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Spaghetti, no. Burgers, no, not those either. Hmm, tacos. No, not those either. Stir fry, maybe. Except, no, because he’s pretty sure the only vegetables they had went bad the other day. Washes his hands as he contemplates what to make for dinner. It’s a rare day, rare for the fact that Robby had to work and he didn’t. Doesn’t happen often, Robby tries to keep their days off aligned, but occasionally it doesn’t happen that way. And since Dennis is off, he figures Robby’ll like coming home to dinner and not take out or a microwave meal like they usually have on days they work.
He just has no idea what to make. Runs through the ingredients in the fridge one more time. Cross-references those with what he’s actually in the mood to eat. Checks that against what he has time to throw together before Robby gets home in an hour. Which leaves… chicken sandwiches or salmon. Salmon, he wants salmon. No, he wants chicken. The lack of fries in the freezer tells him he doesn’t actually want chicken sandwiches, he wants salmon. An excellent choice. Knows there’s a box of Rice-A-Roni in the pantry he can make to go with it. The rice pilaf one that Robby refers because it’s fancier. Whatever that means.
Is startled by the sound of his phone vibrating on the counter. Just stares at it, because who the fuck is calling him? There’s only two people who call him, and they’re both at work right now. Closes the fridge, moves to the island. Glances at the name on the screen. Expects it to be Robby. He does that sometimes, on days when they don’t work together. Calls, when a case hits too hard, and he just needs to hear his voice. Is so used to having him there when he needs him that he reaches out when he isn’t. But it isn’t him, isn’t Trin either. The caller ID says Ma. His Ma is calling. Why is she calling. She doesn’t call him. Hasn’t even spoken to him since the day he left. Why is she calling.
“Hello?” he answers, voice small and confused.
“Your Pa died today, I thought you outta know.”
And before Dennis can even ask any follow-up questions, she hangs up. Dennis feels all the questions he had, what happened, was he sick, when’s the funeral, die on his tongue at the click. Has no idea what to do now. Does he call her back? Try to get answers to the questions swirling in his head. Would she even answer if he did? Blinks, lowers the phone back to the counter. Pa is dead? Pa is dead. Repeats it over and over, waits for it to stop feeling like a lie. It doesn’t. Because it can’t possibly be true. It can’t be.
Pa’s too stubborn to die. Wonders how it happened. Wonders if he’ll ever know. Looks back down at his phone, wonders if any of his brothers would answer, if he called them. Richard and Patrick wouldn’t, he doesn’t think. Derrick might, maybe. Derrick was always the nicest to him, was the one who stayed in contact the most, after he left. If you count a Merry Christmas once a year, staying in contact. Which he does, because it’s more than he got from the others, which was nothing. Thinks Derrick would answer, would tell him. Probably. Maybe.
Pa is dead. Shakes his head because that can’t be right. He can’t be. Doesn’t even realize he’s been crying until a sob tears from his throat. Breaks from him with so much force it hurts. Falls onto the counter to land next to his phone, the one he knows no one will be on the other end of, if he tries to call. Blinks, has no idea how it happens, but then he’s on the floor, back against the island. Knees up to his chest, sobbing into them. Crying the way he used to when his Pa got in one of his moods. When he’d start yelling. Was always too sensitive, that’s what Pa used to tell him. Can hear him now, stop your blubbering, boy. Tries, because crying for too long always made Pa mad.
Everything Dennis did made Pa mad. Crying, talking, breathing. Existing. Never could do anything right. Tried, tried so hard to be the perfect son. Danced a line he couldn’t see his whole life. One he constantly stepped over, constantly crossed, without knowing. Always, somehow, managed to put a toe over it, no matter how hard he tried not to. Never could learn where it was, how to stay on the good side of it. Spent his whole life being punished for sins he didn’t remember committing, repenting for things he never meant to do wrong.
