Work Text:
Give Me the Sensations, Not the Pain
There’s something wonderfully and comfortably still about the apartment. Outside, early evening is starting to wash over the city, turning the amber sky into something deeper, purple tones with flecks of light from the stars. Inside is lit by a tall lamp in the corner of the living room and a warm glow seeping from the adjacent kitchen.
The radio is on, quiet enough to not disturb the atmosphere but loud enough to stop the buzzing Robby gets in his chest when he’s in a silent space. When Jack stayed over the first time – when they were just friends – he was a little thrown by the fact that there always needs to be some kind of noise. Whether it’s the radio or the TV, including the TV in his bedroom that he leaves on the nights when he’s alone. Jack has seen that kind of behaviour in former service personnel who are riddled with PTSD so seeing it in Robby was an eye opener.
They’re sitting on his couch together, with cups of coffee within easy reach. Robby has his on the low table beside him, he reaches for it absently every-so-often without looking away from his book. His weight has sunk into one end of the couch with his elbow propped against the armrest. His glasses have slipped to the end of his nose and hair is mussed, giving him a sort of cute, dishevelled appearance.
The book in his hands is a creased, battered copy of Madonna in a Fur Coat, its cover smoothened at the corners and its pages bearing the slight waviness of something that has lived through several owners. He found it in the lost property box at the hospital, abandoned among umbrellas, woolly hats, and the other detritus of people passing through. It has no name written inside, nothing to identify the person who had left it behind.
He will put it back once he’s finished it.
Jack occupies the other end of the couch, his own book rests open in his hands, Anxious People held loosely enough that the pages can be turned with very little effort. He’s reclined deep into the cushions, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, entirely at ease. His foot rests across Robby's lap while his other leg, which ends just below the knee, disappears neatly in the space between his partner’s thick thigh and the couch cushion.
Neither of them seems particularly conscious of the contact anymore. It’s simply where Jack's leg lives when they sit together and read like this.
People at the hospital probably envision their time away from the Pitt differently. They might picture dinners in nice restaurants, weekend trips to be with nature, nights spent tangled together in bed. Instead, after long shifts and the relentless urgency of other people's emergencies, this is what they choose. Two books, two coffees, and one worn leather couch.
Robby finishes the chapter, eyes lingering on the final line before his thumb slips between the pages to hold his place. For a moment, he doesn't move, but then he lowers the book and glances to the right at his lover. “You would like this.” He tells him.
Jack's eyes lift from his own book. “Yeah?” Robby hums. “This book may give you an existential crisis.” He says, lips curling upwards slightly into a smirk. “You can still read it though. If I can read that battered thing.”
Robby looks down at the book in his hands, regarding its softened cover and bent spine with something approaching fondness. “It's just loved.” And they share a smile because they both know what it’s like being battered and yet loved. “What did you want to do for dinner?”
“I don’t mind.” Is the reply as he turns the page, smirk on his lips lingering when he then asks. “What are you cooking?”
Robby laughs a quiet and yet unguarded laugh. “I see.” He marks his place with one finger and glances briefly toward the kitchen, as though he might be able to conjure an answer without moving, but his kitchen is hardly magic. “We could get takeout.”
He senses his partner lower his book without even looking at him. “Let me guess, you've got no food in?”
“Bingo.” He turns towards Jack. “And I've spent my day off reading instead of going to the store.” Robby closes his book around one finger, keeping his place. “So… takeout?”
“Sure.” Jack slips his favourite bookmark that was by his hip into the novel before dropping it behind his head on the arm of the chair. “I will go get the menus.”
“Hungry, are you? We could get-” But then Jack is moving, far too quickly as he prepares to stand. “Woah, Jack!” Robby's arm shoots out instinctively, hand catching against his wrist to stop him all while Jack dips his brow with confusion. “You've not got your leg on and you were about to stand up.”
There’s a trace of amusement in Robby's voice, the sort that comes from surprise rather than mockery. He’s still smiling as he studies his partner, eyebrows raised in mild disbelief. For a second, Jack looks as though he might laugh too but then something flicks across his features that’s gone almost as quickly, but the insecurity is spotted. “Oh.” He sounds.
“Does that happen a lot?”
Jack looks down at himself and swallows. “A lot? No.” He rubs a hand over his thigh, the gesture absent and frustrated. “Just... sometimes I-” He stops, his jaw clenching as his irritation makes itself known. “It's... phantom sensations.”
