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Joan Didion wrote Do not whine. Do not complain.
Work harder. Spend more time alone.
Like any good disciple, I listened.
—Megan Lynne, An Exit Wound That Feels So Fucking Good
The rain was downright apocalyptic. It had been coming down in solid sheets for over an hour, a ceaseless wall of unchanging gray water that obscured the distant buildings and struck the rooftop so hard the raindrops visibly bounced, causing something like a froth to develop at ankle height. If Jack had been capable of hearing himself think he might've been reminded of the coast, of winter storms blowing off the Pacific, but the noise was too fantastic as it beat down on the roof of the access stairwell where he stood safely out of the wind.
Felt rather than heard Robby reach him at the top of the stairs—when you worked with certain people for long enough you got a sense for how the air parted around them as they moved through a space.
"Oh wow." Robby was a blur in his periphery as he joined him in the doorway, a little louder than usual to make himself audible over the steady drum. "I thought it was bad down on the street."
"Three flood codes in the last twenty," he said automatically, eyes immediately jumping to a here-and-gone flicker in the distance, hands briefly tightening around either end of the stethoscope looped around his neck. Not that he wasn't happy to see Robby, but… "Pretty sure Gloria gave you a direct order not to come in. Cowell's already here and freaking out over the board."
"You're here," Robby said, tapping his arm with the blunt curve of his elbow as though he were really making some kind of point. At Jack's dull stare he heaved a sigh, hands on his hips and gaze fixed on the middle distance as he said, almost too quietly to be heard over the rain, "C'mon, man. Everybody knows the only way out is through, right?"
He'd seen Robby at the end of his previous shift—they all had—and he had some serious doubts that ten hours of downtime had been enough to put gas back in that tank. Anyone with half a brain could see Robby wasn't working his way through fuck-all, but who was Jack to preach to him? All kinds of people would soon be on his case about talking it out if they weren't already, there are resources available to you and peer-to-peer counselors can be reached 24/7 and your benefits will absolutely cover speaking with a crisis therapist if that's what you need. Hell, hadn't the hospital started some kind of informal trauma-dump drop-in group during COVID and then kept it chugging along when things had never really reset to the quote-unquote pre-pandemic norms? Robby had to know about it—HR plugged it often enough in the weekly all-hands e-newsletter, and God knew that between them Robby was the one who actually read those things.
No, it wouldn't be him advising Robby of the benefits of therapy. It was too late—or too early—and he was too tired to stomach that kind of irony. Better for them to carry on as they always did—a shot of straight-forward acknowledgment followed by a chaser of gallows humor. Maintaining normalcy felt like a tall order at the moment: it had been another long night in a wretched string of them, full of cleaning up after the MCI—two more PittFest victims had succumbed to their injuries on his watch, and he'd heard Risk & Legal would be swinging by at some point to speak with the day shift, and—
A brilliant flash ran jagged across the sky, then another; instinctively, he started counting Mississippis in his head, temporarily distracted from all the troubles he'd shortly have to pass along to Robby. Reached ten before there was a bone-shaking boom of thunder, quickly followed by another ribbon of lightning that frayed across the charcoal sky. A second rumble of thunder; only five Mississippis that time. Closer.
Soft fabric brushed his arm as Robby shifted next to him. Closer. "How long's this supposed to go on for?"
"All day." Lips twitched in a smile he swiftly repressed as he looked away from the light show to Robby's face, the youthful wonder painted there in broad, obvious strokes a welcome change from his too-recent despondence. "Maybe God watched the last twenty-four hours and decided to beat his previous record of forty days," he said with as much grim intensity as he could muster. "You know: 'Enough is enough. Time to drown these miserable fucks.'"
The lightning couldn't have been brighter than the shocked amusement that lit up Robby's face, the thunder directly over them no louder than the single laugh he barked out, and if Jack had failed at so many other things over the last thirteen hours at least he could point to that as some kind of success. "You sick bastard," Robby muttered as he shook his head, turned away from the city and the rain and Jack, shoulders still twitching under his hoodie as he snickered to himself.
It was the wind shifting, the spatter of icy raindrops on the back of Jack's bare neck that made him shiver; dragged the door shut and followed Robby down flights of concrete steps, the thunder dogging them all the way back to the elevator. It was running slower than usual, and he managed to give Robby a sitrep before the doors opened and he was interrupted by yet another flood code paged overhead.
"Telecom's starting to sound a little alarmed," Robby said with a vague upward grimace to the ceiling as a woman repeated Code Aqua the requisite one, two, three times faster than usual. "That's, what, leak number four?"
"Maybe we'll get lucky and one will pop near the old Physiotherapy pool," Jack said, stepping into the elevator after him. "Be nice to get that thing refilled. Get some laps in."
"Missing the beach already?" Robby leaned back against the side wall of the car, bracing himself on the handrail, head cocked as he considered him. "You must still have some vacation time stacked up. Planning on ever taking it?"
"My niece says I suffer from professional FOMO," he said in response, watching the digital floor numbers tick over as they descended. "Chronic according to her." A bunch of chart deficiencies he still had to resolve in Epic; might as well deal with them, get Medical Records off his ass, and hope the weather cleared enough to make the drive home less treacherous, though if it didn't he could always sack out in one of the residents' rooms… "What about you? Sleeping in for a week or two somewhere warm and sunny holds no appeal?"