Took him far too long to realize he was never gonna be what his father wanted him to be. Was never gonna be the perfect son. But he tried, when he was younger, he did. It was never enough, but it didn’t stop him from trying. But no matter how hard Dennis tried, Pa always found something about him that needed correcting, fixing. Some flaw in the very nature of who Dennis was, is, that his father was determined to correct. No matter what it took. Never seemed to notice that no matter how many bruises he painted on Dennis’ skin, nothing changed.
Chokes on his next breath, coughs. Pa is dead. That can’t be. It can’t be. There’s no way. Wonders what his Ma is feeling right now. Because if there’s one person in the world who saw Pa’s temper more than Dennis, it was her. He tried, when he got older, when he saw the same bruises on her that he saw on himself, to help her. To keep his Pa’s anger on him. Because he couldn’t fight back, has always been on the smaller side. Couldn’t stop him physically from hitting her the way he hit Dennis, but he could keep his anger directed at him. Keep it away from her. Did his best to help her.
Wonders if she even noticed. Wonders if she even cared. Wonders if she was just happy, back then, that it wasn’t happening to her anymore. Remembers thinking, better me than her. Wonders if she thought the same thing, better him than me. Wonders if she even cared that it was happening to her son, her youngest, her baby, instead. Wonders what she’s feeling now. Relieved, lost, both. Neither. He’ll never know that either, he doesn’t think.
Sobs into his knees, feels all of nine years old again. Cries harder because he doesn’t know what else to do. Can’t stop, because Pa’s dead. He can cry as much as he wants now because he’s dead. Isn’t gonna make him mad doing it, so he can. He’s dead. Dead and eleven hundred miles away. So he can cry if he fucking wants to and he doesn’t really want to if he’s honest, because the sobbing is starting to hurt his throat, but he can’t stop. Because his Pa’s dead and he won’t get to say goodbye and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
Thinks back to his childhood. Ignores the tension and the yelling and the bruises. Ignores how he was never good enough. Thinks back to the day his Pa taught him how to ride a horse. Remembers good job, boy, you’re a natural. Thinks it was the only time his Pa was proud of him. Remembers fishing trips and driving the tractor. Remembers ATV races and sitting on the porch with him while he drank a beer, and Dennis had a soda from a bottle, not a can. Remembers the good, because there was good. There was a lot of bad, too much bad, but there was good, too. There were family dinners and roughhousing that rivaled the WWE and watching Pa smoke his pipe after service on Sunday.
Thunks his head back into the island behind him, stares up at the ceiling. Feels the tears, hot and thick, running down his face. Thinks he must be bleeding. Thinks they must be carving into his face, because it hurts, this hurts, so they must be slicing him open. Leaving cuts to show the pain on the outside, making it match the pain on the inside. Brings a hand up to wipe them away, is shocked when it comes away wet but not red. Doesn’t seem right. That something can hurt this much and not leave a mark. Seems, wrong, somehow.
Keeps crying because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. How else to process any of this. His childhood was wonderful and fucking shitty and amazing and terrible in equal measure. He misses his family, and he hopes he never sees them again. He’ll never get to say goodbye to his dad, and he hates that, but he isn’t sure he even wants to. He misses home like a limb that got cut off, one he knows he can’t ever get back. Misses it like you miss something that you know isn’t there anymore, isn’t the same anymore. He hopes his Pa’s in Heaven, he hopes he’s in Hell. He’s glad he’s not the one who has to decide where he ends up. Doesn’t know which way he’d send him, if he had to choose. Because he’s his Pa and his worst nightmares all rolled into one.
Hears the front door open, and close. Hears Robby drop his bag by the front door. His helmet, too. He took the Bonnie today, since he was solo. Realizes it’s been an hour and he hasn’t made dinner. Has been sitting on the floor, weeping into his knees like a child. Hears footsteps coming down the hall, towards him. Wants to sit up, wipe his face. Wants to at least attempt to pull himself together. So Robby doesn’t have to see the way he’s completely fallen apart.