Robby's hand remains where it is hooked around Jack’s wrist for another moment. He gulps, sensing something change in the room instantly. It’s no secret that his partner is an amputee, but they don’t talk about it, not really, not seriously anyway.
There’s discussion about better positions when they’re screwing, little actions like passing him his crutches when he’s hurting, having all the necessary adjustments at his own place for when Jack is staying, but they’ve not spoken about the really bad stuff. Not the IED that took the limb, the arduous recovery, nor the chronic pain or anything else that comes with it.
Robby's expression softens. He gives Jack’s wrist one last reassuring squeeze before letting his hand fall away, knowing he’d want his space more than physical comfort. He’s a stubborn bastard like that.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to his hands before he looks back at Robby. “Remember on our second... no, third date. You held my hand in the restaurant across the table?”
“You were glowing in the candlelight.”
The former soldier allows his mouth to curve upwards fleetingly. “And you also spotted the bruise on my arm.” He rolls his shoulders, trying to rid himself of some of the tension that has set them. “Dr Robby doesn’t switch off even when he's off the clock.” There’s enough flirtation in his voice to bring the ghost of a smile back to Robby's face, but Jack's expression settles again almost as quickly. “I lost my balance at home in my living room getting up off the couch. Hit my arm on the coffee table. It happens.”
The words are matter of fact, almost deliberately so. And he knows that tone, it’s the one Jack carefully selects when he wants something to sound smaller than it actually is in his brain.
Robby has known Jack Abbot for longer than he has known how to be with him. Not in a romantic sense per se, not even particularly intimately, they were just linked by the hospital for years before anything else existed between them. Jack being an amputee was just a fact about Jack; Robby barely paid it much thought but now he feels foolish about that.
For all the years he has known him, he had never really considered what exists beyond the obvious. He knows about his prosthetic and his preferred crutches and the seat in his shower and the wheelchair that’s tucked out of view unless he really needs it. He always knew enough to work alongside him without making it a thing.
But knowing something about someone is not the same as understanding how it truly occupies their life.
Six months of being with Jack has made it impossible to ignore. He has seen the little adjustments in his partner’s home that he’s tried to adopt, gradually, into his own to make him more comfortable here. Even intimacy has its own geography. There are positions that work and others that don’t, but it’s not been a hardship to adjust, the more time they’ve spent together meant it’s come naturally.
Jack trying to stand without his prosthesis though – that’s made Robby rethink everything he thought he already knew.
Phantom sensations. He knows what they are, of course he does. He could explain the physiology, could describe the neurological mechanisms involved, could talk about the distinction between phantom sensations and phantom pain with the detached confidence of someone who has read it in a textbook during his training. But none of that knowledge has prepared him for the realisation that sometimes the man he loves lives with all that.
Sometimes there’s pain, sometimes there’s the sensation of a foot that isn't there, an itch that can't be scratched, an impulse that he can no longer correspond neatly to reality – and Jack has been living with all of it.
Robby pulls the glasses from his face and stares at the now closed book in his hands. He feels stupid, not because he hadn’t known but because he thought simply knowing was enough. All this time.
xxx
Over the following weeks, Robby finds himself doing his own research whenever he has the time. Reading about phantoms sensations, chronic pain, and everything in between. At first, it’s curiosity but then it becomes something closer to him doing his due diligence for the man he loves.
He reads between shifts, on his days off, when Jack is snoozing. Medical papers, journals, clinical reviews, and rehabilitation literature. Dana catches him on one occasion scrolling through something on his phone and smirks because she hasn’t seen Michael Robinavitch this down bad before. But when she starts to tease, he explains in only a few sentences why it matters, and she stops.
He learns that phantom sensations make it seem like the limb is still really there and about what that can do to the psyche. About the pain that can be excruciating and yet unpredictable, hitting when you least expect it, but it can also be triggered by stress, exhaustion, and even the change in weather. Robby doesn’t know if that is the case, how Jack isn’t in pain all the time.
He teaches himself what can help, gives himself enough ammo in his arsenal to be there to help if issues strike, even though he knows his partner’s pride will make him embarrassed about this. So he chooses not to bring it up – not until it’s absolutely necessary.
That comes about a month later.
