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Robby sat in the waiting room of the gynecology clinic, on a chair you could be comfortable in for about fifteen minutes, which passed a while ago. Seventeen minutes ago, not that he was counting. Okay, maybe he was. He was reading a chicken piccata recipe from that chef show Dana said he should watch. Boar? Beard? Whatever. Okay, no, it’s not that he didn’t care it’s just hard to ignore the woman in front of him.
Next in line is a woman, maybe early forties. Blonde, steely blue eyes. Came with her daughter for what might've been her first appointment, the kid was maybe 11. Good. Periods in girls were starting earlier, it was important to check early, get the kid comfortable and ease her into regular screenings. But that wasn’t the problem. Problem was that they were in line after him – a forty-something-year-old man, with no daughter to show for.
The mother was eyeing him suspiciously, as he was doing his best to stay immersed in a recipe that really was too much effort for a piece of chicken, but then again, Jack might like it. They went out a few times now, but with hectic schedules and last-minute cancellations reservations were more of a myth than a plan. So they ate at home. And there was only so many times you could get pizza delivered at midnight before something in your mind said you should put a little more effort in. Not that Jack minded, no – he was wonderful like that. Would probably be fine with Papa Johns and a bottle of Coors Light. But Robby wanted to do something nice. So, he was learning. Chicken, check. Lemon, check. Pretend not to notice the mother looking at you again - check. Capers… the fuck are those? New tab. Like olives. Can they be substituted? No, apparently. Guess he was spending seven bucks on olives with growth issues.
The mother checked on her daughter and seemed somewhat placated the guy in the waiting room did not look at her, or her daughter, once. A realization was probably slowly dawning, but hey, one could never be sure – blessed with a beard and his dad’s height (and receding hairline, apparently) that the testosterone unlocked, his image wasn’t exactly the first thing that came to people’s minds when they were asked to picture a trans man.
He should probably be feeling… some kind of way about this situation. But he just stepped out of a 17-hour long 12-hour shift. He was becoming increasingly aware that there was still a bit of bile on the back of the left pant leg of his cargo pants, from their monitored cholecystectomy patient (confirmed bile buildup 2 days post-op, now in the ICU monitored for peritonitis and sepsis and fuck he was thinking about work again).
Usually, he booked his appointments after the clinic closed for the public. He could do that, he had known dr Emily Darrens since residency – she switched to gynecology, went into private practice, he stayed in the ER. Maybe it was sadomasochism, or even a savior complex. Robby wasn’t so naïve not to know there was something deeply wrong with every person who willingly chose to stay there. It should go against human nature, what they did. And it did go against it. And they still stayed, because someone had to.
She did well for herself. Esteemed clinic, thankfully covered by Robby’s insurance. And the reason he drove out over an hour here after a shift? Not a single one of his colleagues worked here. He wasn’t planning on hiding, just… people assumed. And if they knew, they’d assume more. He had his people, but the hospital employed over a 1000 workers. And that’s only counting the medical staff. He already had their trust and respect, he knew that. But if they found out, if that changed, if someone started doubting his decisions, it could cost someone patient care, mobility, even life.
He might be catastrophizing. Or he wasn’t. Female doctors were still spoken over, their correct diagnosis overruled. He did his best to cultivate a good environment. Make sure everyone everyone was heard. If the MS4 had a good idea and the R2 was cocky, talking over her, the case went to the student (under supervision, of course). Over time, they learned. Hell, Mel even felt safe enough to come out to them. He was damn proud of the kid – the doctor – eh who cares he was awake for 20 hours he gets a pass, it’s his own damn internal monologue.
He knew she came out after seeing him with Jack. They were in the break room, charting and reviewing overnight admits, when Robby got a little bit of his breakfast burrito on his cheek. Jack wiped it and they kissed, thinking no one was in the room – which is exactly the moment the door opened and the inters came in. typical. But they were adults. They were the bosses. They set the standards now. So they didn’t hide, didn’t flail. What they had was new, well, not exactly new, but no longer platonic, and it was solid. So, if others had a problem with that... it was their problem. Not Robby’s, not Jack’s.