"And leave this paradise behind?" Robby asked over the chime of the elevator as they arrived, the doors sliding open at the same time yet another flood code rang out over the paging system. He strode past him, arms outstretched, only to turn on the spot and grin as he said, "Besides, it sounds like those waves are coming to—"
At first Jack thought it was the rumble of thunder that caught Robby's attention, cut him off mid-sentence, but that couldn't be right, could it? Not with twenty storeys between them and the roof, the open albeit turbulent air; countless tons of poured concrete, endless feet of drywall, millions of dollars of medical equipment, and there was this—this noise above them. Like a freight train barreling into a tunnel, or maybe a dumpster being emptied into the back of a garbage truck: a discordant rush of metal and glass and plastic, and Jack didn't have any time to glance up before Robby was shoving him away and down as the noise got abruptly louder. Closer. Pure muscle memory dropped him to the ground as much as Robby piling on top of him, Duck and cover, boys and girls!, and he flinched as a sudden rush of icy water drenched his back.
"What the fuck?" he gasped, clinging harder to Robby. Looked down at the floor in confusion long enough to note the rapidly growing puddle of water; the soggy yellow chunks of foam; the telltale tiny square pieces of shattered safety glass before he jerked back from Robby to look him in the eye in the dimmer-than-usual light. "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah," Robby said, breathing hard and wincing as he pulled his arms away from Jack—they'd gotten tangled up somehow when he'd rushed him, each trying to protect the other—only to cup his face with both hands, palms rough but gentle, brown eyes glued to his and thickly fringed by dripping lashes. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. A little wet," he said dumbly, licking his lip clean of the rivulet of cold water that had trickled down his face from above, immediately regretting it. With their luck it was a sewer main that had just burst on top of them, but there wasn't that kind of smell, thank God. Just debris everywhere, and water, and Robby half-kneeling, half-crouching before him—mostly over him, given his size—with that same water running down his pale, worried face. Thoughtlessly, he eased his grip on Robby's shoulder to wipe away the smear of white plaster over Robby's glistening eyebrow.
Splashing, then crunching footsteps as someone rapidly closed on them, backed by a growing chatter in the wider room that was impossible to ignore; he dropped his hand. Then came a small, cautious touch on his wet forearm, still hooked over Robby's shoulder. "Boys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Dana said over the increasingly anxious babble, "but it looks like the ceiling just caved in on you. And on two patients."
"Oh fuck me," Robby muttered, eyes squeezing shut just before he dropped his chin to his chest. White particulate dusted his hair, took up the slack anxiety left behind to age him prematurely. "Of course. Of course it did." Only after he nodded, grimacing, did he let Jack go. They stood simultaneously, all kinds of scrap from the ceiling dropping off Robby's back like snow sliding off a roof as he rose. They both stepped out of the stream of clear water that continued to pour out of the guts of the building, but it wasn't Jack who froze once he was solidly upright. It wasn't Jack who sucked in a deep breath that caught in his chest; stuttered, engine visibly stalling.
"Easy," Jack said, catching him by the arms to steady him when he wavered slightly, lips parting soundlessly. "Dana—"
She was looking at her palm where she'd pressed it to Robby's back; her eyes were saucers when she held it up so he could see the thin red smear over her bare skin even as she plucked at Robby's sodden hoodie, apologizing quietly at his pained hiss. "I think—" she tugged once more at his hoodie, frowning at whatever she saw "—you might've gotten a little skewered, hon."
"Ah." Robby'd wrapped his hands around Jack's forearms as Dana had done her investigating; he squeezed almost imperceptibly as he nodded once more, eyebrows quirked ironically over a heartbreaking little smile. "Sure, why not."
Code Aqua, Level Zero, Emergency Department, rooms—
There were things Jack should've been doing. He should've been assessing Robby's injury for himself, figuring out what exactly was stuck in him; he should've been checking on the civilians who'd likewise been dumped on, or at least delegating their care. He should've been herding the staff into containing the flooding, throwing down rolled-up towels and blankets to stop the water. He should've been doing anything useful at all, but it was like he'd hit his old enemy the 3AM wall all over again and this time he couldn't seem to push through it. All the adrenaline that had shocked him soundly awake when Robby had tackled him, told him every place they'd touched and how, had drained right back out again, left him unable to do anything but stare blankly at Robby's drawn face. Or, worse yet, with the urge to pelt him with questions—how did you know and what the hell were you thinking and what do I have to do to make sure you never do something that stupid ever again?
Instead he cleared his throat, made himself ask, "Dana, those patients—"
"Unharmed," she answered promptly, nodding to someone off by Central-14. "Surprised as hell, I imagine, but no injuries. Nothing some towels can't fix, though I doubt the same can be said for the ceiling."
"Or our patient satisfaction scores," Robby whispered between shallow yet deliberately even breaths. "God, to be a fly on the wall when Gloria hears about this."
Code Aqua, Level Zero, Emergency Department—
"Did EVS finish turning over Central-11?" Jack asked flatly. Robby's pulse was fast against his palms when he slid them down to his wrists. Still on his feet; no blood on the floor that he noticed, but then that damn hoodie was as good as a sponge, absorbing it along with the rest of whatever shit was in the water they'd gotten showered in… He had to get it off him, see how bad the damage was, see what he could do to fix it—fix him—if he even could.