Robby is at Jack’s apartment on what feels like a rare day off, waiting for his partner to get home from his shift. He’s standing at the stove, pouring a bowl of whisked eggs into a pan, one eye on the clock. Jack should be getting home any minute, he’s not messaged that he’s going to be late, so Robby is getting some food ready for him.
Dropping a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster, Robby hums along to the 80s track being played on the radio in the background, ruminating how many hours of sleep he can persuade Jack to get before the other man insists of them doing something to make use of their time off. It’s been a while since they’ve been for a hike or even just a wander around one of the local parks. They could get some air, an early dinner, before falling into one of their beds together.
It sounds perfect.
He’s folding and stirring the eggs when his phone starts to ring. He removes the pan off the stove so they don’t ruin, before picking up the device from the nearby countertop, brow furrowing on seeing his charge nurse’s name flash up on screen. “Calling me on my day off, how rude.” There’s enough teasing in his voice when he answers to make it clear that he isn’t actually annoyed. “Is everything okay? Do you need me to come in?”
“We are fine.” Dana reassures but she sounds serious. “Your boyfriend? Less so.”
Robby looks at the clock again, expression switching into a frown. “He’s still there?” Jack always messages if he’s going to be back late from his shift.
“Yeah. He's parked himself in the break room. Think he's struggling with his leg but isn't accepting any help.”
Fuck. Robby pinches the bridge of his nose, a flash of pain making itself known behind his eyes. Suddenly the day is looking a lot less simple. There’s not going to be a walk, nice dinner, romance, it’s going to be a struggle instead. He’s not annoyed at his partner because of that, just worried. Jack doesn’t accept help easily on a good day, on a bad one he’s practically impossible. Even when people, even when Robby, wants to help. Desperately. “I'm on my way.” He says before ending the call, needing to move quickly.
He clicks the stove off, changes out of his sweatpants and into jeans, puts on the nearest hoodie which actually happens to belong to his partner, shoves his feet into his shoes, and grabs Jack’s crutches before heading out.
Fifteen minutes later he’s walking into the ED, the drive here a blur in the back of his mind, he barely registered parking. Dana looks up when he walks on by, he gives her a brief nod of his head, but he doesn’t stop to talk because he has other more pressing priorities.
He ignores the looks he gets as he passes through Central and into the North corridor. Nurses glance up from their work station, Santos and Whittaker pause their conversation outside one of the patient rooms with a questioning look in their expressions, Langdon looks like he wants to say something when he passes him but wisely chooses not to.
Robby is relieved that no-one tries to engage because he’s too pent up with concern to want to entertain any kind of chatter. He sucks in a breath before pushing open the door to the break room to find Jack exactly where Dana said he would be. Sitting at the table, looking thoroughly miserable.
A plastic cup of water sits untouched in front of him. Beside it are several tablets that are yet to be taken. His prosthesis is on the chair next to him, but he’s turned away from it like it has personally offended him. He looks up when Robby enters and briefly, relief lights up his face… Until he spots the crutches in his hands. It makes him scowl instead.
He’s embarrassed. Jack Abbot can’t be vulnerable, he can’t need help, he’s got to be capable and headstrong and able to look after himself. Robby stops just inside the doorway, biting on the inside of his cheek to stop the words from coming. If he’s too doting, too overtly worried, then Jack will close off. He will be defensive and irritable and they won’t get anywhere.
And they have to get somewhere because he can see that he’s in pain. Beneath the hard exterior, there’s agony there.
Jack’s jaw is set tight, posture rigid, and the hand that isn’t clenched into a fist on the table is pressing absently into the muscle of his residual limb. He looks exhausted. There are dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, the lines in his face are more pronounced, and he’s angry. Fucking fuming. It’s like there’s steam coming from his ears but he’s not angry with anyone else. He’s angry with himself. Raging an internal war that Robby can see even from ten or so feet away. “You should take them.” He nods towards the tablets making his lover scoff.
“It's phantom limb pain.” It comes out excruciatingly defensive, like the fact it’s classed as ‘phantom’ makes it less legitimate, maybe even imaginary. When it isn’t.
“You should still take them.” Jack looks away so Robby continues. “Studies have shown-”
“Fuck your studies!” The words roar through the room and out into the corridor as Jack’s hand comes down hard against the table, making the tablets roll a little further away from him. His breaths become shallow, fury flooding him that he seems to no longer be able to hold back.
It’s been years since Robby has seen him so angry. The last time was when he found out his wife wasn’t going to get any better, that she was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it.
