Chapter Text
The midday sunlight casts long lines of gold across the polished concrete floor of Jack’s apartment. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he should be asleep, but what’s new?
He stands with his back to the living room, staring out the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony, watching Pittsburgh rush through its lunch hour.
A warm mug of coffee sits on the edge of the counter to his right, slowly going cold.
The police scanner on the entertainment center hums quietly, spilling the ins and outs of a typical Saturday across the room.
He doesn’t have work tonight.
He wishes he did.
So he’d have a reason to leave. A purpose.
Instead, he’s left alone with his thoughts.
The heat of mid-September hangs heavy in the air, turning the distant horizon into shimmering waves. Sweat pools at the nape of his neck as he desperately works to stabilize the twenty-one-year-old man on the cot in front of him.
The thick smell of blood fills his nose.
He can taste it on his tongue.
Feel it soaking into the fabric of his uniform pants.
There’s no monitor to tell him the kid is dying. Just the faint blue creeping along the edge of his lips and the slow draining of color from his skin.
Jack has to stop the bleeding.
But he can’t even see it.
There’s too much blood.
It’s filling the chest cavity, pooling faster than his hands can move.
And Jack knows, with a cold certainty settling deep in his gut, that this kid is going home.
Just not the way any he hoped.
Just as he’s about to slip back into the heavy quiet of his apartment, his phone begins to ring.
It takes him a moment to realize it’s ringing.
It takes him even longer to dig it out of the pocket of his sweatpants.
Robby’s smiling face fills the screen.
His contact name scrolls across the top: Robby Been a Bitch.
“Hello?” Jack says. His voice sounds hollow, distant even to his own ears.
There’s a long pause.
Just the sound of open air on the other end of the line.
Then Robby finally speaks.
“Hey, man.”
Jack can’t come up with anything witty to say.
Hearing his voice feels like coming home.
Like a breeze cutting through the middle of a summer heatwave. It settles the nerves under Jack’s skin in a way nothing else has all day. He just sits there in the quiet, holding onto that feeling for as long as he can.
“Are you oka—”
“I’m fine, Mike.” The words come out sharper than he meant them to.
Another pause.
“Are you home?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come ov—”
“No.”
The word lands hard.
“I’m fine. We’re fine. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Jack…” Robby sounds like he’s been punched.
Jack knows he should care.
He probably will later, when his mind doesn’t feel like it’s been scrubbed raw with soap.
“Leave it alone, Robinavitch,” Jack mutters. “I’m fine.”
He hangs up before Robby can argue.
Then he shuts the phone off entirely.
His feet move on their own, carrying him across the room.
He clicks off the lights. The police scanner.
One by one the small sounds of the apartment disappear.
Then he pulls the heavy blackout curtains across the windows.
Darkness swallows the room whole.
The silence wraps around him like a warm blanket as he sinks slowly to the floor.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. And he falls asleep.
White-hot pain. Jack hears himself screaming.
His vision is blotchy, swimming in and out of focus.
Strong, warm hands pin him to the gurney as he fights with everything he has just to sit up.
He can’t feel his right leg.
Not from the shin down.
He should be able to feel his toes.
The hands won’t let him move.
Helicopter blades thunder overhead, kicking up clouds of sand that burn his eyes. His throat goes raw from screaming until the sound finally dies somewhere deep in his chest.
There’s a soft click of a lock.
Footsteps.
Distant at first. Careful.
Jack doesn’t move.
An ugly part of him hopes that whoever has broken into his apartment will just kill him and take whatever they want.
Rough hands brush the sweat-soaked curls from his forehead.
He flinches away from the touch.
“It’s okay. Shh,” a deep voice whispers.
“Go away,” Jack whines, swatting weakly at the intruder.
“I can’t,” the voice replies softly. “I made a less-lost version of you a promise. Remember that, Jack? That promise?”
Jack’s eyes burn. His throat feels thick.
“I promised I’d never leave Fine alone,” the voice continues quietly. “Because Fine isn’t your name.”
A pause.
“And it sure as hell isn’t who you are.”
“You’re not Fine.”
“Please. Just go,” Jack whispers.
But the hands don’t move.
His whole body feels like it’s made of tiny bugs, all crawling in different directions under his skin.
“No.” The voice is gentle but firm as the hands pull Jack up from the cool concrete floor.
A wave of nausea rolls through him, sudden and violent.
Bile floods the back of his throat before he can stop it.
His stomach lurches.
The sound echoes too loudly in the quiet apartment.
Guilt hits almost immediately when he finally manages to look up at the man standing in front of him… now unfortunately wearing wet shoes.