No. Stop. It wasn't that bad. It was fixable. Robby was fixable—this time. This way. Just because he'd seen guys walk off a surprise hit from above only to drop dead hours later didn't mean that was going to happen here. It was an entirely different situation with entirely different people, and they weren't in a goddamn war zone for starters no matter how it had resembled one just last night.
"Yeah, Fred did the dismissal clean five minutes ago." Outshining the rest of them as usual, Dana tucked herself up against Robby's side and dragged one of his arms out of Jack's grip to rest easily over her shoulders. "C'mon, boss, let's get you fixed up. Slow and steady now, that's it," she said in honeyed tones, ignoring Robby's grumbled protests to scold the rubberneckers who were too busy gawking to shift themselves into productive gear fast enough for her liking.
It wasn't until Princess got the door to eleven for them that Jack could bring himself to move, and then it was just to scrub a hand over his face; wiped the water off on the dry patch of his pantleg as he stared up at the hole in the ceiling, jaw tight. Like a wound in the underbelly of the hospital, it gaped open above him in a mishmash of torn foam insulation and partially collapsed ductwork, stretching horizontally directly before the elevator.
"Watch yourself, the rest could fall," he said offhandedly to the crowd of nurses and cleaners who were busy trying to stop the water he was standing in from spreading further. The remaining ceiling tiles to the right and left of the elevator were sagging, brown and bulging rather than the typical flat polar white; a straight line drawn over the narrower part of the ED, room to open floor to room, where the water must've run along the pipe if it hadn't cracked to begin with…
Code Aqua, Level Zero—
"Jesus Christ," Jack muttered, snatching up his stethoscope from the floor to stuff into a pants pocket. "Yeah, goddamn paradise alright." Kicked aside the panel light that had previously rested in the ceiling and now laid broken on the floor; wiped a hand over his face again, over his damp head, before he shook himself. Plumbing wasn't his business; he had a doctor to look after, and he wasn't doing it soaking wet. Anything could be in that water; it wasn't worth the risk.
There was a gaggle of greenhorns outside C-11 when he made it back as quick as he could, freshly changed and toting another set of scrubs for Robby. The part of him that wasn't irritated with the entire situation was twofold touched: by their obvious concern for their attending; that they'd all returned to the Pitt in the first place, and so soon after what was easily one of the worst introductory shifts any doctor could ever work in a new unit no matter their age or level of experience.
But it was a small part. Mostly he wanted them gone so he could clean up this latest mess and go pass out somewhere not here.
Whatever argument they'd all been embroiled in died the second Santos caught sight of him. "Dr. Abbot, can I assist?" she chirped, hands clasped behind her back as she stepped directly in front of Javadi, the two of them so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed he swore he could feel his body age another decade or twelve out of sheer horror.
At least Whitaker had the good sense to look like hammered shit. More luggage under those eyes than you'd find at LAX.
Standing on tip-toe to peer over Santos's shoulder, Javadi chimed in to say, "It would be great to see how you—"
"No," he said, tone brooking no debate. "Go work the board. Help your other attending, Dr. Cowell, clear as many patients as possible before we get bogged down in car accidents. The rain isn't letting up anytime soon, and we're going to get slammed."
Both Santos and Javadi deflated like a couple of parade floats snagged on streetlights, but they still dutifully murmured their assent and did as told. Whitaker, however, gave him a stack of clean towels to add to his pile along with a gratis solemn nod, a worried look towards eleven and its occupant all the delay he risked as he hurried to catch up with his colleagues.
"Yes, Dr. King?" he asked, tamping down a sigh as he turned to face the remaining newbie.
"I got Dr. Robinavitch registered," she said in a rush, holding out an inpatient wristband. "He probably wouldn't want it, but if there's an insurance claim—It's the hospital's responsibility to take care of this—him—and that requires proper documentation of his required treatment. And I can get started on the incident report if you want—I was by the nursing station when it all—" the jerky motion she made with her hands described nothing so much as an upside down mushroom cloud, but he couldn't fault her accuracy "—so I got a pretty good view of what happened if—"
"I can write my own HIR." Did sigh then at her prompt and fretful agreement; tipped his chin towards the growing pile of stuff he was holding so that she'd lay the wristband atop it, dead center and smoothed down. "But I appreciate the offer. You're right: policy says we file a report in a timely fashion even if an incident results in a near-miss."
"Which this isn't," Mel said at once, a finger raised as though the point really needed hammering home. Her regret was nearly instantaneous; wringing her hands, she began backing up. "I'm going to—Yeah. The board—Um. Good luck?" Cringed before she whirled away, shaking her hands out and muttering under her breath, neatly dodging the cleaners rolling industrial fans towards the back of the unit.
Most of the department's noise was cut the instant he closed the door tight behind himself, pulling the curtain for good measure and pocketing the wristband. Took quick stock of Robby sitting on the bed; Dana had left the lower side rails dropped for him so that he could perch on the edge of the mattress, feet flat on the floor and hands braced on his thighs. Hoodie off and MIA, hair clean of ceiling dust though ruffled, but damp scrub top and undershirt still on, and Jack was ready to be annoyed at the thought of him sitting there shivering until he saw the folded blanket laying next to him on the bed and figured he'd just been stubborn. Then he had something new to be annoyed about on top of everything else.