After that, once he had to accept it, had to deal with the grief, his anger diminished into something hollower. It’s strange to seem him brimming with this sort of passion after so long – and the first time since they’ve been in a romantic relationship – but Robby isn’t scared. He’s fearful. Fearful about his partner’s physical and mental health, but he isn’t scared of him.
Robby steps further into the room and closes the door behind him. It makes a click sound and then muffles the sounds of the ED, not making them completely mute but stifling them so they’re not a distraction. He then leans the crutches carefully against the wall before pulling out the chair opposite Jack and sitting down. He wants to reach across, take hold of his hand, but for now he simply looks at him, despite the lump forming in his throat.
“I know you're the expert.” He breaks the quiet when it starts to get too much. “I am not trying to diminish that. I'm just trying to help.” Robby peers at the tablets, trying to identify them from where he’s sitting but without his glasses it’s tricky. “Have you taken anything? Like, er, gabapentin?”
“It’s not helping.” The medication is used to treat nerve pain; most amputees take it daily as a preventative but not Jack. He seems to take it when he feels like it, struggling to keep up with the routine or not wanting to. His own medication, his own treatment, took a backseat when his wife got sick and he’s never got back to it properly. Not his gabapentin, not his lithium, not his sertraline. It’s a miracle that this man isn’t suffering from constant withdrawal symptoms or perhaps his body is used to the chaos.
One day, Robby wants to get it under control. Once their relationship feels more solid and they’re living together and he knows he won’t be pushed away. For now, he bides his time, keeps his patience where he needs it to be. “And what's that?” He points to the drugs on the table.
“Tylenol.”
“Well, that's not strong enough.” He reaches across the table, past the tablets, and lightly strokes Jack’s closed fist with one fingertip, relieved when he does open his palm and welcomes their fingers entwining. “Let me prescribe some morphine.” Jack finally looks at him, tears beginning to well in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. “Please.” He utters softly. “It should help block the pain signals at least.”
For a moment, Robby thinks he’s going to be fought on the suggestion when his partner starts to work his jaw, but instead he utters a gruff, “Fine.” Which is some sort of progress. “What then?”
“Then I take you home.” Robby rubs soothing circles into the back of Jack’s hand. “Feed you. Get you all clean and in bed.”
“I won't sleep.”
“Let's see if the morphine has any effect-”
“No.” He interjects firmly but not loudly. Jack pulls his hand from Robby’s and folds his arms across his chest and fleetingly the day shift attending believes that it’s just stubbornness. “I get flashbacks when I'm like this. Nightmares.” But it’s something much more vulnerable. “I’m sorry you shouldn't have to deal with this.” He apologises, his voice so small that it makes something twist in Robby’s chest.
He gets up from his seat, earning a brief but clear surprised look that crosses Jack’s face, before he walks around the table to stand behind his partner instead. He lays his hands on his shoulders and starts to massage his tense muscles, relieved when he doesn’t pull away. “Don’t talk like that.” He dips his head down to kiss the top of Jack’s grey curls. “I want to be here. With you.”
“Robby-”
“I want to be here.”
They leave together a little while later. Robby collects the battered camo backpack and worn jacket from Jack’s locker, picks up the prosthetic from the chair beside him, and carries it all without comment while his partner concentrates on using his crutches after another long shift.
The walk out of the ED seems to take forever. They’re both very aware of every person who looks up as they pass but they keep their expressions blank, walls built high just like they’ve practiced over the years. Neither of them has officially come out but they’ve not kept their relationship a secret either. Anyone who was unsure now definitely knows. They don’t care though. It doesn’t seem important all things considered.
They make it back to Jack's without either of them saying much. The moment they’re through the door, Jack abandons the crutches and drops himself heavily into the couch, eyes closing as he gives in to some of the fatigue. Robby sets his bag down on the floor before reaching into the pocket of his (or rather Jack’s) hoodie for the amber bottle of pills. “Here’s your morphine.” He passes his partner the bottle. “I’ll get you some water.”
He’s not gone for long. Just long enough to feel a pang in his chest at sight of the forgotten breakfast he had been making barely an hour ago. He will make it all fresh. Scrape the partially cooked scrambled eggs into the bin, drop the toast in there too, see what Jack fancies. Maybe they could even order something in. He shakes his head at himself and the situation before filling up a glass with water, bringing it to the living room.
But he stops in the doorway on spying the tears streaming down his lover’s cheeks.
