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one.
Robby’s been back from his sabbatical for two weeks. He hasn’t worked a shift yet. He knows people are tired of his shit. They’re pretty sure he isn’t going to kill himself by now, so he should just get it the fuck together.
He’d really love to do that, but he doesn’t know how.
Jack is mad at him. He has every right to be. Robby didn’t call him, barely texted him. He sent him a postcard that only said “See you, - Robby.” That probably pissed him off the most.
Tonight was supposed to be for apologizing to Jack, but Robby can’t get the words out. They’re staring at a random baseball game in silence, empty takeout containers on the table in front of them.
The air feels thick, like Robby’s inability to communicate has created a physical barrier between them. Jack’s going to fucking hate him, and Robby can’t even blame him.
Maybe if he turns the television down. He grabs the remote from the coffee table and immediately drops it. Shit, when did his hands start shaking?
“You okay?” Jack asks.
No. “‘m fine,” Robby says. It sounds wrong even to his ears.
Jack sighs. “So goddamn stubborn,” he says to himself. He stands up and walks out of the living room. Is he leaving? Great. Robby had one single task, salvage his most important relationship, and he couldn’t even do that. He closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck.
“Give me your hand,” Jack says.
Robby jumps, startled, but he holds out his hand. Jack is crouched in front of him. He puts a piece of ice in Robby’s palm and curls his hand shut.
“Breathe with me,” Jack says.
He counts to ten, slow, breathing in and out. Robby does too. All he can focus on are the cold bite of the ice, breathing, and Jack’s voice.
Jack rubs Robby’s other arm from his shoulder to his forearm and back. Robby lets the warmth seep into him.
“Better?” Jack asks.
Robby looks down at his hands. One is wet, but they’re steady. Jack’s still here. He nods.
“It’s all going to be fine, brother,” Jack says. He pulls Robby in for a hug. “Maybe not tonight, but soon. You’ve got to fucking tell me when you’re having an anxiety or panic attack, though, alright?”
Robby feels safe in Jack’s arms. He tries not to get any melting ice on him.
“Yeah,” he agrees. He knows he probably won’t.
two.
The Pitt is the same as it’s always been. Cold, bright, loud. Covered in blood if not for the hard work of EVS. Full of scared people, angry people, his staff trying their best. And questions. Too many fucking questions.
Robby is aware that a large part of his job is having or finding answers. After a certain point, his nervous system starts to disagree. It makes him want to scream. Sometimes, he does. Then he drowns in guilt, because who acts like that? His bubbe didn’t teach him to act like that. He doesn’t want to act like that. So why does he? Probably because he’s an asshole, his brain says. His new therapist would call that negative self-talk. Does it still count as negative if it’s the truth?
He’s in the staff lounge, trying to get himself the fuck together, when Jack walks into the room. He’s almost two hours early. He leans against the counter next to Robby.
“Heard you yelled at Park,” Jack says. His tone is neutral. “He deserve it?”
Robby shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.” The back of his neck has that prickly feeling that tells him his brain is about to pitch a fucking fit. He rubs at it, scratches, but it makes no difference.
“What’s going on there?” Jack asks.
Lying is Robby’s first thought, but it’s not like Jack doesn’t know all the possible symptoms. “Neck tingles,” Robby grits out.
Jack reaches into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulls out a bag of Warheads. “Open up.” He fishes a candy out and holds it in front of Robby’s mouth.
At this point, why the fuck not? Robby opens his mouth. Jack’s thumb brushes against his lip, and sourness bursts on his tongue. Jesus fuck, Robby thinks. He doesn’t remember these things being so intense.
Jack rests his hand on Robby’s neck. The weight helps. Robby breathes in seven, holds four, out eight. Again. He sighs.
“Thanks, man,” Robby says. Jack tugs Robby in against his side. Robby wishes he could stay there forever. He’d probably yell at fewer people. It would be good for overall morale.
“You ready to get back on the horse, cowboy?” Jack asks.
Robby’s been off the floor for 12 minutes, and he no longer feels like he’s going to self-destruct. He nods. Jack squeezes his neck and shoves the bag of Warheads in Robby’s pocket.
“Let’s get back to it, then,” Jack says.
three.