"You let her cut it off you or did you pitch a fit?" he asked, dropping his things on the seat of the empty chair in favor of snapping on some gloves.
"It has a zipper," Robby said in the prissy, precise way he adopted when he was being forced to repeat himself and hated it; Dana must've loved giving him a hard time. As Jack pulled a set of shears from a pocket, he moderated his tone to continue, "Whatever it was, it's gone—fell out when I got up, I bet. The lac's probably not even that deep, maybe just slap some glue on—"
"These yours or the hospital's?" Jack interrupted as he rounded Robby, eyeing his back. Most likely he was right—he wasn't dry exactly, but he wasn't covered in crud either, so the chance of contaminants was significantly lower. There were no fuck-off big shanks of metal sticking out of him, which should've been some reassurance, but instead it made him more nervous somehow. He had to get Robby's clothes off, had to see what he was working with…
"Mine," Robby said, chin dropping to his chest as he leaned forward ever so slightly, shoulders twitching as he froze, then moved more gingerly. Not the superior trapezius then, but something lower—middle? Inferior?
"Bill me." Fit the blunt edge of the shears just under the hem before he pulled it taut and ripped up and through the material in one smooth, unbroken line along the curve of Robby's spine, the fabric parting like it couldn't wait to show him what was hiding beneath. And what was beneath might've been pretty to some people: bloodstains, large and blotchy like blooms of watercolor poppies, covered the right upper quadrant of Robby's white undershirt, layered primarily over his shoulder blade. It wasn't pretty to Jack as he lightly traced the vertical rip in the fabric, looked for others and found none and still couldn't breathe easy.
His silence proved too much for Robby. "What?" Twisted his head to peer at him over his shoulder, and when that wasn't enough he made to twist at the waist until Jack stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, holding him still before he could hurt himself worse.
"Calm down already," he said gruffly, shears once more poised to slice through Robby's second shirt. "Let the professional work." Waited until Robby swallowed; relaxed. Then up he went, razor-sharp stainless steel gliding through worn cotton with a sound eerily similar to the hiss of the rain on the roof. Jack hadn't needed to work so hard to let his mind go blank up there, allow his thoughts to be buried by the thunderstorm, but the opposite was happening now. The hiss sounded louder but he was dangerously close to going full centipede effect as he worked: keeping his hand steady; not pulling too hard on the fabric, his knuckles brushing Robby's belt; not moving too fast or too slow—all of it more challenging than usual because he couldn't stop thinking about what exactly he was doing. As the material parted, exposing Robby's bare back, he was more careful than ever to angle the shears just so to avoid catching the gold chain of his necklace when he finally sliced through the thicker band of the shirt collar.
"Another one bites the dust," Robby murmured, pulling the shirts forward, down his arms, to fling them off to the side in the direction of the soiled laundry hamper—optimistic—with as little movement as he could manage.
For good reason. "Very nice," Jack said, snagging the overhead light to flick it on, angle it just so as he leaned down to better examine Robby's bloody skin, resolutely ignoring the constellations of freckles and birth marks scattered over his broad back. "You've got a—" pressed his palm gently to Robby's shoulder blade, spread fingers spanning the cut as his skin broke out into goose bumps "—roughly five-inch laceration of the right middle trapezius muscle trailing down into the inferior just left of the scapula. The edges look fairly clean, so whatever it was that fell on you must've been sharp. Doesn't look like it cut too deep into the muscle, but it's still bleeding. Helluva bruise coming your way though. Raise your arm?"
A stifled groan, the motion slow, but Robby managed it smoothly enough. "Lucky me," he said afterward; his sarcasm didn't have any legs, not when Jack could feel his heart pounding away in his chest. Faster than normal for someone his size and condition, but then doctors had also been known to suffer from White Coat Syndrome. "You know, this would be a good case for one of the med students," he said lightly as Jack grabbed one of Whitaker's towels, a box of gauze squares from the waiting supply cart, and a couple of small unopened bottles of sterile saline from one of his pockets. "Amenable patient—"
"Amenable?" Jack repeated as he started tearing open gauze and wetting it, wiping the blood from Robby's back with textbook single swipes, down and away, before discarding the used squares on the bed. Not an unusual amount of blood given the size of the laceration, the location, the relative intensity of post-injury activity; all things considered, Robby had gotten lucky. Not that he could bring himself to agree out loud, not after the day Robby'd had. Hell, the last five years. And he certainly wouldn't call himself lucky to be treating him, though he couldn't think of anyone else he would've trusted to do it right.
Adamson, he supposed, but.
"—Simple presentation," Robby carried on obliviously, a shiver rippling over him as Jack pressed the towel to his lower back to catch the room-temp saline he slowly squeezed over and into the wound, washing it clean of whatever debris might've been hiding within. "I'm sure one of the med students would appreciate the chance to get some real experience stitching up something that isn't rubber."
"Did something clock you in the head too?" Dropping the second empty bottle, he pressed his hand to Robby's crown, the curve of his skull, fingers threading through his short hair. "Do I need to order a CT?"