He’s crying silently. There are no sobs nor dramatics, just a flow of steady tears while he sits hunched into the corner of the couch, clutching the pill bottle so tightly that Robby is surprised the plastic hasn’t cracked or splintered. He crosses the room quickly, sliding the glass onto the coffee table as he takes a seat beside him. “Jack.”
Jack wipes at his face with the heel of his hand. “I'm fine.”
“You’re not fine. You're crying.” His voice breaks slightly. It’s not a common sight, seeing Jack Abbot properly cry. He gets emotional sure, when he allows himself to be, but this is more than that. It’s like he’s breaking apart and bearing his soul. “Take the medication.”
“I hate this. I fucking hate this.” Jack stares at the pills in the amber case. “I shouldn’t have to take morphine.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.” The words come out harsher than he intends them to. “It’s not even there.” He looks down at where his right leg stops just below the knee. Misery and ire making his expression twist. “My leg isn't there, Robby.” It comes out as a strained whisper. “And it hurts.” He holds up the bottle, the pills shifting slightly at the movement. “I have to take morphine because something that isn't there hurts.”
Robby shakes his head and leans closer to his partner, wanting to pull him against his chest but he holds off, knowing it wouldn’t be well received right now. “Something is there.” He corrects gently. “Your nervous system is still-”
“Don't.” He does stop. “Please don’t go all Dr Robby on me Rob.” Jack looks down at his lap, tears dropping onto his hands from gathering at his jaw and chin. “I know what my nerves are doing. I know what my brain is doing. I know the science. I know all of it.” He talks in a rush, giving Robby a glimpse into how fast his brain is currently working. “I just don't want to do this anymore.”
Robby's eyes burn so much that he has to close them, but when he does, he sees Jack up there, on the roof, on the wrong side of the railing, leaning perilously close to the edge. “I know.” He mutters, opening them again. “I know, baby.” But opening them is also a mistake because he sees the moment his partner can’t contain his rage anymore. The moment sadness is engulfed by something darker.
“Stop.” Jack utters and chucks the pill bottle across his living room where it hits a bookcase with a clatter. “Stop fucking looking at me like that.”
Robby pulls back slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs. Scanning Jack’s face which is wet with tears, his expression contorted into something twisted. “Like what?”
“Like I'm some fucking patient you need to fix.” He sniffles.
“Jack-”
“I don't need you to fix me.” His voice rises before Robby even has chance to attempt to placate him. “You've spent the last month reading fucking studies and now you're here with your little medical solutions and your-” He stops himself from talking, breathing hard in place of the words.
And then silence – other than the heavy breaths of course.
Robby doesn’t try to fill the silence, nor does he retaliate, he simply waits, bides his time, gazes at the man who means everything to him, wishing he could do something to make this better. He would swap places with him in a heartbeat if he could… But he can’t. He’s just got to be here, be present, and hope that is enough and continues to be enough.
Jack’s anger collapses in on itself in a way that makes it appear like it never existed. His features screw up, his shoulders sag, his eyes start to dart around, insecurity washing over him like a wave in a storm. “Fuck.” He curses, voice uncharacteristically small. “Fuck, you don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.” He weaves his hands into his hair and tugs at his curls hard. “I shouldn’t have… shouldn’t have-”
“Jack.” Robby puts a hand on his thigh, trying to get him to stop.
“I'm sorry.” The words come faster now, almost desperate. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”
Robby reaches up to encase his lover’s wrists and slowly with a lot of caution, lowers his hands from pulling at his hair. “You don't have to apologise.” He reassures, keeping hold of his hands between them.
“I snapped at you.”
“You're in pain.”
“That doesn't make it okay.” Jack stresses, the sentence almost getting ripped from his throat as he shakes his head at himself.
Robby releases one of his hands to cup his chin instead, fusing their stares together, hoping it helps get through to him somehow. “You're allowed to be angry.”
His partner gulps down nothing but does seem to become less agitated, so he rests his hand on his cheek instead, a warmth blooming inside him when he nestles closer to his touch. “Not at you. Never at you.”
“Maybe not.” A faint, tired smile tugs at the corner of Robby's mouth. “But I'm not going anywhere.”
Jack's eyes fill again so Robby pulls him close against him, his head drops against his neck while two strong arms wrap around him. “I’m sorry.” He whispers one more time and he feels a kiss at his temple.