Robby doesn’t react.
He just rubs slow circles into Jack’s back, steady and patient.
His hands feel like ice through the sweat-soaked fabric of Jack’s shirt.
“I—” Jack stops, eyes widening.
How did Robby even get into his apartment?
For a brief, confused moment his brain offers the only answer that makes sense.
Estelle must have let him in.
“Did Estelle let you in?” Jack asks hoarsely.
Robby’s hand pauses.
Then he shakes his head.
“No, Jack.” His voice is soft now. Careful. “You gave me a key. Almost four years ago.”
Jack sways a little where he stands.
The room tilts in a slow, unpleasant way.
He needs to sit.
“Why did I give you a key?” he asks quietly.
Robby holds onto his shoulders, steadying him.
“Because we’re best friends,” he says. “And sometimes you struggle.”
The words land all at once.
Jack realizes it then. He’s having a PTSD episode.
His timeline is scrambled.
He can’t tell what year it is or even where he is.
The room feels both too big and too small.
He wants to cry.
But Robby is here.
So he won’t.
“I don’t—” Jack tugs at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling like it’s choking him.
“Hey, hey. Don’t worry, Jack. It’s okay. I got you.” Robby’s voice is calm, steady. “Do you want your shirt off?”
Jack nods.
He’s hot and cold at the same time.
His limbs shake violently even as sweat trickles down his back.
Robby helps him pull the black Metallica shirt over his head. It drops with a damp thud onto the barstool beside them.
Then Robby guides him carefully toward the gray sectional.
“Hey,” Robby says gently, crouching beside him. “Can I help you take your leg off? It’s dark in here, so I can’t see if your residual limb is swollen. But if I know you—and I do—I’m guessing you’ve had it on all night, and it’s almost dinner time now.”
Jack tilts his head, confused.
Robby’s words don’t make sense.
“Take my leg off?” he asks slowly. “Like… surgery?”
Robby huffs out a soft breath.
“No, Jack. I’m not a surgeon.” His tone stays patient. “I mean your prosthetic.”
Jack blinks.
“You lost your leg in two thousand and five,” Robby continues quietly. “That was about ten years before we met.”
He pauses, making sure Jack is looking at him.
“I know that’s hard to understand right now. But I need you to try. Try to come back to the present.”
Robby rolls up the right leg of Jack’s sweatpants to the knee.
“Come back to now.”
The hiss of the vacuum release and the soft pop of the prosthetic coming free finally pull Jack out of his half-past, half-present fugue state.
Heat rushes up his exposed chest, turning his skin a soft pink.
He buries his face in his hands, waiting for Robby to peel away the gel liner.
Goosebumps ripple across the sensitive skin of his residual limb as the cool apartment air finally touches it.
“I’m gonna get you a glass of water,” Robby says gently. “And I’m gonna turn on the kitchen lamp.”
He pushes himself up from the sofa and moves toward the kitchen.
A soft yellow light spills across the right side of the apartment, illuminating the counter and the row of barstools.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Jack murmurs into his palms. “I hope I didn’t scare you too bad.”
He focuses on his breathing, on the quiet rhythm of Robby’s footsteps moving around the kitchen.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Robby says, stepping back into the living room and holding out a cool glass of water.
Then he adds with a faint smirk, “I guess we’re pretty lucky you don’t eat breakfast. Otherwise your dining room situation would be a very different kind of problem.”
The joke doesn’t quite land.
Jack laughs anyway.
“Seriously though,” Jack asks after a moment, “what tipped you off?”
Robby shrugs, rubbing a hand along his jawline.
“You said hello. You never say hello.” He tilts his head slightly. “And then you said you were fine.”
Jack grimaces.
“I hate when you say that,” Robby continues. “Because it usually means something bad is going on.”
Jack doesn’t respond right away.
The silence stretches between them.
“I’m sorry for ignoring you last week,” he finally says.
Robby looks over at him, those big brown eyes softening as the edges crinkle.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice something was wrong sooner,” he says quietly. “I haven’t exactly been myself lately.”
“No,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t, Robby Been a Bitch.”
Robby laughs, low and deep, his dimples flashing to life.
“I should be checking on you,” Jack says after a moment, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Not the other way around.”
“Nah, man.” Robby waves it off easily. “I’m all good. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
He leans back slightly. “I can stick around if you want.”
Jack feels his heartbeat tick upward.
He forces his face to stay neutral.
“I don’t want to keep you from your time off.”
Robby smirks. “You don’t wanna keep me company? Damn, Jack. That’s cold.”