“I was thinking Thai for dinner unless you, hey, why are there tears?”
Quick footsteps this time, and then Robby is kneeling next to him. One hand on his face, his thumb catching a stray tear as it slides down his cheek. And it’s something in the way he says it, why are there tears, all gentle, questioning, and not why are you crying, all harsh and demanding that cracks something in Dennis’ chest wide open. Reaches for him with sob, reaches for him like he can fix this. Like he’ll know what to do because he’s Robby and he always knows what to do. Wants him to fix Dennis the way he fixes people in the ED.
Is pulled into his arms, even as Robby shifts to sit next to him. Is pulled across his lap, so he rests between his legs, head over his heart. Turns into his chest, wails into it. Grabs handfuls of his shirt, uses it as an anchor, like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away because it is. Robby’s arms come around him, hold him to him. Rock him back and forth. Offer him comfort, even though he has no idea why he’s crying. And that just makes him cry harder, until he’s choking on every breath, hacking and wheezing.
Feels a hand on his back, hears Robby say easy, easy, you have to breathe, Sweetheart, you have to breathe. Feels the hand rub soothing circles, over and over. Tries to remember the last time he had this. Someone to hold him while he fell apart. Doesn’t think he ever has. Knows his Pa certainly never did. His Ma, maybe, when he was really young. Has vague memories of having a fever when he was six, of a hand on his back while he cried because his fever was making him see things that weren’t there. But not since then, he doesn’t think. Not that he can remember, which means it didn’t happen after.
Because he’d remember it, if it had. If it felt even half as good as this does, he’d remember. He chokes on his next breath, coughs into Robby’s shirt. Clings harder to him because he’s suddenly, irrationally, afraid that this is going to be taken away from him. That he’ll only get this one time, too. That if he lets go, he won’t get this another time. Won’t ever get to be held, comforted while he cries. That he won’t ever get to feel the way he does in this moment ever again. Safe and warm and cared for. Loved. Whines, in his throat, when he feels Robby pull back a little. Calms, when he realizes it’s only so he can guide his head up from his chest, so he can look into his eyes.
“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me what I can do, what you need.”
“Stay with me, just stay with me.”
“Already done. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dennis nods, blinks rapidly against the tears he can feel welling up. Because it’s been more than an hour, and he really is sick of crying. His throat is killing him, his ribs are sore, too. He’s exhausted, feels like he could sleep for a week. Robby leans in, presses a kiss to his forehead. Uses the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe the tears and the snot from his face. Can only imagine how he looks right now. Eyes swollen to hell, face bright red. Knows he must look a sight. Even still, Robby looks at him like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
Thunks his head back onto his chest. Because he doesn’t know what to do with that. Has never been looked at like that before. Not by anyone. Especially not after he’s been on the floor crying for an hour instead of making dinner. Thinks about what his Pa would do, if he was here. Nothing good, that’s what he’d do. Best case, he’d get called a sissy. Worst case, he’d end up with a new mark to cover. But not here. Here, he just gets held, gets swayed back and forth gently while Robby hums what he’s pretty sure is Baby by Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise.
Likes this a hell of a lot more.
Is thankful, when no more tears come. Thinks Robby is too. Can only imagine what he’s thinking. Came home to find Dennis on the floor, in tears. Didn’t even get any explanation before he was sobbing into his shirt, clinging to him like a three-year-old. Turns his head, tucks his nose into the crook of his neck. Smells sandalwood and cinnamon and hand sanitizer and blood and sweat. Lets the familiar scent soothe him the rest of the way, along with the humming and the hand that’s returned to rubbing circles on his back. Inhales comfort and home and safety.
“My Pa died today.”
