Chapter Text
30 years ago
Robby is 24 and just finished his MS3 rotation in Pedes when the universe springs his gay awakening on him.
He’s aware of gay people in much the same way he’s aware of rare diseases – he knows they exist, but he hasn’t had much opportunity to encounter them. One of those things will likely change once he becomes an intern. The other, well.
The problem is that he’s supposed to meet Jim and Dave at a bar he’s never been to, and when he finally gives up and asks a guy on the street for directions, he fails to remember the name.
“It’s definitely around here somewhere,” he says.
“What kind of place is it?”
Robby hasn’t spent much time with Jim and Dave, but then, he doesn’t spend much time with anyone. He’s not really the socialising type. But he’s pretty good at reading people, so- “It’s probably one of those places that are for men, you know? Real guys?”
The man’s face clears in understanding. “Don’t worry, dude. I got you. The Eagle’s just two blocks from here – I’ll walk you there.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Robby says, but the man’s already started walking.
“So,” the man says once Robby has fallen into step beside him, “this your first time?”
Robby frowns. It’s an ordinary question, but there’s something off about the man’s tone. “I haven’t been to that bar before, so, yeah, I guess.”
“Well, watch your drinks, know your limits, and don’t go home with anyone sketchy. Stay safe, alright?”
Robby’s frown deepens. It’s the type of advice people usually give girls, not guys. Besides, he’s over six foot. He thinks he’s going to be okay.
At the bar, pronounced by the blinking neon sign outside as The Eagle, the man nods to the bouncer. “Fresh meat for you, Joe. He’s new.”
“As long as he’s 21, he can be as fresh as he likes. Got an ID for me, honey?”
Robby, used to being called honey only by his grandmother and her friends, all of whom were well over 80 at that point, can’t suppress a blush as he digs the ID out of his wallet. The bouncer studies the photo with more scrutiny than Robby feels is strictly warranted before nodding. “Enjoy your night.”
“What he said. Hey – I’ve got to run, but I live close by. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Sure,” Robby says distractedly. “Thanks, man.”
He’s forgotten the odd interaction by the time he makes it to the bar. Jim and Dave haven’t arrived yet, so Robby orders a beer and is just about to pay when someone behind him says, “His drink’s on me, and I’ll have what he’s having.” A pale, freckled hand puts down a five-dollar-note before Robby can even turn around.
The owner of that hand sits down on the empty stool next to his. He’s around Robby’s age, early twenties at most, and although he’s smiling, there’s something off about it. Until now, Robby hadn’t realised smiles can look dangerous. “I’m Jack. Haven’t seen you around before.”
“First time,” Robby says, and once again gets the idea that this means something different in this place than it does anywhere else. “Robby.”
“Nice to meet you, Robby. You play pool?”
“I’m kind of waiting for someone,” Robby says awkwardly.
Jack’s smile doesn’t waver, though the look in his grey eyes sharpens just a little. “Date?”
“No, but-“
“Then one round of pool won’t hurt them. It’ll probably be over soon, anyway. You should know that I’m very good.”
One of the things about Robby is that he’s more competitive than he likes to admit. One other thing about Robby is that he’s also very good at pool.
He sighs. “One round.”
*
One round turns into two turns into three. It’s 1-1, they’re both several drinks in, and it distantly occurs to Robby that Jim and Dave never showed.
As Robby lines up to take the next shot, Jack says casually, like he’s talking about the weather, “So, have you realised yet that you’re in a gay bar?”
Robby curses. He’s missed the ball by miles. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just asking,” Jack says, “because it kind of seemed like maybe you had no idea. I’m just being a good, concerned citizen.”
Robby glances at the signet ring Jack’s wearing on his pinkie. Something tells him good, concerned citizens don’t normally wear rings like that. They aren’t normally carrying concealed weapons, either.
“Thanks for your concern,” Robby says dryly. “Is that what you’re doing here? You’re just helping clear up misunderstandings for people who’ve wandered into this place by accident?”
Jack’s shot neatly sinks the 2 and the 7. “Call it charity work.”
Robby barks out a laugh. “Right. You’re just a good Samaritan.”
“Exactly.”
Robby’s next shot hits the mark again, but he’s still distracted. Jack was right – he hadn’t realised what kind of establishment this is. Does that mean everyone in here is gay? Is Jack?
“Wait,” he says, as the next realisation sinks in. “Were you hitting on me earlier?”
“A little bit.” This time, Jack’s smile is almost genuine. “Mostly, I just wanted to figure out your deal.”
“Have you? Figured it out?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally.”