Still, somehow, the kids (interns, if you want to go by the proper terminology) were more composed about the whole thing than their attendings. Of course they were. Homophobia was still rampant, he knew that, but at least the social awareness increased. Something eased in Robby’s chest that day. Maybe one thing, at least one, was getting better. Maybe the kids won’t have to hide anymore, like they did. Maybe that’s why a week later, in the break room, Dr King smiled at a text she got and said, without worry, that it was from her girlfriend. Maybe it gave her the courage she needed to be true to herself in a new space.
Still, transphobia was a whole other beast. So, Robby kept it close to his chest. Jack knew. Dana knew. That was enough for him.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was, in fact, 28 minutes, the previous patient left the examination room. His appointment was supposed to be at 21.00 (because he somehow knew the day shift would drag – to be fair they almost always did). Emily had to move it up, she was going to her mother in Indiana tonight – it was either now or in 3 weeks.
- Michael?
- Yep, I’m here.
- You can come in.
The mother watched as he entered the examination room. Yep, definitely realizing now.
The medical history was already on file, so the interview didn’t take long. Last bleeding was 4 months ago, after PittFest. Guess the stress had his entire body going haywire, before that he hadn’t had any for months.
Diet and sleep schedule always got him a chuckle, but he knew she had to ask. Sleep – well, he tried to get 6 hours daily. Try being the key word. She knew. As for food, at work usually protein or a granola bar, a salad or a sandwich if he actually had time to sit down. He tried to go for the low-sodium and low-fat options – dad had a history of high blood pressure before he passed. But Emily already knows that.
He doesn’t know much about family medical history, even though Bubbe used to keep some records. So, just in case, he got the checks – ovarian, cervical cancer, PCOS, anything that could come up. He had top surgery over 15 years ago now, but that doesn’t mean the risk of cancer was 0%.
His last testosterone injection was 2 weeks ago, he’ll do one when he gets home. Or Jack’ll do it for him. He smiles at the thought. Because he would, wouldn’t he? Robby didn’t even have to ask.
The last question is sexual activity. For almost 4 years there was it was irregular. Hookups, mainly – not often, just when there was nothing else that’d scratch the itch, especially after… him. Emily knew about Brian. Probably hated the guy more than Robby did, for the longest time. He didn’t have the energy to hate the man when trying to keep his head above water.
They moved onto the physical exams. Whether he wanted it or not – Robby’s mind drifted.
They met June 2019. Robby doesn’t remember the exact date. It was the day of the pride march, and, as with any big party, they got overdoses, alcohol poisonings, and a whole lot of dehydration. There were a few worse-off ones, but that mainly came in the evening. Crimes of hate, beatings, “examples”. Too many fucking reports. Too many victims. Too many calls to the CPS.
He had to tell a 12-year-old that his daddy knocking his baby tooth out for smearing some rainbow paint on his face wasn’t normal. Wasn’t God’s plan. He looped in child protective services. The mother came for the child. She didn’t want to report the father, and the kid was too scared to.
They left.
Robby knew they’d be back.
He asked Kiara to follow up on them.
He moved to the next case.
The following morning, Robby was finally leaving his “day shift”. All he wanted was sleep and cry, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy for the latter at the time. A patient’s friend came up to him. Robby just really wanted to get the hell out, but the guy wanted to thank him for ruling out the asphyxiation of the knocked-out tooth of his friend. He’d be back in a week had Robby not ordered that chest x-ray.
The guy in question – Brian McMillen. Bit shorter than Robby, probably a bit younger too, soft eyes, wild brown hair. He’d thought that last attribute was from the festival, or the 10-hour wait, but it was just like that, he would later learn. Brian apologized if that was too forward or breaching ethics but he thought he – Dr. Robinavitch – was cute. Robby didn’t think of himself as cute, never really did. But the guy seemed to think so, so for now, Robby didn’t protest beyond a tired chuckle.
The guy asked for his number, and since he was not his patient, Robby gave it. There were worse days to spend Saturday mornings than getting a shakshuka or tapas with an admittedly gorgeous man, and Robby fell. Hard. Brian’s eyes, laughter, and touch drew Robby in. Maybe it was because he’d been alone for so long, maybe because his dating life was about as lively as an archeological dig site. He didn’t go out often, and at work, he was the senior attending and he’d never date his residents. He had been coming home to an empty flat for… pretty much as long as he could remember.