The hand on his back freezes, for a fraction of a second, before resuming its circuit. Robby doesn’t say anything, just continues to provide what comfort he can. Knows Robby’s opinion of his Pa is, not great. Saying the bar is in Hell would be being too generous, both because that’s frankly too high and because Robby doesn’t even believe in Hell. Robby doesn’t even know everything, but the bits and pieces he does know have painted enough of a picture. Not a pretty one, but a picture nonetheless. And none of the stories about the good seemed to be enough to balance out the bad, for Robby at least.
“How are you feeling? About that?” Robby asks, voice low, quiet.
Doesn’t stop rubbing those soothing circles, even as he asks a question that Dennis doesn’t think he can answer. How is he feeling about it? He has no idea. Has no idea how to put into words any of the thoughts that have flown through his head since he found out. Sad, he thinks. That’s how he’s supposed to feel, right? His Pa is dead, so he’s sad. And he is. Because it wasn’t all bad, and the good, when it happened, was great. Remembers the day his Pa taught him to ride as one of the best days of his life. Beat only by the day he got into med school, and the day Robby kissed him for the first time. So he is sad. He never got to reconcile with his Pa and now he never will and that sucks and he’s sad about that, he is.
But under that, there’s something else. Something he can only describe as relief. Hates that he feels that. Because his Pa is dead, he shouldn’t be feeling that. But he is. He is because part of him will always be that scared little boy, hiding in his room while his parents fought. Will always be that same little boy, putting himself between his Pa and his Ma. Will always be that little boy answering is everything okay at home with everything’s fine, Miss Jackson. Because even when it was bad, he still loved his Pa, still didn’t want him to get in trouble. And that little boy is relieved that his Pa is somewhere he can’t hurt anyone anymore.
“I, I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to know right now. Or ever.”
Nods once, where his head is still tucked into his shoulder. Because he’s right. He doesn’t have to know right now. Or tomorrow. Or ever. Can feel everything or nothing all at once, and it’s all okay. Is allowed to feel whatever he wants to feel, whenever he wants to feel it. And it doesn’t matter if those feelings don’t make sense, they don’t have to. He can be angry and sad and relieved all at once, and it’s alright. Is allowed to miss him and hate him at the same time because grief is complicated.
“Robby?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“My ass is asleep.”
That startles a laugh out of Robby, who was clearly expecting him to say something about his Pa. But he doesn’t think he wants to think about him anymore tonight. Wants to spend the rest of his night with Robby, making dinner and hearing about his day. Because Pa is dead, but Dennis isn’t. He’s here, living the life his Pa never wanted for him. Wants to enjoy it, hopes wherever his Pa is now, he can see him. Can see him happy with the man he loves, with the man who loves him back. Hopes he can see that he got everything he ever wanted, everything his Pa tried to convince him he didn’t deserve.
Dennis stands first, reaches down to haul Robby to his feet. They haven’t moved since Robby sat down with him, something Robby’s joints make clear when he goes to move. He snaps, crackles, and pops as he stands with a wince. Dennis giggles, a little, at the sound. Laughs harder when Robby glares at him. The intimidation he’s going for is slightly ruined by the fact that he has one hand on his back like a pregnant woman who’s been on her feet for too long. Comes over, digs his hands into his lower back. Hears something pop, and Robby groans.
“I love the noises you make,” Dennis teases, “Like a sexy Rice Krispies treat.”
Robby squawks in indignation, pulls Dennis to him. Digs his fingers into his sides, doesn’t let him dance away, even when he tries. Tickles him until he snort laughs, lets out his own giggle at how red Dennis’ face turns in response. Presses a kiss to his forehead, his nose, his lips. Tries to pull back, but Dennis doesn’t let him. Presses one, two, three kisses to his lips. The last one is more them mashing their smiles together than an actual kiss but it’s still somehow perfect.
“We need to eat, Miss Piggy,” Robby teases, squeezing his sides.
“I deserved that one, and she’s an icon, so it’s fine. Go shower, I’ll make dinner.”
“Or, you join me in the shower and then we order takeout.”
“Or that.”
Because his Pa is dead, but Dennis is still alive, and dammit, he’s gonna live.