“Going to tell me what it is?”
“Nope.” The 4 disappears. The game has ended, and it’s 2-1 in Jack’s favour. Jack grins at him. “Do you want to come back to my place to celebrate?”
“I lost.”
“Celebrate my victory, then.”
Robby considers this. Even if Jack hadn’t been hitting on him before, he definitely is now. It’s hard to mistake his invitation for anything else.
Robby is pretty sure he’s not gay. But he’s just drunk enough to be curious. Jack’s just handsome, just charming enough to make him curious.
Jack is still looking at him. Waiting, like a predator who already knows he’s won.
And Robby, recalling the half-dozen lukewarm experiences he’s had with women since starting college, unable to shut out the voice that says, maybe it’ll be different if it’s a guy, walks into the trap with open eyes and says, “My place is closer. Let’s go to mine.”
*
What Robby still remembers most of all many years later is how right it’d felt. Like two jigsaw pieces slotting together. The rest, he remembers in bits and pieces:
Fumbling for lube, or something lube-like. Jack laughing, saying, “You were the one who didn’t want to go to my place,” before triumphantly holding up an old jar of Vaseline he’d found in the back of Robby’s medicine cabinet.
Turning off the lights. Jack turning them back on the moment Robby’s back hit the mattress. “I didn’t come here not to see you, man.”
Kissing. Jack tracing his fingers over Robby’s Star of David. Robby tracing an old scar, right beneath Jack’s ribcage.
“What happened here? This looks like a stab wound to me.”
“That’s because it is. Most people don’t realise.”
“I’m in med school. It’s my job to realise.”
Robby remembers the delight on Jack’s face at that statement. Remembers him saying, “You’re a doctor?”
“Not yet. Soon, hopefully. If I figure out how to pay for it.”
“What do you mean?”
Robby had turned his head then, unable to meet Jack’s gaze. To the comfort of the wall, he’d said, “I’ve got a partial scholarship, but my grandmother died recently. There were some debts that- doesn’t matter. I’ll figure something out. Hey, if my first gay sex is good, maybe I’ll become a prostitute.”
“From straight man to gay hooker in one night. That’s quite an achievement,” Jack had joked. “Let’s see if I can be good enough to set you on such a stellar career path.” But his eyes had gone cold, right until Robby had put his hand on his cheek and kissed him again.
And Robby remembers how, hours later, he’d fallen asleep to the feeling of Jack softly stroking his hair, and how he’d woken up the next morning to an empty bed and the realisation that, yep, he’s almost definitely gay.
*
Robby returns to The Eagle a few more times, but Jack never shows again. He hooks up with some other guys, but none of them really make him feel like Jack did, and by the time his fourth year starts, he’s too busy to even think of using his free time for anything but sleep.
It’s not until the fall that he realises the last few things to arrive in his letterbox were all flyers advertising new restaurants. When he calls the bank, sure that there’s been a mix-up of addresses somehow, the woman on the other end of the line tells him the debt’s been paid.
“Excuse me?” Robby says. “What do you mean?”
“It’s been paid,” the woman repeats.
Robby’s hand tightens around the receiver. “So that loan my grandmother took out is, what, it’s just gone?”
“Yes,” she confirms, “as is yours. Congratulations, Mr Robinavitch. You’re officially debt-free.”
“I don’t understand. You said it’s been paid – paid by who? Because I sure as hell had nothing to do with it.”
“One moment, please.” One moment turns into about ten minutes, during the course of which Robby breathes through two panic attacks. He’s just about to start a third when the voice returns. “It says here in our files that your scholarship took care of it.”
“That’s impossible,” Robby says flatly. “My scholarship covers forty per cent of my tuition, nothing more. It definitely doesn’t cover any family debts I inherited.”
“Well, apparently it does.”
“But-“
“Have a good day, Mr Robinavitch.” There’s a click. She has hung up.
Robby remains standing in his kitchen, motionless, for a few more minutes, feeling like he’s been hit over the head. It has to be a prank.
But when he goes to the bank in person the next day, he’s told the same thing: there is no debt anymore. Not his grandmother’s debt, and not the loan he took out to pay for university, either. It’s like the woman from the bank said all along: for the first time in his adult life, he’s debt-free. And he’s got no fucking clue why.
*
Now
“Incoming trauma, ETA two minutes!”
Robby closes his eyes and allows himself exactly thirty seconds of acknowledging his exhaustion. It’s more than tiredness at this point, although there’s that, too. But even a full 24 hours of uninterrupted sleep wouldn’t be enough to fix whatever is wrong with him. Robby’s pretty sure nothing will.