The “no dating of coworkers” rule was immovable. Most of them answered to him, and the power imbalance wouldn’t be fair. As a resident, he had his fair share of attendings corner him, offering extra or time, letters of recommendation, mentoring. All that for just a little… extra attention, they called it. Maybe a dinner. Maybe sex. He declined, every time. Slowed his progress, but if they knew he was trans they’d have found a reason to fire him. Nineties didn’t offer the same protections as are available today. And he didn’t want to get trapped in case one of them wanted to “keep him”.
So no, no dating at work. Ever. Even if the coworker was the one to ask him out. Even if he’d never hold anything over anyone’s head – the thought itself had made him nauseous. It was still unethical. He wasn’t crossing that particular line. And without many opportunities outside – the phrase “live at the hospital” being… accurate – Robby agreed to go out with Brian. It was a strange thing, to have someone genuinely interested in him.
First few months were wonderful. Some, then most, then every morning Robby woke up wrapped in warm arms, a kiss on his collarbone and a soft “don’t go” as he moved to get his morning shower. He wanted to stay, he really did – but had to be at the hospital at 7. They cuddled during breakfast. Robby ate breakfasts now. That in itself was new. He didn’t use to, not before. But they did, together, because they wanted to carve out as much time with each other.
As they kissed, Brian’s hands moved down from Robby’s hands to his pecs to the waist and – oh, they had to revisit that later. They would. (They did). For now, they finished the eggs and toast and the last sip of orange juice to stave scurvy off for another day. Robby poured his coffee into his travel cup and with one last kiss, he was out. Brian had the keys by now anyway. He’d lock up when he left for work.
Dana definitely noticed the blush and the shinier hair. Maybe Robby was part dog or something. With Brian in his life, his diet stabilized. Beyond a bit of healthy fat tissue covering his form, previously overworked and overtrained, the most obvious sign was the hair. It was shiny, strong. Thicker than it used to be. A glossy coat, Dana chuckled. He snorted.
- Means you’re happy.
- I am. I really am.
Then came December, 2019. Cases started pouring in. Coughing, elevated temperature, deadly in the elderly. They didn’t know what they were treating, and didn’t know how to. They put up quarantines. Mask protocols. Dr. Adamson told them what to do, and they did it. Mask mandates were introduced. They were swarmed, all the time. Lunch breaks turned into sneaking a sandwich to inhaling granola bars when you weren’t currently the ones wearing hazmat suits.
Brian was supportive at first – packing lunches Robby really tried to eat. But their conversations, their banter waned. Robby mainly came home to sleep. Brian told him he felt neglected. Robby really wanted to assure his partner that he wouldn’t be out so long if it wasn’t all hands-on deck, but he was too goddamn tired, so he apologized. For what? He wasn’t sure. But he did. And Brian seemed placated, so Robby drifted off to sleep.
One evening Brian said they haven’t had sex in weeks – kept missing each other because of work, and when they were together Robby was usually too tired. He was tonight too. Robby suspected that burnout was taking hold of him. They were over a year into the pandemic, he held out pretty long, all things considered. But the chronic exhaustion, the stress really did a number on his libido. He bled, sometimes. He probably should get an appointment, but when? Tomorrow, he’d be in the ER. Day after, ICU. Then, er again. Wherever they needed him.
But he felt like a shit partner with the way Brian looked at him. So he got some lube, worked 2 fingers inside of himself, making sure it sounded like actual pleasure, not a chore. He felt a tinge of arousal after a few minutes, but Brian couldn’t take the “teasing” anymore.
The sex was more muscle memory than an actual desire on Robby’s part, but he made it look convincing, even contracting when Brian came, moaning, as though he did too.
He didn’t.
The condom landed in the trash, and they curled up in their bed.
- Sorry, baby, I didn’t want to put you on the spot, but I really missed you.
- That’s okay, Bri. I missed you too.
He did.
He really did.
Did he?
The hollowness in his chest made him miss Bri a bit less.
After that Brian’s touch became more demanding, hungry, and possessive. An onlooker could tell a dynamic has shifted. But Robby was fried.
Exhausted.
Even when he tried to sleep, he heard phantom pages and codes, brain screaming at him someone was dying, because someone always was, and all he wanted to do was lay down and stop. He felt terrible his first instinct was no longer rushing to the patient’s side. He just wanted to curl up and be left alone now.