Jack is at his door. They’ve had this planned for two weeks. They have dinner reservations. Robby has spent every day of the last two weeks trying to gather the courage to make a move tonight, and Jack is at his door.
The thing is, Robby doesn’t want to open it. He’s not ready. His place is a fucking mess.
He’s been doing okay, for the most part. He’s seeing his therapist, he’s taking his meds, he’s been less of a dick at work. He even read a book for fun this week. And he ate both a fruit and a vegetable today.
On the other hand, there’s a mountain of unfolded laundry on the armchair in his living room. He’s been running the dishwasher, but he hasn’t been able to make himself handwash anything, so his sink is full of pots and pans and knives. There’s a frankly comical stack of mail on his kitchen counter. He doesn’t have a single unwrinkled shirt with a collar, and he needs to trim his beard.
This is something he wants to do, something he’s excited about. So why is he filled with dread?
His door opens. Right. Jack has a key. Robby should get off the couch. He should go to the door. He buries his face in his hands.
“Are you decent?” Jack calls.
Robby groans. He doesn’t even have a shirt on. “Not entirely.”
Jack laughs. Robby hears him putting down his keys and shutting the door behind him. “Excellent, lemme see.”
Robby manages to raise his head and look at Jack.
Jack takes Robby in. “Well, you know I love to see you without a shirt on, but maybe not like this.”
Robby doesn’t have a lot of energy, so he just flips Jack off. Jack laughs and sits down next to Robby, throws his arm around Robby’s shoulder. “I’ll cancel the reservation.”
This was supposed to be the night. Robby wanted to be handsome and charming and someone Jack could possibly want. Robby sighs. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“Nah,” Jack says. He kisses Robby’s temple. “You’re having a bad day. I’ve been there. I’ll be there again. How about you go take a hot shower, and I straighten shit up? Then we can order dinner.”
Robby shakes his head before Jack’s done talking. No way is he letting Jack clean up his mess while he does nothing. “No, I’ll clean up. I can make you dinner.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “Would it kill you to let me do this for you?”
“Yes,” Robby says primly.
Jack laughs. “Well, we don’t want that. Alright, we’ll do it together. Laundry, then dishes. We can talk about dinner after.”
Robby frowns. It’s his fucking mess.
“Hey,” Jack says. He gives Robby’s hair a gentle tug. “This is a barn raising, baby. I’d get everybody over here to help if I didn’t think you’d break out in hives, and they’d come. Because people fucking care about you.”
Robby’s brain calls bullshit, but he knows Jack doesn’t lie to him. “Baby?” he asks.
Jack shrugs. “Yeah. Why not?”
four.
When he’s entirely honest with himself, Robby doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to kill himself. He just wants it all to stop, sometimes. Every ugly, twisted, gnawing thing he feels, he wants them out of his head. He wants to stop seeing carnage. He wants to stop making choices. He wants his choices to stop having consequences.
He wishes he didn’t need the work, but that’s a problem he hasn’t been able to solve.
The point is, he knows now that he doesn’t want to die. That’s not why he’s on the roof.
Today had been fine, right up until it wasn’t. 11th hour of his shift. Dead infant, suffocated in a co-sleeping accident. Parents refused to accept that they had done anything wrong.
He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t been a dick. He’d just fucking disappeared. That probably makes him weak. He’ll need to go in and check on Santos, on Mel. But he hadn’t screamed at anyone. Maybe that’s a win.
The urge is still there, though, stuck beneath his breastbone. He’s all alone on the roof. He walks far enough back that no one can see him, pulls up his hoodie to muffle the sound, and he yells.
“Shift went that well?” Jack asks.
Robby jumps. He whirls around to face Jack. “How the fuck do you do that?”
Jack shrugs. “I have my ways. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Robby says, automatic. He takes a deep breathe. “No. I’m fucked up. A six month old baby was DOA, not a damn thing we could do.”
Jack doesn’t ask any more questions. He just pulls Robby into his arms. He kisses his forehead, his cheek. “Mike, babe, you yell all you want.”
Robby clutches at Jack’s shirt. He knows Jack doesn’t judge him. Sometimes, Jack rips up paper or crushes cardboard. He once told Robby about someone he’d had group therapy with who smashed dollar store plates in her backyard. Jack and Robby’s very expensive therapist have both helped Robby realize that it’s not the screaming that’s the issue. It’s the screaming at.