It’s been two years since Adamson was killed. Robby used to imagine being there, used to imagine taking the bullet in Adamson’s place. These days, more and more, he imagines taking the bullet even without a big sacrifice.
And then the ambulance doors open, and, like she’s been listening to all his fantasising about bullets, the paramedic starts, “Twenty-three year old male, sustained five GSWs total, three to the right shoulder, only one exit wound-“
Just like that, Robby’s break is over. That’s cool. He can always fantasise about killing himself later.
He doesn’t think about the GSW patient again until two days later. It’s evening, long after the nightshift has already started trickling in, and Robby’s hanging around for no particular reason except that there’s nothing and no one for him to come home to. Occasionally, he considers adopting a dog, but that doesn’t seem fair, not when he’s away from home at least 13+ hours every day.
“Dr. Robinavitch?”
Robby glances up from his charting. Two men in suits have approached the nursing station. There’s something off about them. Something dangerous.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Ahmad shifting position so that the men are in his direct line of sight. That should be as reassuring as the fact that they’ve clearly made it past the metal detectors, and yet, Robby isn’t feeling particularly reassured at the moment.
“Most people just call me Dr. Robby. Can I help you?”
“Do you remember treating a Mateo Diaz? He was brought here a couple of days ago and released yesterday.”
Robby gives them an amiable smile. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose any details on patients.”
The men exchange a look. Then the taller one says, “Please come with us, doctor. There’s someone who wants to speak with you.”
“I’m working right now.”
“Your shift ended over an hour ago,” the guy says, like the fact that he knows this isn’t highly alarming.
Robby, who has spent his entire adult life working in a hospital and who has been threatened, spat on, and punched, repeats calmly, “I’m working.”
They exchange another look. Robby holds their gaze until they turn around and leave without another word. It’s only after they’ve disappeared that he rubs his hands over his face and releases a sigh of relief. “Christ.”
“Who was that?” Ahmad asks.
Robby shakes his head. “Trouble.”
“Call-the-cops kind of trouble?”
“Nope,” Robby says decisively. “Not that kind.”
He holds out for another hour. His stomach growls when he exits the hospital, reminding him of the protein bar that lies forgotten in his locker. For about five seconds, he gets to imagine getting a pizza on his way home – but in the end, he’s not surprised when a man in a suit falls into step next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re not at work anymore, doctor.”
Robby smiles thinly. “Lucky me.”
He’s guided to a black, nondescript car, where the driver promptly steps out to open the door for him. This is good, Robby tells himself. If they were planning to shoot him and dump his body in the Allegheny, they could’ve just shoved him in the trunk.
He continues telling himself this all throughout the drive, all throughout the car door being opened again some odd thirty minutes later, and all throughout that hand on his shoulder returning and guiding him through the lobby of a skyscraper and into an elevator. A skyscraper is better than a warehouse. An elevator is better than getting tied to a chair. A hand on his shoulder is better than his fingernails being pulled off.
“Dr. Robinavitch? We’re here.”
It takes Robby a moment to realise that the elevator has stopped. The floor number reads 41. His own private goon is frowning at him, which makes Robby wonder how many seconds have passed. Enough, if this guy is now staring at him with something close to concern. Jesus.
“It’s Dr. Robby,” Robby corrects. He suddenly feels more tired than he has all week. “Let’s go, then.”
He’s led down a long hallway, finally arriving in a room which, besides the glass front with a spectacular view over Pittsburgh, seems to just be an office. There’s a desk, chairs, a bookcase. It’s weirdly anticlimactic.
Robby turns to ask what he’s supposed to do now, but the door has already clicked shut.
“So,” a voice behind him says. “You’re the miracle doctor that saved one of my guys.”
It’s been thirty years since Robby heard that voice. A lot has happened in those years. And yet, he recognises the man who’s now leaning against the desk instantly.
Jack looks older – of course he does. It’s not just the silver hair, or the lines on his face. It’s everything else, too: the clothes, changed from casual jeans and t-shirt to a suit. The way he seems to be careful not to put too much pressure on his right leg.
All of that, Robby could deal with. He’s gotten older, too, and by the looks of it, those three decades have been considerably less kind to him than they’ve been to Jack. He knows he’s no prize. But what he now realises with a lurch of abject horror is that there’s no recognition in Jack’s eyes. Zero. Jack is looking at him like they’re strangers.
Robby had thought he’d been having a bad day before, but somehow, realising that the cause of his gay awakening doesn’t remember him is a whole new factor of awfulness. In a way, it’s nice to realise that there are still depths to his shitshow of a life that he hasn’t explored yet.