He slept when he collapsed.
Which was happening more and more often.
He dreaded coming home now, but his brain kept telling him at least he had someone to come home to.
He should feel lucky, really.
They didn’t talk tonight.
They fucked.
Or rather, Brian fucked.
They didn’t talk much these days.
At work, things went as usual. Too many patients, and not enough beds. A nursing walk out on top of that. Dana wasn’t in this week. The union demanded better pay and more protections. They were right. Of course they were right. But the hospital board would only see the numbers.
Patient mortality rates.
Medication errors.
Standardized Infection Ratios.
Patient falls and pressure ulcers.
Staff turnover.
Patient-fucking-satisfaction.
To them, it was all just numbers.
If they were terrible enough, they’d hire more nurses. More techs. More cleaning staff.
But if you were actually there, you’d know.
Mr Johnson sold paninis on 5th and Maine. Great ones, with homemade pesto. He died because there was no one to notice his aspirin allergy, and he came in with classic heart attack symptoms. They were dealing with a code and one nurse couldn’t attend to four beds at once. Mr johnson was buried by his family on a Sunday, the staff didn’t come, not even the ones who miraculously had time. Those who didn’t work, slept. Those who didn’t sleep – blamed themselves.
Medication error.
Dead patient.
One more nurse on the floor.
A lesson learned too late.
2 nurses came to him after their shift. They were done. Just… done. He didn’t need to ask if they were sure, but he had to anyway. That was his job. He was the boss. They just looked at him. He understood. Gave them glowing letters of recommendation, just in case they didn’t want to quit the field entirely.
Mrs Henley, 78, who came in from a nursing home, was already on a BiPAP. In the ER, she developed pressure ulcers and was now sent back in pain.
That probably added a nurse too. Nia Walkins. Bright faced. Just passed her NCLEX, top scores.
The smile faded after her first day.
He gave her a hot chocolate as she cried in the break room.
She hugged him.
- I’m sorry – he said
- Is it always like this?
- It didn’t use to be. Now? Yeah. But you’re doing great. We’re lucky to have you, Nurse Walkins.
She sniffed. He got paged.
Code blue.
She noticed his hands shake slightly as he answered it.
He was already getting up, and turned back to her.
- Take five.
- But…
- Take the break, kid. It’s your first day.
She sat back down. He was already through the door.
Dr. Adamson tested positive a while ago. Now worked quarantine. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. He was 65, and they knew mortality rates for seniors. But they didn’t have enough staff. So he worked. Robby and Jack tried to protest, just once, but they knew what his final answer’d be. They were right.
“Someone has to hold the line. I’m already here, aren’t I?”
Dr. Adamson approached Robby at the end of his shift one day.
Robby knew what was coming.
Didn’t make it any less painful.
So he promised – promised that if – when – it came to that, he’d take of Dr. Montgomery Adamson's Emergency Medicine Department, and lead it to the best of his ability.
That was all Dr. Adamson asked of Dr. Robinavitch.
Then, Monty hugged Robby.
Because that was the kid he’d led from his first day of residency till becoming a damn good attending. The one he taught everything from an intubation to an ECMO. Robby absorbed it like a sponge – and the little bits of kindness too. Dr. Adamson knew Robby graduated Penn State salutatorian on an academic scholarship. That was in his file.
That he lost his parents in a car accident when he was 10, and his grandma raised him on a farm came later.
Conversations, little tidbits, days that Robby’d be quieter because at 18, on October 5th, he gave Bubbe CPR for an hour before an ambulance even got to their farmhouse. The doctor called time after 4 rounds of epi. Two days later Robby started college. He inherited the farm, but never really went there. The farmboys Bubbe used to employ used it and sent him pictures sometimes. Lambs, crops, the like. They missed the kid, but they knew why he had to leave.
The day Dr. Adamson caught him with an ampule in the bathroom almost turned into Robby’s last day of residency. They were all under a lot of pressure, and Montgomery thought his best resident was using.
He asked what Robby took. The kid (not really, he was 25, but still) had a panic attack on the spot. Clenched the empty syringe so hard it shattered in his hand. Adamson tried to calm him down but any mention of rehab or help just sent Robby further into the spiral.
But the truth was, Dr. Adamson had to report it.
And then, barely stabilizing his breath, Robby spoke.