They stay like that for a few minutes, Jack still in pain but it’s different now because he’s not dealing with it all alone. He’s missed that. When he lost his leg and his wife helped him with his rehab, he was difficult, perhaps understandably so, but he did let her help him. After her passing, he got so used to dealing with all this shit by himself that he became so out of practice allowing himself to be helped. It’s still hard and he thinks it’s going to take a little while longer for it to fully sink in that he has Robby now, but this is a move in the right direction.
Maybe he could go back on a more regular medication cycle. Maybe he could explore newer technologies for his prosthesis. Maybe he could go back to physiotherapy whenever his knee or hip or back are screaming at him.
Maybe he could take Robby to the friends and family therapy group for those injured in action that he stopped going to the moment his wife got sick. He supposes most of the members are different to back then, but he’s sure the few that have stuck around would be shocked if he walked in with a man.
After a while, his partner pulls back and releases his hold on him and fleetingly Jack is concerned that something is up, especially when he gets up without saying anything. But then he watches him round the coffee table to reach the overflowing bookcase where Robby leans down to pick the bottle of pills up from the floor. He holds them up with sheepish smile, silently asking a question. Jack huffs and nods, raising his hand to catch them.
He swallows two of the pills, washing them down with plenty of water. “Can I get you some food?” He shakes his head at his hovering boyfriend who’s trying to work out his next move. “Okay.” Robby doesn’t push. “How about we go to bed?” Jack looks away, tensing up again like the idea terrifies him.
It’s understandable why it terrifies him though. The PTSD-induced nightmares that Robby knows a lot about. A month into dating, Jack had a rough shift involving a soldier who took his own life. Robby fell asleep in his bed, holding onto him, keeping him close but he woke in the middle of the night to an empty space beside him and whimpering coming from the en suite bathroom.
Jack was in the bathtub, rocking and muttering and sweating so much that his t-shirt was soaked through. He felt so embarrassed the next morning, even tried to break things off with Robby but he wasn’t having any of it. Because he loves every part of him, even the dark, difficult stuff.
The day shift attending walks back over to the couch and stands right in front of his partner in the small gap between where he’s sitting and the coffee table. He then rakes his fingers through his hair and down the back of his head before he’s holding his face in hands affectionately. “I will be with you the whole time while you sleep.” He reassures.
“You will?”
“I will.” He reaffirms. “A day in bed is just what I need.”
It’s a white lie. He had plans of things he was going to get done while Jack rested and ideas of romance once he was awake, but the priorities have shifted. Robby will quite happily lay in bed, rest his aching muscles, stroke a hand down his lover’s arm if it helps him in any way.
Plus, he wants to be close to him right now. “Do you want me to carry you, baby?”
“With your back?” Jack murmurs. “Absolutely not. We don’t need two cripples in this relationship.”
“Okay.” Robby lets go of his face and passes him his crutches instead, watching him strain as he stands, muscles in his forearms flexing as he grips the walking aids. He leads the way to the bedroom with his partner just a few paces behind.
Jack lowers himself onto his side of the bed, ready to drop the crutches to the floor but Robby is leaning them against the bedside table instead within easy reach. He senses a pair of hazel eyes on him as he stands between his partner’s legs. He wordlessly asks him if this is okay, as his fingertips dust the hem of his scrub top, Jack nods a tiny nod, allowing himself to be taken care of.
He is eased out of his scrubs and the moss green t-shirt underneath with very little fuss. Robby works carefully and methodically, removing the clothing piece by piece until the other man is left in nothing but his black boxers. When he reaches for the stump sock, he is more cautious, rolling it down, pausing when the skin beneath it is exposed. It’s red and angry, particularly around the areas that has tolerated pressure throughout the shift.
Robby frowns. Whatever is happening neurologically, there’s something much more tangible underneath it too. The phantom pain might be the worst of it, but Jack's residual limb is also genuinely sore. “Is it bad?” The amputee grunts, not daring to look down at it.
His partner meanwhile brushes lightly over the unbroken skin, relieved that there aren’t any blisters or sores. “It’s been worse.” Robby chooses his words carefully. “I’ll be right back.” He leans down and kisses Jack's forehead before leaving the room.
He isn't gone long. When he returns, he has a cold pack in one hand, along with the strapping needed to keep it comfortably against the residual limb. In the other is a bowl of warm, soapy water, a washcloth and towel. Jack studies the supplies and then peers up at him. “You’re giving me a sponge bath?” He doesn’t sound appalled at the notion, just surprised, because it’s not something they’ve done before.