He’s fucking working on it. He presses his face to Jack’s neck. “This is better.”
Jack laughs. He gives Robby a quick kiss. “I have tonight off. There’s a lot more where this came from.”
Robby fucking hopes so.
five.
The most infuriating panic attacks are when Robby doesn’t feel cognitive anxiety. He’d thought everything was fine. Great, even. He and Jack had sleepy morning sex, then they went out for lunch. Robby’s had an orgasm that left him hoarse from screaming and one hell of a pastrami sandwich. He even got to pet a dog outside the sandwich place. Now he’s in Jack’s truck, holding his hand and listening to Springsteen. There’s nothing wrong.
So why does he feel like he wants to throw up?
“Jack,” Robby says, urgent. “Pull over. Might puke.”
It’s not nausea. Zofran doesn’t touch it. He just feels the urge to retch, and then he gets sick. He gags, puts his hands over his mouth. Jack pulls into a parking spot and rummages in his console. He comes up with a packet and rips it open. “Smell.”
Robby inhales deep, and the astringent scent of alcohol fills his nose. A shock to his system. He wipes his face with the back of his hand.
“Think I’m good,” he says. He groans. “I don’t even know what that was. It’s a good day.”
Jack tosses the wipe in the cup holder and takes Robby’s hand in his. “Robby. Brother. It’s September 3rd.”
Robby grips Jack’s hand tight. The anniversary is in two days. Both of them. He almost forgot.
“Easy,” Jack says, like he’s soothing a spooked horse.
Robby hates that. He grits his teeth. “Fuck off.” He doesn’t let go of Jack’s hand.
Jack rolls his eyes. “Fuck you too, man,” he snaps. He runs his thumb over the back of Robby’s hand. “You want to go home?”
Of course Robby wants to go home. He’s got leftover adrenaline in his system, he wants to bite and snarl at being coddled, and he feels like an absolute piece of shit for forgetting for even one second that the anniversary of the day that Monty and Leah and all the other people he couldn’t save died is two days from now. He wants to go home, and he wants to crawl onto the couch with Jack and stay there all day.
“Yeah,” Robby says.
Jack brings Robby’s hand to his knee, then puts the truck in gear. “Let’s go home.”
plus one.
On Jack’s days off, he’s almost always out of bed when Robby gets home. If he isn’t, he’s waiting naked with a plan in mind. Robby’s tired, but even when he’s exhausted, even when his fucking pills keep him from being able to get it up, he’ll never fail to appreciate a naked Jack in their bed.
When Robby enters their bedroom and finds Jack curled up in a ball beneath the covers, his chest aches. This is the third kind of day, thankfully the rarest kind.
“Bad one?” Robby asks. He pulls off his clothes and throws them in the hamper, shoes already with his backpack by the door.
Jack makes a grumpy sound and pulls the sheet down so his curly head sticks out. Robby sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his hand. Jack takes it and pulls.
“C’mere,” Jack says.
Robby goes. He doesn’t like to get in bed without showering, but he feels okay today. He’ll have the energy to get them both showered and change the sheets.
“What do you need?” Robby asks as he lets Jack cover him with blankets. “Food? Water? Shower?”
Jack shakes his head. “Fucking bullshit nightmare. Can still feel the sand. Lay on top of me.”
Ah. Sensory overwhelm. Robby can do that. He settles himself over Jack, lets Jack take his weight. Jack gets one hand in Robby’s hair and sweeps the other up and down Robby’s back. Robby rubs his beard against Jack’s shoulder. Little by little, he feels Jack’s muscles relax.
“Thanks,” Jack finally says. He rests his hand on the back of Robby’s neck. “Love you.”
Robby kisses right over Jack’s pulse point. “You too. Any time, sweetheart. You think you can get in the shower now?”
Jack sighs, put upon. “For you, I guess.”
Robby smiles. He rolls off of Jack, then leans back in to kiss him. “Thank you for your service.”
With an indignant squawk, Jack smacks Robby on the ass. “Don’t you ever say that to me again, Michael.”
He all but shoves Robby out of bed while Robby laughs, the deep belly laugh that only Jack can get out of him. Jack herds Robby to the shower, and Robby goes, still laughing the whole way.