"I—What? No!" Jerked away from Jack's touch just to grunt when the movement pulled at the lacerated muscle, face and neck and upper shoulders reddening in a way Jack had never needed to see. "Is this or is this not a teaching hospital? We have a responsibility—"
"Screw your responsibilities," Jack growled back, hurling the towel past Robby to land atop his ruined shirts before he began gathering up and trashing the used gauze. "I'm your physician, and I am not letting them use you to perfect their damn baseball stitch. There are plenty of other patients out there with more to come; they can practice on them. Or hell, they can run to a Sheetz and get a rotisserie chicken to stab away at, I don't give a shit. Even if they could handle the pressure, they're not using you for target practice."
The look Robby aimed at him was not new or unusual. He'd seen Robby use it on countless people—freaked out patients, mostly, but also overreactive family members, the odd panicky med student who got a little wound up. It typically worked, too; a hint of that honest, uncomplicated concern went a long way. And it was totally uncalled for as Jack wasn't any of those things—he wasn't on the knife-edge of hysteria, he wasn't feeling triggered. He hadn't even raised his voice. Was he tired? Of course. Everyone was; the night after PittFest had been one of the longest of his life. Find someone who wasn't tired. His hair hurt he was so tired.
"Are you mad at me?" Robby asked, frowning gently like Jack deserved that kind of special treatment when it wasn't him currently seated on a hospital bed, slowly bleeding from a completely avoidable injury, shirtless and flushed despite the customary chill of the ED because he wouldn't just take the blanket, he wouldn't take the comfort, and God, Robby was right. He was mad at him.
"Hold this," Jack bit out instead, pressing one of the clean towels to Robby's back and forcing him into a contortion act just to hold it in place before he batted the curtain aside and headed for the door. "Don't move. I'll be right back to do your stitches." Didn't wait for a response; tore off his gloves as he took off like a shot for the unit supplies and a suture kit, hitting up a wall sanitizer on the way. Could've asked a nurse to grab him one, or sent one of the kids as a gofer—Whitaker and Javadi were just on the other side of the station, they would've gladly run for it, but he needed the time to think. To get a grip on his temper before he—
What? Lost it? Lost it on Robby? It wouldn't be the first time they'd had a difference of opinion, engaged in—What had Gloria called it that time when she'd walked in on the tail-end of one of their barn-burner 7AM arguments by the lockers? Vigorous debate informed by their mutual passion for the provision of exemplary care? Fuck, some truly five-star sugar-coating right there. She'd never sounded so much like a CO he'd had than in that moment; he may have needed to resist saluting when she'd left.
Staring at the shelves of kits and materials, arms crossed tightly over his chest, he let the distant roar of the fans pointed at the ceiling and general busyness of the unit wash over him. Yes, he was mad at Robby. There was no point denying it. He'd been careful though—how he dealt with him, spoke to him. Touched him. Or at least he thought he'd been careful. But if it had still been so obvious to Robby, then what else…
"He bein' difficult?" Dana asked, leaning one shoulder against the racking. "You should've heard him earlier: It has a zipper," she said mockingly. "As if I've never seen one before."
"No. Yes." Shook his head hard to clear it. "Long night," he said, reaching for one of the kits.
"I bet," she said, hands in her pockets as she watched him blindly scan the tidy rows of boxes. "Gotta admit, I'm kind of surprised you're doing this instead of one of the med students. I figured Robby would've—"
"He tried. I overruled him." Nylon? Or polypropylene? Not the braided polyester, no multifilament for a job like this, but— "Such a fucking martyr," Jack said to himself, picking up one box only to put it back down immediately and step back, breathe hard through his nose.
None of the residents could do it. Cowell was not going to do it. It had to be him. He just had to get his shit locked down. That was all.
Easy.
"Yeah, a real rare bird in this place." There was a suggestion of wry understanding in her voice that he refused to acknowledge. She let him twist for a beat or two before she finally took pity on him and selected a box of the nylon and held it out to him. 3-0 gauge. Perfectly acceptable for Robby's injury type and location. He'd probably pick the same for any other patient.
"Can you grab the lidocaine?" he asked as he swapped the 3-0 with a box of something thinner—5-0. "The 1%."
Thankfully a pointed look was all she gave him before she turned away, nodding, though she stopped at once when he called to her.
Swallowed hard, thinking, looking down at the box. "Were you remotely surprised to see him this morning?"
"I—" Brow furrowed, she paused, hands fisting in her pockets before she pursed her lips. "Not really? I'm here too. So's most of the crew who worked yesterday." Her full-body shrug said it all before she made it worse by adding, "Where else was he gonna go? This place…" Her broad glance encompassed the whole of the unit: the myriad patients waiting for test results or next steps or dismissal; the Maintenance guys up in the ceiling with their flashlights, still being rained on; the residents fixated on the board like they could will it empty through sheer psychic force. "It's like in Almost Famous. Kate Hudson? 'It's all happening?'" She slunk backwards, both thumbs up as she said in her most laid-back drawl, "It's all happening, Jack."
Would've taken just a step or two to reach her, whisper to her, None of this should've happened to him. He should've stayed home, and left it to her to figure out which day he meant. But he didn't. Couldn't. It wouldn't've been fair—not when he wasn't sure himself.
"Don't worry about the lidocaine," he said instead as he sidestepped her. "I'll get it myself."