- ‘s not drugs.
- You sure? It sure looks like that. Robby, I know the stress of this job. Please believe me – I only want to help you.
- Then believe me when I tell you it’s not what you think it is.
- Then what is it? Talk to me, kid. Please.
- I’m sorry, I can’t… I can’t tell you that.
- And I can’t let you treat patients when you’re taking God knows what in the hospital bathroom!
- I’ve got a prescription.
- For what?
- I told you, I can’t tell you.
- Robinavitch, either you tell me what was in that vial or I’ll have to report you. And I don’t want to do that. Because then they’ll check anyway.
Robby sat quiet for a moment. Blood was still dripping from Robby’s hand.
- It’s T. – he whispered.
- What?
- Testosterone, HRT, Hormone Replacement Therapy, whatever you wanna call it. I’m trans, okay? You happy now? Missed my fucking dose yesterday because I was stuck at the fucking OR and had it in my backpack so I thought I’d just take it and be fucking done and then you walked in and now everything’s fucked and if you wanna fire me then just fucking do it-
- Kid, slow down. No one’s firing anyone today.
- I- okay. What?
- I’m sorry this is how you had to tell me, but I hope you know I wouldn’t press if it wasn’t important.
- I- I know.
- I won’t tell anyone either, if that helps.
Robby snorts. It’s not happy at all. A sound like that shouldn’t come from a kid this sunny. The resident others asked for help, the one patients gravitated towards, because he put them at ease.
- Yeah, sure.
- Look, I know you don’t want anyone to know. I know why. A bunch of medical professionals really shouldn’t be making comments like they do. Should know better. But they don’t. not yet. Which is why I’ll keep quiet. But if anything ever happens, someone comes at you… please know you can come to me.
Robby snorted again.
But Adamson’s expression remained the same. He’s already decided. He’ll do anything to keep this kid doing what he was meant to do.
Robby looked at him.
Like he was asking if the older doctor really meant it.
And Adamson’s heart clenched.
Because he heard the jokes in the break room.
The comments.
The dismissal.
The sheer fucking misinformation among those who were supposed to be professionals.
They didn’t have much data on transsexuality – the studies were young.
The bias was not.
And now, he had a kid who heard all those things the doctors threw around the break room and knew that they were about him. And he listened to them, day in and day out, because no one knew he was the object of their ridicule, hate and vitriol. And he never slipped the perfect mask. Because he was so used to it.
And if they knew, it probably wouldn’t stop.
But Robby’d have to be even more careful.
Plan in advance which bathrooms were safe. Which corridors, residents, attendings to avoid.
That he’d cope with that, because he had nothing else, nothing but emergency medicine. His family was dead, his religion abandoned him, because he dared be who he was, and he was just trying to claw a piece of space for himself in a world that already hated him for that. That’d punish him, if it knew.
That it probably, most likely, definitely already did.
So he’d cope with it.
Survive it.
Internalize it, to at least some extent.
And either become callous or leave.
Quit, or kill himself.
Because Dr. Adamson did his research. More than was required. But he was the chief of the ER, he was the one who got called when push came to shove.
So he read.
Suicide rates.
Homelessness.
And he saw it.
They had a case, just last month. Overdose. Enough sleeping pills to knock out a small horse – but this time found in the bloodstream of a 17-year-old kid.
A child, one they saw a few months before then. The mother brought her daughter for a psych evaluation. The only symptom was that the kid asked to be called Tommy – he was trans. He was a boy. Family refosed to accept that, and instead of talking, learning, accepting, they wanted to fix him. But he was a boy, and only had a few months left before he turned 18. But they couldn’t do anything. Because the family left.
A few months after that an ambulance brought him from a Christian “haven for troubled youths”.
He was already dead.
At first, Dr. Adamson thought Robby took it so hard because it was a kid. Now he knew better. Knew more. Knew why.
Because Robby knew exactly what was going on and could do nothing to prevent it.
And the guilt now lived with the fear with the helplessness with the anger with the shame with the rage.
And there was no escape until he made one.
Whichever way that was.
They realise they’ve been sitting in an empty bathroom and Robby helps his senior doctor up from the cold tile. He throws the broken pieces of the syringe and washes his hands. Winces slightly as the water hits the small cuts. Soap, water. Paper towel comes away pink but the bleeding mostly stopped. He throws the paper towel in the trash.
