywhere else, but I don’t think so. Robby came here, locking himself into my apartment with his key and sleeping in my bed because he trusts me.
He shifts slightly now, rolls a little further toward the middle of the bed, toward the side of it that is never in use.
I smile to myself as I push my cargo pants off, then get rid of the scrub top. I should go to the bathroom, perhaps have a shower and change into clothes I haven’t spent the past twelve hours in. But my leg hurts and I’m too relieved to find Robby here, and I just… Slide into bed next to him in my boxers and t-shirt.
He’s in the clothes he worked a twelve-hour shift in as well. We can deal with whatever else later.
‘You know,’ I say quietly to his back. ‘This is going to be a hell of a conversation when you wake up.’
He doesn’t answer, which is good. He doesn’t even hear me, which is better. He needs sleep more than I need immediate answers. Answers can wait until he’s ready to give them. I’m a patient guy, I’m in no hurry.
Right now, he’s here. He’s alive. And for now, that’s enough.