Robby, as though determined to prove how amenable he really was as a patient—a lie for any doctor normally—was exactly where Jack had left him. The sight of him with one arm up, hand holding the towel firmly against his back, was a cold-water bath of guilt. Should've called one of the nurses in to help.
"You can put that down," he said quietly before directing him to lie on his stomach, setting his new collection of supplies on the available over-bed table before he wheeled it to where it would be within easy reach. Could've grabbed a stool as well—God knew stitching Robby up wasn't going to be a quick job—but if he sat down he had serious concerns he'd ever get up again. Didn't help that he knew just how comfortable the mattress Robby was lying so stoically on really was, or that two people could fit pretty comfortably on it if they weren't both Robby's size—
"Going with the non-absorbable?" Robby asked, interrupting his mental wandering, head turned on the pillow and bolstered by his good arm so that he could peer up at him easily without obstructing the process, as outwardly relaxed as he could be given the relative discomfort he must've been in. Rather than provoke Jack's temper anew, it just made him feel guiltier. Should've gotten him a painkiller.
"'Course," he said, positioning everything just so before he started opening the kit, the various packages and boxes. "Nylon, in case you're wondering," he added as he grabbed a fresh pair of gloves, double-checking that he had everything he'd need before he eyed Robby's back. Too low; Jack could practically hear OccHealth screeching about ergonomics and back strain and repetitive motion injuries.
"I really wasn't." Some patients watched every move you made, questioned every decision—what's that for and why are you doing that and do you have to—but Robby didn't move a muscle as he raised the bed; pulled on his gloves; checked the wound for any fibers from the towel or previously missed debris. Maybe he was in too much pain, but then it wasn't that bad a laceration. Maybe he just didn't want to fight. Maybe he just didn't have the energy.
If their positions had been reversed… Nah. Jack couldn't lie to himself and say he would've peppered him with questions about his choice of materials or technique; he might give him a hard time outside of the department, but inside he never would. Hadn't he seen first-hand how talented Robby was? How dedicated?
Too dedicated by half. The shitshow with his stepson's girlfriend…
Securing the sterile drape—covering much of Robby's bare skin—didn't bring him the kind of relief he'd hoped for. Quite the opposite, in fact, but his hand was steady enough when he pressed it to Robby's back, readied the syringe. "Lido coming up," he murmured out of habitual courtesy, though there was nothing habitual about how he stroked his fingers soothingly over Robby's unmarred skin when he sucked in a sharp breath as Jack injected into the wound. Instinctive, maybe, but not habitual.
It wasn't until he'd finished with the local and prepped his needle that Robby spoke up. "I take it by all the numbing that you're not still pissed," he said, more than a hint of a question in his teasing tone and raised eyebrows.
"Wouldn't go that far," Jack said, head canted as he took stock of his options. "I'm just not a sadist." Nothing—not a flinch, not a squirm, not a sound—as he pricked him. Thank God for modern and plentiful pharmaceuticals; he'd stitched up enough guys in the field without to be forever grateful to have them readily available.
Staring vaguely past him, Robby grimaced. "Is this about Leah? I know I didn't listen—"
Paused mid-stitch to boggle at him. "What? No. You…" Blinking hard, eyes burning, he continued the stitch. Wide-deep loop, then a narrow-shallow loop. "I told you what happened the night before: two hours on Raymond Orser. One hundred and twenty minutes. I knew he was dead long before that and I—I couldn't quit on him. I couldn't stop trying."
"Yeah, but that was a regular night," Robby said, otherwise motionless—blank—as Jack worked. Doubtless rewinding that tape back twelve hours and hitting play on all his worst moments. "You weren't in the middle of a disaster. Your resources were infinite, you weren't—depriving another patient of a chance at survival by helping him. I—"
"One hundred and twenty minutes." Big bite, little bite; careful with the forceps. "My time isn't infinite. My energy definitely isn't infinite. I could've given it to other patients. I will never know how many others because I gave it to Raymond instead. Raymond and Becky and Adriano and Thom, and that's just in the last couple of weeks. All of 'em strangers right up until I had my hands in their guts where not even their mothers had ever touched them.
"So no, I'm not mad at you for trying to save her," Jack said, attention wholly on his stitch-work and nowhere else. Not on Robby's increasingly shaky breathing, the ambient warmth of his body. "That girl was someone to someone you care about. You wouldn't be who you are if you hadn't tried."
Another handful of stitches laid before Robby rallied. "Then what is it? What's got you so pissed off? Clearly—" Something must've clicked because Robby's expression shifted fast from confused to suspicious in an instant. "Why do you hate the idea of Whitaker or Javadi stitching me up so much?"
"I don't." Glancing at his face was a mistake because it meant making eye contact, and a heartbeat of that was too much for Jack at the moment. Not while he had Robby spread out on the mattress before him, vulnerable and entirely trusting. It was too much pressure; he had to crack somewhere. "It's too soon," he said, because he couldn't possibly say anything else no matter how he forced himself to look away. Dabbed the excess blood with some gauze before he continued with both his suturing and his explanation. "Those kids would walk through fire for you—they already did last night, and now they're back for more when they probably should've taken the day off to process. Don't play dumb and pretend you don't know why."
"They're dedicated," Robby said. So much for not playing dumb. "They're eager, young. Don't you remember being young?"
"I was born old," Jack muttered, tugging the overhead light a bit to the side so he had a better view of the site.