Adamson noted he balls it up so no blood faces outside and thrown into the bin so that it hides the pieces of the syringe. The next visitor will have no clue. The kid was hiding for a long time, wasn’t he?
He was. His whole life.
The day Dr. Adamson collapsed was the last day of the nursing strike. So Dana wasn’t there, Jack already crashed in the on-call room. Robby, as of now the interim chief of the ER, led the code.
He ordered the ECMO.
17 days later, he turned it off. Dr. Adamson’s chances were low, and there was a 14-year-old who needed it. No one wanted to make this decision, so Robby did. Because Dr. Adamson chose him to do it, so he did.
Jack found him having a panic attack in the bathroom a few hours later. Thought the bruises on Robby's neck were just from how hard Robby was pressing his hands on it and his head. In part, they were. In part, they were from Brian. He did that sometimes now. Left bruises on Robby. Pressed too hard on the ribs during sex, left marks, claimed him.
Robby was just tired and wanted to stop.
20 days later, the girl died.
He signed the documents and the ECMO was given to another patient. Maybe they’d survive. Maybe not.
So he kept going, checked the values, and talked with their family.
And the thought of home just pressed on his chest.
He came home after another shift. Heard noises. In the bedroom, on their bed, Brian was fucking Nathan. The guy from the sports store, that one Brian once said was like a younger and better-looking version of Robby. He knew he looked like hell, the shifts, the constant stress, the now leading of the emergency department thinned out his hair, made him lose weight. But it still hurt. He didn’t say anything in the busy store. At home he did. Brian said it was just a joke.
That he should let it go.
So he did.
And now Brian was fucking Nathan in their bed.
Robby asked them to leave. Technically, it was still his apartment. His name was on the deed. Brian begged him for forgiveness. Nathan just wanted to get out of there after learning Brian was not, in fact, single.
Brian started screaming, but Robby just kept telling them to get out, louder and louder, because he felt like he was sinking, underwater and he was drowning, and he was screaming, until the downstairs neighbour stomped on the ceiling and yelled at them to shut the fuck up and then Brian and Nathan were gone. He closed the doors, locking them and went to the couch and cried.
He’s not sure how long he sat there, crying, but by the end, he didn’t have any tears left. He was tired. His stomach growled, and he choked on a sob, because it was 4pm and the last thing he ate was a turkey sandwich at 7am. He debated ordering in but he didn’t have the energy to choose anything that wouldn’t taste like anything anyway, or face the delivery guy looking like he just had a nervous breakdown. Which he had.
So, he padded over to the fridge. There was cheese there. Leftover slice of pizza. Nathan and brian probably ordered it last night when he was in the hospital. Because Brian invited Nathan, they had the pizza, saved the slice, and fucked. Because Robby was supposed to be back the next day at 11 am. Which usually meant 2 pm. But Dana sent him home to sleep – “More than 4 hours this time, please” she said. Because they got relief from West Penn. So in the morning Brian and Nathan decided to fuck again, and when Robby walked in they were still fucking. Guess the universe scheduled him a nice little wake-up call. So he threw the pizza slice in the trash. Ate the cheese from the fridge, some grapes. Drank some orange juice. Good enough.
He shrugged the jacket off because he still hadn’t taken it off since coming home, which he was now realizing happened several hours ago. Explained why he was so sweaty. Maybe that was the panic attack. Or both. He took a shower and put on a shirt and shorts from the hamper. He couldn’t face the thought of going into the bedroom. Their bedroom. Their bedroom, the one that Brian fucked Nathan in. So, he laid down on the couch and all he could feel was this painful hollowness.
But he needed to sleep. Or Dana would kill him. After today he’d probably get a pass. But he didn’t particularly want to tell her. Or anyone, really. Optimally, he’d just disappear off the face of the earth with that information forever. That was a nice thought. Disappearing. He thinks he understands now, what Jack did. Going to the roof, almost every shift. He wasn’t desperate. He was dreaming. Entertaining the thought of peace they didn’t get to have.
Robby always brought him back down. Coaxed him, with coffee, with saying he’d be missed, that he was worth saving. Sometimes, just sitting with him. Sometimes, asking to speak to someone. Jack started, not too long ago. Therapy. He liked his therapist, as much as one could like the person pulling the worst days of your life through your gritted teeth, forcing you to relive them, and deal with them.