But despite all of that, Robby is long practiced at dealing with uncomfortable situations that make him feel bad about himself, and so he simply says, “Yup. You bring me all the way here just to tell me that?”
Jack studies him for a moment, his expression strangely blank, nothing like the easy smile he’d had when he’d fucked Robby into the mattress. “Partly.”
“Yeah? What’s the other part?”
“I wanted to get a look at the guy who saved Mateo when our own doctor declared him a lost cause.”
“It was a close call,” Robby says, because at this point, it’s clear that doctor-patient confidentiality means nothing anymore. “And a team effort.”
“And,” Jack continues, like Robby hasn’t spoken, “I wanted to offer you a job.”
Robby blinks. “Excuse me?”
“A job,” Jack repeats blithely. “Which I’m offering. To you.”
“I thought you said you already had a doctor working for you,” Robby says, instead of pointing out any of the obvious, like, it’s pretty clear you’re in the fucking mob.
“I did. He’s not as good as you, though.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that,” Jack says with utterly undue confidence. “Besides, better safe than sorry.”
Robby sighs. “As tempting as throwing away my career in favour of treating thugs is, I already have a job, and I’ve got no intention of quitting.”
Without missing a beat, Jack says, “What are they paying you at that hospital? I’ll double it.”
“Triple it, I don’t care. I’m not in this line of work for the money.”
“What else, then? Name your condition, and we’ll figure something out.”
“There is no condition. It’s a no.” For the first time in thirty years, Robby smiles at Jack, and watches something flicker in Jack’s eyes in response. “Are we done? Because I haven’t eaten in fifteen hours, and I’d like to get home before the good pizza place closes.”
Jack’s jaw tightens, like he’s not used to things not working out in his favour. Yeah, well, tough fucking luck. “I’ll have my driver drop you home.”
“Great,” Robby says. He can feel Jack watching him until the door closes behind him.
The guy who brought him in is now waiting for him at the elevator, ready to escort him out. He gives Robby an unsubtle once-over when he approaches, as though expecting another meltdown. That’s just great.
They ride in tense silence, during which Robby manages not to disassociate this time, and back downstairs, he says, “Look, I think I’m just going to take the train.”
“The boss said-“
“I won’t tell if you don’t. Enjoy the break, alright? And next time, I’d rather you didn’t interrupt me at my place of work.”
It’s not until he’s home again – sans pizza, because he got there 5 minutes after closing time – that Robby reflects on the stupidity of his parting words. He’s some random guy from the past who’s let himself go so much that Jack doesn’t even remember him, and mob or no, it’s clear that he was only offered this job out of some misplaced sense of gratitude. Obviously, there’s not going to be a next time.
*
“Dr. Robby?”
From the nervous tone that accompanies this question, Robby can already tell his protein bar is going to go uneaten today, too. Whitaker is standing in the door of the breakroom, looking a little nervous and a lot confused.
“What’s up, kid?”
“Some guy just came in and told me he’s waiting for you outside. There was – I don’t want to call it a weird vibe, but there was definitely a weird vibe.”
“Okay,” Robby says slowly. “Did he say what he wants?”
“No.”
“Did he look unhoused?”
“No.”
“Did he seem like he was about to beat me up?”
Whitaker frowns. “No?”
“Good enough,” Robby says. “If I’m not back in ten, don’t come looking for me, just tell Ahmad.”
“That seems unsafe,” Whitaker says, but Robby’s already walking past him.
He’s not kidding himself: the ED is so busy that there’s no way Whitaker can keep track of time for ten minutes without being interrupted by an emergency. Chances are, if anything happens it’s going to be hours until anyone notices. Robby could be bleeding out in in the ambulance bay, shot on his way to work, while everyone waits and makes jokes and doesn’t realise that their chief attending is dying, that they could still save his life if they just knew.
Anyone seen Adamson? He should’ve been here hours ago.
Are you going to wait until your boss is here to start helping people?
Dr. Robby, maybe we should-
I know what you should do, Dr. Mohan. It’s called focusing on the people that are here right now.
If Robby did get shot today, he’d deserve it.
Although Whitaker hasn’t given any details, there’s only one person standing outside the hospital who’s clearly neither an employee nor a patient. It’s one of the guys who came here a few weeks ago.
“I’ve already told your boss,” Robby says. “I’m not looking for a new job.”
Instead of replying, the guy points at the car parking illegally on the curb. “She’s in there.”
Robby’s eyebrows rise against his own volition. “She?”