His interruption did nothing to slow Robby down. "You never thought you could handle anything that came your way? Fix any problem, cure any disease? I'd be the easiest patient in the world for them; they could use a win after—"
"You would stress them the fuck out just like you do me on a daily basis." Leaning back slightly, needle-holder and forceps raised and trailing thread, he glowered down at Robby, feeling every second of his nearly fourteen-hour shift. His legs were killing him. "The tiniest mistake—not enough local or the wrong gauge thread—and it would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Have you seen Whitaker? He already looks like the sad ghost of a Victorian street urchin. Treating you would be torture for them. The only reason you don't realize that is because you're already fucked up, my friend." Nudged Robby's milky upper arm with his elbow—Amor Fati his tattoo read.
Perfect for the guy always on the lookout for the next grenade to throw himself on, he didn't say. Thought it though, and loudly.
Maybe too loud. Turned out that Robby could scoff lying face-down on a hospital bed just as well as he could upright. "You're such an asshole," he said, gazing up at him with wonder. Not quite twin to what he'd shown earlier, watching the lightning streak across the sky, but still too close for Jack's comfort. "I should've let you get crushed by that fucking ceiling."
"On that we're in agreement." Lowered his arms to go back to work; not much left. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before you—" Cut himself off before he made things worse by saying something like before you play hero again or before you live to regret it. Knew exactly how any and all of that would go over with Robby—not well—and how pointless the ensuing conversation would be. Robby would always do exactly what Robby was going to do, and at some point early on in their association he'd apparently decided that what he was going to do was try to save Jack from himself.
"Before I… what?"
"Nothing," he said, taking care with the last run of sutures, wishing that were task enough to distract his weary mind from the whole sad state of affairs. Jack's melancholy may have grown over the years, but Robby's determined friendliness had never wavered. They'd become a study in contrasts—Robby outwardly hopeful, resolute; Jack sullen and resigned. How appropriate that they'd wound up on opposite shifts, and wasn't that for the best? The thought of working shoulder to shoulder with Robby any more than he already did, in the odd hour or two they coexisted in some crisis, was nearly unbearable. If he sometimes found himself longing for it, he knew what it would actually translate to: a front-row seat to watching Robby get chewed up slow by daily life in the Pitt.
But then, Jack was no stranger to wanting things that would only hurt him. He'd been married, after all. Truly there was no greater socially-acceptable masochistic exercise than that. Except, perhaps, willingly working in healthcare.
Or falling in love with an emergency room physician, his ex would've interjected. Right as always, even when imagined.
Keep those tails short, Abbot, he could hear his old attending bark in his ear as he tied off the last suture, snipped the thread. You're not gonna be sewing on buttons next. "Done." He could feel Robby watching him, practically hear his brain ticking away, but never let it be said Jack wasn't capable of learning from past mistakes. He kept his eyes on his work and the chatter to a minimum, wiping up the small amount of fresh blood with gauze before he began dressing the wound. Should've taken a picture to prove to some of the surgeons that he was indeed capable of something other than a running stitch, that it wasn't battlefield medicine all the way down, but the idea of anyone else seeing what he'd done… it didn't sit right with him.
Like a lot of things he saw on the job, he opted not to think about why. Hands in your pockets, keep it movin', he'd heard Mel mumble to herself yesterday. Sound advice.
"What's the final tally?" Robby asked, rolling gingerly to his side before pushing himself upright as Jack started cleaning up. "Felt like you were taking your sweet time back there. This going to be a pain in the ass for some intern to take out in a week?"
"A pain in my ass, maybe," he said, pulling his gloves off and tossing them before he picked up the clean scrub shirt from the chair. "Come in when I'm on and I'll remove 'em for you free of charge—if you don't pop them first—but only if you do me a favor."
"What's that?" The question was idle; Robby was busy turning the Ethilon box over and over in his hands, brow furrowed like he'd never seen non-absorbable nylon monofilament before. "This what you used?" Shook the box one-handed, the spool rattling inside. "Why didn't you use the 3-0? It would've been faster—"
"Because I didn't want to." Plucked the box from Robby's hand to replace it with the shirt. "Go home, Robby," he said, pressing the shirt against his palm. "You have the perfect excuse—just take it for once. Go home. Don't—" Pulled back, away; crossed his arms tight over his chest as he bit the inside of his cheek hard for a moment.
Fuck, he was tired. Of this bullshit; of this place; of this—this everything.
"No one's going to have a problem if you go home," Jack said with as much calm as he could muster. It wasn't a huge amount; if Robby started to argue with him he really was going to lose it in a big way. "Trust me: everyone will understand. Take a few days off to rest. Gloria's already adjusted the rotation because she thinks—Look, just go home. Please. For me."
Maybe he hadn't learned his lesson after all because when Robby didn't say anything he couldn't resist looking up from his long legs hanging over the side of the bed, the toes of his shoes just brushing the floor—Jack hadn't remembered to lower the bed, shit—skimmed swiftly over his bare arms and chest to his face which proved far more dangerous because Robby was looking back at him. Head tipped to one side, a faint frown marring his features, and honestly he couldn't understand how Robby had even made it into work because he looked exhausted, and it wasn't just this most recent injury, it wasn't just PittFest, it was more than that.