Robby thinks of the few times he has forced Jack to get clean. This is soft compared to pushing him in the shower, making him sober up, despite the grief that had its claws in him. There was one time he held him there, water soaking through his own clothing, ignoring the protests because he couldn’t have his closest friend implode despite the emotional upheaval he was experiencing.
That was before feelings came into the picture. “I think it'll help if you feel clean.” He explains, starting with Jack’s right leg, washing away the day's sweat and hospital grime. He works systematically, not rushing, his movements very gentle. Once the leg is clean, he dries it thoroughly before positioning the cold pack against the sorest part of the limb and securing it with the strapping. He checks that it isn’t too tight before continuing with his task.
Left leg… arms… hands… chest… back… There’s nothing hurried or awkward about it, just Robby doting on the man he holds most dear, washing away the remnants of the day with warm water while Jack rests against the pillows. “That feels nice.” The night shift attending mutters.
Robby smiles before he takes the bowl and wash cloth into the bathroom, returning with fresh soapy water and a clean cloth before focussing on his partner’s face. He delicately wipes and then moves beneath his jaw and down his neck. He pauses to stroke the back of his index finger over the stubble lining Jack’s cheek. “Do you want me to shave you?”
Jack closes his eyes briefly as he contemplates the offer. It would be intimate, an intimacy he longed for before he and Robby finally fell into each other’s arms, but it feels too much right now. When he’s tired and hurting. “Not right now.” But that doesn’t mean he never wants it. “Raincheck?”
Robby smiles. “Sure.” He finishes cleaning Jack's face and neck, then sets the cloth aside. Finally, he reaches for the fluffy towel and gently pats him dry, taking particular care when he works on his right leg, even though it’s numb from the cold compress. “How’s the pain?” He asks, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
“A little better.” Jack answers, eyes flicking down towards the cold pack secured around his residual limb. “Think the ice pack is helping.” Then, almost reluctantly, he adds. “And the morphine.”
“That's some progress.”
“Still hurts though.”
Robby reaches forward to sweep back the few curls that have dropped to Jack’s forehead. “I know.” He drags his featherlight touch down the side of his face until his thumb is stroking his jawline. “When did you last eat anything?” How Jack tries to look away answers his question. “I know you don’t want food, but there’s some watermelon already cut up in the fridge.” He hesitates, the slightest uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I-I was going to add some to your breakfast.”
The admission softens something in Jack's expression. He looks at his partner for a long moment, appreciating the domesticity of it. If things went to plan, he would have got home before 8am to breakfast being served to him. Robby’s famous scrambled eggs that he adds a dash of Worcestershire sauce and a handful of chives to on buttery toast, a cup of rich decaf coffee, and turns out also a bowl of watermelon too. It would have been the perfect start to the day.
But maybe things don’t have to be perfect. It may have not been what Robby had planned but Jack is feeling loved and looked after. He was picked up, driven home, held, reassured, washed – all without asking. Despite the pain and the exhaustion and the mental gymnastics he’s putting himself through, Jack feels incredibly lucky. “Maybe a couple of bites.” He agrees, watching how his partner’s face lights up. “Can't sleep until the ice pack is off anyway.”
“I'll get you some.”
Robby is already getting up and moving towards the door. “Thank you.” He stops and peers back over his shoulder, taking in how nervous Jack has abruptly become. He’s staring down at his hands which are wringing together in his lap. “For everything. I-” He sucks in a breath before forcing himself to continue. “I know I'm stubborn and awkward and the worst fucking patient.” He swallows, trying to quell the flutter in his chest. “Thanks for sticking with me.”
“You don't need to thank me.” There’s zero hesitation. “I love you.” Jack's eyes lift to meet Robby’s gaze; the words seemingly have taken some of the embarrassment out of his expression. “Do you want a shirt?”
“Please.”
Robby walks over to the chest of drawers and pulls one of them open, rifling around until he finds one of his own t-shirts – the Eagles shirt that effectively became communal property the moment he left it here four or so months ago. He smiles at it before tossing it towards the bed. Jack catches it against his chest. “I won’t be long.”
“Robby.” But before he can leave the room, his partner is saying his name with a smile so small and innocent there’s something so pure about it. “I love you too.”