“She was injured yesterday – stabbed in the side. We thought she was fine, but now-“
Robby rips open the car door. There’s a woman lying on the backseat, her dark skin pale and clammy, her chest heaving with heavy breaths. She doesn’t seem to register either of them, and she doesn’t react to Robby pulling up her t-shirt to reveal a wound that’s red and infected. Robby curses.
“Ma’am? What’s your name?”
“It’s Parker,” the guy says after a moment. “I’m Crus. Is she going to be okay?”
“She’s sceptic,” Robby says. “She needs medical care immediately. Stay with her, I’ll have someone bring a gurney out here.”
“We have medical facilities at our headquarters. The boss won’t like-“
“I’ll tell you what I don’t like,” Robby cuts in. “I don’t like being interrupted in the middle of work to treat a patient just to be asked if I wouldn’t mind leaving said work to treat the patient elsewhere, when there’s a perfectly good hospital right here. Take her back or let me admit her, but I’m not abandoning thirty patients in beds and over one hundred patients in the waiting room. So what’s it going to be?”
To his credit, Crus doesn’t hesitate. “Admit her.”
“Excellent,” Robby says. “One of our trusted doctors will be with you in just a minute.”
*
By now, Robby knows the deal. He steps outside, sees the black car and the guy in a suit, and like a well-trained dog he doesn’t even attempt to walk away this time.
It’s possible that there is something wrong with him, he thinks as he slides into the backseat without an argument. Then again, he’s been at work for 14 hours, has had a headache for 13 of those, and got into an altercation with a patient five minutes before his shift was supposed to end – in other words, the sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can go home.
“The boss-“
“-wants to have a word,” Robby finishes. With every word, pain shoots through his throat and pulses an echo in his temples. “You know, I’m getting a little tired of this routine. Don’t you have something better to do than stalk me? Collect debts, maybe? Threaten some people?”
Crus snorts. “Is that what you think we do?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Well,” Crus says after a moment’s pause, “it’s not all we do.”
“True,” Robby concedes. “Sometimes you get shot at and make it my problem. What happened to your own doctor? Did he quit?”
Crus doesn’t reply, and it takes Robby a bit to realise that he’s not going to. Trouble in mob paradise, maybe.
This time, embarrassingly, his stomach growls when Crus opens the car door half an hour later. Crus immediately frowns at him like he’s committed a grave social faux pas. “You okay, doc?”
“Never been better.” Robby has to hold on to the car roof to stop himself from swaying, quietly telling his body to get a grip. It’s not like his throat is in any state to swallow solids at the moment, anyway.
Crus says something into his earpiece, but Robby is too focused on not fainting to hear what it is. He supposes Crus clocking his altered state is in his favour: if he tells Jack, Robby might be allowed to head home without getting another job offer. No one in their right mind would think him capable of any job tonight.
His suspicions are confirmed when he’s guided back into the car. “Just wait here,” Crus says.
Robby shakes his head, which is a mistake. Once the pain has subsided a little, he says, “I’ll just take the train.”
Crus actually laughs. “No fucking way. The boss was furious last time that we just let you wander off like that. If you do that again, heads will roll.”
“Because you missed your opportunity to dump my body in the Allegheny?” Robby guesses. There’s no point anymore in pretending he’s not a fucking mess right now, so he keeps his eyes closed.
A new voice says dryly, “Something like that. How’re you holding up, Dr. Robinavitch?”
Robby makes a vague non-committal noise. Jack is here now, which means this nightmare of a day is almost over.
“He looks like he’s about to pass out,” Crus says.
“Why’s there a bruise on his neck?” Jack’s tone has changed from playful to low and angry.
“I don’t know. That’s not from us.”
“He’s a fucking doctor. How the hell does a doctor get a bruise?”
Robby wants to laugh at the naiveté of that question, but all he accomplishes is a little huff and another spearing stab of pain through his temples. Instantly, the argument stops.
“Robby?” Jack asks quietly. “You ready to go home now?”
While Robby isn’t totally sure he can get to the nearest train station right now, he still tries to get out. Immediately, there are gentle hands on his shoulders, pressing him back against the seat. “Nuh-uh. I’ll drive you.”
“Are you sure, boss? I can-“
“I’m driving,” Jack repeats. “On my own.”
There’s a long pause. Then: “I’ll send you his address.”
*
Robby wakes up in his own bed with no recollection of how he got there. The last thing he remembers is sitting in the back of a car listening to Jack and Crus while being in a lot of pain.