Typically when Jack was working on a patient there wasn't any time for fear. Even when he ended up coding them, those 15-minute billing intervals stacking up one after another, he didn't feel anything but this drive to act. To apply all his skill and hard-won knowledge to the business of keeping a person alive. The despair would inevitably follow after, to some degree or another, and the silent doubts—had he made the right calls? Could he have worked harder? Faster? Tried something different, more inventive? Been smarter or more observant? Everyone felt it, and they all learned to push through it. He'd learned to push through it… and then he'd slowly started to unlearn it. Every night it got a little more difficult. Every morning he wondered how much good he was really doing—if he wasn't trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon.
If all he was good for most of the time was signing off on death certificates.
The way Robby sat looking at him made him feel like he needed to reach for his pen.
"Jack…" Robby sighed, then thankfully bowed his head. Considered the shirt in his hands for a beat before he abruptly pulled it on with a little more speed than Jack really expected or wanted to see given the circumstances.
Local hasn't worn off yet, he thought, before it sank in that Robby had asked him a question. "Huh?"
"I asked you—" His mouth worked briefly before he said, tone so blasé it looped right back around to being painfully serious as he avoided looking at him, "If it hadn't been raining this morning, would you…?"
Jack's turn to frown, to wonder, until: "Ah. Ha." Dropped his arms only to regret the motion; resisted the urge to recross them, knowing how that would appear, and settled instead for clasping his hands tightly behind his back where Robby couldn't see him twist his ring around and around on his finger. "Well, you said it wasn't so bad at street-level, so by the time I got down there—"
"God, I hate you sometimes," Robby muttered to himself before he slid off the bed to his feet, and maybe if Jack hadn't been running on empty and slow to react, had stepped back and given him space, maybe Robby wouldn't have frozen where he stood inches away and looked down at him and seen—He couldn't say what Robby saw in that instant. He'd never really known what Robby ever saw in him, what made him keep reaching out. But then that was what Robby did, wasn't it? That was why he was so good with the students no matter the grief Jack gave him about being a bad role model, so good with the families that he kept getting stuck handling the tough cases. Despite it all, how it kept carving him up, Robby wanted to connect.
That's what he told himself, anyway, as Robby leaned in to kiss him softly on the mouth. He's in pain, he's lonely, he's just looking for a distraction, his brain chanted, regular as the Mississippis he'd counted out on the roof, waiting for the boom. It could've been anyone, he's flailing, he's a disaster, he doesn't know what he's doing. Anything to stop himself from kissing Robby back because if he did—
"Sorry, I—" Robby's blush was furious; mortification rolled off him like a cloudburst as he shuffled backward. "I thought—I don't know."
"You thought I was safe for you," he said, low and heavy and final, honest as a TOD written in Sharpie on a cold forehead. "Robby, I'm not. I am the last person you should be getting involved with. You deserve someone who doesn't…" Swallowed thickly as he left off twisting his ring around his finger to instead grip his wrist. Tight enough to feel the bones, tight enough to hurt. To stop himself from reaching for Robby as he forced the words out: "You deserve someone who'll actually stick around. Who wants to stick around. That ain't me. It hasn't been for years, man, you know this."
There was this expression Robby would trot out for the especially delicate family members—Jack had only seen it once or twice, and he loathed it to his core. It was so tender, so understanding it verged on fucking saintly. Having Robby aim it at him then, when they were standing so close, when he could still feel the phantom brush of Robby's beard against his skin, felt like being struck by lightning. Fried on the spot as Robby said, smiling slightly, "You wouldn't stick around for me? After all we've been through?"
On the spot. "Oh, you guilt-tripping motherfucker," Jack said before he pushed forward to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, fingers curled into the washed-soft material of his borrowed shirt, and Robby let him back him up against the bed, let him seal their mouths together, let him touch and press and cling to him the way he'd wanted to since—He couldn't say since when.
Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Robby had said, hand extended after he took the seat next to him in the auditorium at the start of the General Hospital Orientation. Emergency Medicine. Nice to meet you.
Then Robby's thumbnail scraped the wrong way over the stubbled line of his throat and Jack literally went weak at the knees.
"If you're just using me to punish yourself, I will make you regret it," he groaned, white-knuckle grip on Robby's shoulders, head spinning with too many things. Want, certainly, but mostly exhaustion. More than a little fear; glaring at Robby now felt like a sequel to earlier, when Robby's balance had faltered just long enough to make Jack freeze up. That patient wristband was burning a hole in his pocket, but like hell would he ever risk throwing it out. "I will give you complexes previously unknown to modern psychiatry. Do you get that?"
The bastard actually had the nerve to laugh as he hooked his good arm around Jack's shoulders. "'Are you not wet when it rains? Against the magnificence of the spectacle, you bear and endure other disagreeable things,'" he recited with the sort of good-humored resignation Jack had never managed to achieve, but it proved fleeting. Replaced too soon with a more somber expression; his lips parted—
A piercing whine of feedback over the PA system interrupted whatever he'd been about to say, quickly followed by Code Aqua all clear. Code Aqua all clear.
Robby's grin was blinding, boyish as he looked up at the ceiling pointedly only to look back at him as though to say, See? It's a sign. "C'mon, Doc. Discharge me already. I've got somewhere to be and I want to beat the weather."
Code Aqua all clear.