Everything after that is the sort of hazy blur that’s almost indistinguishable from a dream: more voices, hands guiding him out of the car and up the stairs to his apartment, cupboards opening and closing, someone asking all kinds of questions Robby was too out of it to answer coherently. At some point, he supposes he must have fallen asleep.
Grey morning light is filtering through the windows now. His headache is gone, but his throat is still sore; luckily, he’s got today off. It’s feeling like a TV-and-frozen-pizza kind of day.
Robby rubs his eyes and stumbles out of bed. He’s just finished taking a piss when he hears strange noises coming from his kitchen. It would be just his fucking luck if there was a break-in today, he thinks, turns a corner and stops short.
If he didn’t know any better, he would say Jack is standing at his stove, frying bacon.
Jack, or at least the hallucination that looks like Jack, turns around and, misinterpreting Robby’s stunned look, says, “Don’t worry, the bacon’s kosher.”
Robby, who has not kept to a kosher diet since his grandmother died, says, “Thanks,” and then, “What are you doing here?” and then, almost more shocked by this than by anything else so far, “Is that my apron?”
“Thought you wouldn’t mind,” Jack says, looking down at himself. “I like it. It’s cute.”
After another second of staring at Jack wearing an apron that says Mister Good Lookin’ Is Cookin’, a gag gift Robby got from an intern a few years ago for Secret Santa, Robby forcibly drags his eyes away. Jack looks unfairly handsome; if he continues thinking about that, nothing good will come off it.
“What are you doing here?” he repeats.
“Making breakfast.”
“And you’re doing that because…”
“Because it’s morning and you have today off.”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that you apparently know my schedule,” Robby says, “which, for the record, is incredibly unsettling, and instead I’m just going to ask if you have nothing better to do with your day.”
Instead of answering, Jack peers at his neck with uncomfortable scrutiny. “You’ve still got a bruise.”
“That’s because it happened only yesterday. Bruises don’t magically disappear overnight.”
“Looks like someone strangled you.”
“Yeah, well, in my line of work, that’s par for the course.”
Jack huffs out a little laugh, although his eyes are still hard. “It should be me saying that to you.”
“You can see why I turned down your offer, now,” Robby says dryly. “My job’s dangerous enough as it is.”
Jack doesn’t laugh, his mouth a thin, unamused line. He sets down two plates of bacon and egg on the narrow kitchen table, and it belatedly occurs to Robby that him being able to do this means he must have cleared it of dirty dishes and clutter first. Exactly how long has Jack been in his apartment?
“Don’t you have security at your hospital?” Jack asks after a few bites.
“Not enough. Take it up with admin if you want. God knows they’re not listening to me on the subject. Excuse me.” Robby puts down his fork to answer an incoming call – speak of the devil, he thinks as he sees the ED’s number on the screen. “This is Robby.”
He’s half-turned away, but from the corner of his eye he can see Jack type something on his own phone.
“How’re you enjoying your day off, captain?” Dana asks.
Robby sighs. “Who’s out?”
“Hill. Family emergency.”
“I’ll be there in-“ Robby mournfully glances at his unfinished plate. “-forty minutes. Try not to let the place burn down until I get there.”
“No promises,” Dana says and hangs up.
Robby rubs his hands over his face, and when he’s done, he notices Jack is staring at him. “What?” he asks defensively.
“You’re going into work?”
“They’re down an attending.”
“Far be it for me to tell you how to live your life, man, but yesterday you were so out of it you couldn’t get home by yourself.”
“And today I’m as good as new.”
“What happened to ‘bruises don’t magically disappear overnight’?” Jack calls after him on his way to grab some clothes from his bedroom.
Robby doesn’t turn around. “My bruises get an opinion as soon as they start pulling their weight in the ED.”
*
So far, it had always been Jack somehow contacting Robby. This only occurs to Robby when he comes home, finds his fridge filled with groceries he didn’t buy, and finds he would very much like to contact Jack.
It doesn’t seem out of the question that Jack would’ve installed a camera at his place, but once he’s said Jack’s name out loud a few times in his living room without anything happening, Robby feels silly. At least that’s one boundary Jack hasn’t crossed yet, he supposes.
So he eats the food, because the alternative is to let it go to waste, and three days later, just as he’s finished up the last of it, his fridge is full again.
It makes no sense. Offering him a job is one thing, but this? Robby wonders if he’s being fattened up, like Hansel and Gretel. Jack being a cannibal isn’t likely, but he cannot think of any other reason why this is happening.
And then, just as he’s started to get used to the idea of being an adult with food at home, he comes into work one day and sees Ahmad chatting to a guy he’s never seen before, as well as a guy he very much has seen before.
“What’s happening? Who’re our visitors?” He poses the question to Dana, but it’s Santos who answers in a transparent attempt to procrastinate on charting.
“They’re new security staff, apparently.”
Robby almost laughs. “Bullshit.”
There’s a brief, yet telling silence. When he looks over, he realises Santos, Whitaker and King are all staring at him.
“Gloria said-“ Whitaker starts.
“What, Gloria’s selling us to the fucking mob now?” he interrupts. Across the room, Ahmad appears to be introducing Crus and the other guy to the betting board. “This is ridiculous.”
“Robby,” Dana says sharply, stopping him in his tracks. “Let’s talk outside.”
Robby hasn’t smoked in years, but he accepts a cigarette anyway when Dana offers it. The ambulance bay is blissfully empty; Robby remembers the first time he and Dana had stood like this, many years ago.
“I don’t know what Gloria’s told you,” he says after a minute, “but those guys are not security guards.”
To his surprise, Dana snorts. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve spent my whole life here, same as you. I know trouble when I see it.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Listen, if they protect my staff, I don’t care what they do in their time off. Not if it means going more than one week without a Code Hula Hoop.” She nudges his shoulder. “Who knows? This might be a good thing.”
Robby exhales another puff of smoke. “Let’s hope so.”
Robby keeps a close eye on Jack’s guys for the rest of the day, but nothing happens. They don’t threaten staff, they don’t threaten patients, and the only time they acknowledge Robby at all is at a quarter past three, when Crus corners him just as he’s exiting the bathroom.
“You had anything to eat yet, Dr. Robinavitch?” he asks once Robby is done disinfecting his hands.
“It’s Dr. Robby,” Robby corrects for the millionth time. It comes out sounding as weary as he feels.
“Sounds like a no,” Crus judges. His badge proclaims him as Crus Henderson. Robby wonders if the name is fake. Hell, it’s probably a fake badge. “There’s a sandwich for you in the breakroom when you get a moment.”
“First you’re put on stalking duty, then your boss makes you a security guard in an overrun ED and now you’re responsible for my lunch. Did you piss him off or something?”
Crus grins. “Actually, I volunteered. And speaking of lunch – the boss wants to have dinner with you tonight.”
Before Robby can find out if that’s a joke or not, he hears Javadi calling his name in a tone that always means trouble.
It’s probably a joke.
*
It’s not a joke.
“Are you just doing all this because you’re going to eat me later?” Robby asks when he once again enters his kitchen to find Jack stirring something on his stove, once again wearing Robby’s stupid apron and still managing to look more put together than Robby in his second-oldest hoodie.
“Oh, yeah,” Jack says without missing a beat. “As soon as you hit the target weight, it’s knives out and napkins on for me. I hope you like eggplant, by the way.”
“I’m frankly surprised you don’t have a file on my preferences yet, with how many groceries you’ve bought for me recently. Should I expect a bill?”
“Consider it a bribe. Have you given my offer any more thought?”
Robby tilts his head. “That’s still on the table? Despite what you seem to think, I’m not the only doctor in Pittsburgh.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one I want.”
“Why?”
“Eat your dinner,” Jack says, neatly sidestepping the question by pressing a steaming plate in his hand. “I figure we can eat in the dining room.”
“We can’t, it’s-“ Robby stops short in the doorway. After literal years of serving as storage space, the dining room is now completely spotless.
“Clean,” Jack finishes triumphantly. He sits down on a chair that had previously been occupied by a stack of Amazon boxes Robby kept thinking he might re-use in case he wants to send a package, even though he’s got no one to send a package to since everyone he knows lives in Pittsburgh. “No need to thank me.”
“Good, because I wasn’t going to. What’d you do with my stuff?”
“Dusted it off and put it away. You’ve got a new sorting system. Might take you a bit to familiarise yourself with it.”
Robby is distantly aware that he ought to be upset at this violation of his privacy, angry even, but really, all he feels is relief. The mess in his dining room has been bothering him for longer than he’s proud of.
It’s the same thing as with going to the supermarket: he never means not to do it. He just tends to forget, and then the chore grows bigger and bigger in his mind, and then he feels so crippled by it all that he’s incapable of even beginning to change things.
And now, just like that, Jack’s taken care of it for him. Just like he’s filled Robby’s fridge and hired security staff when admin refused.
“Why are you doing this?” The words come tumbling out before he’s thought them through. He should sit and eat before the food grows cold, but suddenly, he can’t not know. “And don’t fucking bullshit me about the job. You and I both know you’ve got the means to hire anyone you want. So if you don’t really need me working for you, what could you possibly have to gain here?”
Jack shrugs. “I like cooking.” When Robby does nothing except stare at him, he adds, his tone more serious now, “Also, I like spending time with you. Pretty sure that’s no crime yet.”
“You what?”
“Okay, I think you heard me just fine,” Jack says, “so I’m not going to repeat myself. Eat your food, man, come on.”
Stunned, Robby finally sits down and mechanically eats a bite of pasta. He’s never had a problem getting along with people on a surface level – what he struggles with is anything beyond that. Historically, there’ve only been a handful of people in his life who’ve liked him enough to stick around, and one of those was his grandmother, who was legally obligated to care about him.
“There’s something wrong with you,” he tells Jack at last. “You should come in, get checked for head trauma.”
Jack’s lips twitch. “Yeah? Am I going to get the Dr. Robinavitch treatment special?”
“Nope. I’ll let one of the med students do it while I talk to Crus.”
“Great,” Jack deadpans, “maybe then, you’ll let him bully you into having lunch.”
Okay, Robby thinks, enough.
“Stop acting like I have an eating disorder,” he says, irritation bleeding into his voice. “I’m fine, I just work busy hours in a job where actual human lives depend on me, and skipping a meal once in a while won’t kill me. Besides, I don’t know if you’ve seen me, but my body might actually thank me for cutting down a little.”
The look Jack gives him is so unimpressed that Robby fidgets a little, his face growing hot. “I have seen you,” he says flatly.
“So you know-“
“So I know that there’s nothing wrong with the way you look, and that no, skipping one meal wouldn’t kill you, but from what I’ve seen, it’s frankly a miracle if day goes by where you only skip the one. I’ve seen the state of your fridge, Robby. It’s sad.”
Robby swallows. There’s nothing wrong with the way you look echoes in his head, over and over again. “Is that why you’ve started sending me groceries?”
“I’ll keep sending them for as long as you’ll let me,” Jack says in lieu of an actual answer. “So will you? Let me?”
He should say no. That much is obvious, even to him.
He should really, really say no.
But the truth is that he likes coming home knowing he doesn’t need to worry about going to the store, just as he likes coming into work knowing he doesn’t need to worry about how they’re going to function with only one security guard on the floor.
He opens his mouth to admit at least some of this, but finds he can’t get the words out. It’s always been like this: just the possibility of someone looking at him and considering he might be someone who needs help is so horrifying to him that it’s crippled every serious relationship he’s ever had before it really got started.
He’s going to sit here, frozen, and Jack is going to wait and eventually walk out. Robby, a pessimist at heart, has already made his peace with that in the few seconds it takes for Jack to move. But instead of leaving the room, Jack reaches out and puts a gentle hand on Robby’s arm.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realised. You’re making hard decisions all day long, right? You probably don’t want to keep doing that when you’re home. Am I on the right track? Just nod or shake your head.”
After what feels like an eternity, Robby nods. The hand on his arm squeezes.
“That’s okay,” Jack says. “I get it. I won’t make you choose anymore. But Robby – if I make the wrong choice, you’ve got to tell me. Yeah? Think you can do that?”
Robby nods. Even that simple movement feels difficult. It’s like he’s underwater, drowning, and Jack’s hand is the only thing keeping him tethered.
Jack’s hand. There’s something off about it, something he’s only just noticing. “Where’s your ring?”
A shadow passes over Jack’s face. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t you usually wear a signet ring?”
Jack doesn’t reply immediately. When he does, he sounds strange. “I used to. When my wife died, I took both rings off that day. Never put them back on again.”
“Shelo ted’u od tza’ar,“ Robby says. “May you know no further sorrow.”
“Does that ever work in your job? You’ve probably seen more people bleed out than I have.”
Robby looks away. “You’re not wrong.”
“Sorry,” Jack says, for the second time since this conversation started. “Not many people bring her up anymore. It’s been twenty-five years. Apparently, I’m supposed to move on.”
“I’ve grieved for everyone who’s died in the ED since I started working there.”
“That sounds like a lot of grief, brother.”
“Yeah. It is. And despite all of it, I’m still grieving my boss, who died two years ago. My grandmother, who died over thirty years ago. My mother, who passed when I was eight. It never really goes away. None of it. None of them.”
Silence. Then Jack says, “That’s fucked up.”
Robby laughs. “Christ, it really is. It really, really is.”
“So…want a beer?”
“You know what,” Robby says, “I really do.”