It was going well.
Robby had to wonder if he was helping Jack or just selfishly prolonging his misery, because he’d miss his best friend.
He’d never know, would he?
He couldn’t handle the thought of Jack dying.
Because Jack Abbot, as much of a sarcartic bastard he was, was a good man. He deserved to live.
Michel David Robinavitch? The jury was still out on that one.
He failed to save so many.
He killed his mentor.
He failed.
He puts his AirPods in, puts on some soft lofi music, and falls asleep. Regardless of the mind, the body realises the sleep deprivation.
Besides, he had a shift starting in 8 hours.
The next morning, he was doing a really good job compartmentalizing the previous day. He woke up, only retched once, got dressed, poured his coffee into his travel mug and walked to work.
He recognized the car in the parking lot. It was Brian’s. Which meant he was here.
Robby’s coworkers didn’t even know he was seeing a man.
Much less that he’d broken up with one the day before.
- What the hell are you doing here. I asked you to leave me alone.
- I know, baby, but I’m so sorry. I came to apologise. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again, I swear.
- Can we please not do this here?
- Then when? I love you, Robby, baby, you know I love you. One mistake, you’re going to kick me out over one mistake?
- Mistake? Mistake?! It was a choice, Bri. You asked Nathan over, you took him to our bed and you fucked him. Every single one of those was a choice.
- Like you’ve never made any mistakes, Mr. Perfect?
- Excuse me?
- You think I don’t see the way you look at Dr. Abbot? Fucking him with your eyes? You’re together, day and night, and you think I don’t know you’re fucking him?
- We’re working, Brian. Together. Because in case you haven’t realized, this is a hospital, and we’re in the middle of a fucking pandemic. You’re the cheater. Now get out of my life. I’ll leave the box with your shit at your firm later. Do not call me again.
- Oh so it’s like that, you were just waiting for a reason to dump me, you filthy whore. I know it’s Abbot, who else?! The nurses? You spreading legs for them too? Letting them fuck your cunt in the on-call room?
- You’re delusional Brian. You need help.
In slow motion, Robby noticed the hand coming at him.
SLAP!
Robby’s cheeks burned, with embarrassment, left now stinging with pain. He was vaguely aware he bit his tongue. It might – it was bleening.
- You do not get to talk to me that way, whore.
- Get out, now, or I’ll call security.
Robby catches his wrist before it can find its mark the second time.
Stares him in the eyes.
- Get out, Brian.
Brian didn’t move. He stared robby down with intensity.
Robby didn’t know if it was fear or stupidity but he locked his knees and stared back.
He was going to die. Or beaten. Again. By Brian. Again. He still felt bruises on his ribs from last week. He was going to get beaten, in the staff parking lot of his own goddamn Emergency Department.
Maybe Brian’ll kill him. At least then he won’t have to explain this to Dana or Jack.
He is not granted that mercy.
It was then that the guard, previously frozen in place, moved. That was enough for Brian to yank his wrist back, get in his car, and drive off. All Robby could hear was his own heartbeat, but he turned and saw the guard – Ahmad. There were also Dana and the new nurse, Princess. Filipina, great with collapsed and migrating veins. Better with gossip. All three of them frozen in place.
He was actually pretty surprised his voice came out as steady as it did.
- Show’s over. Get back to work.
And just like that, gait stiff, he proceeded to the decontamination zone.
He knew his mind drifted off a bit during the transvaginal ultrasound. But it was really the only way he could handle the exam without thinking too much to the memories of hunching over during Talmud Torah because he couldn’t wear a hoodie.
The rabbi spoke on and on for hours about service, devotion, and being a good wife.
All Robby wanted to do was crawl out of his own skin, shed it, and never come back.
But that was almost 30 years ago.
Nobody doubted him as a man now. Only himself.
The results are fine, no new spots, no cancer, no changes. Parameters within normal ranges. He thanks Emily and walks out of the examination room.
She doesn’t make small talk. He’s grateful for that.
The mother and the daughter stand up, ready to go in, the last patients of the day.
She doesn’t acknowledge him, nor he does her.
He proceeds outside to his car. These appointments are always hard. He got used to them, but after Brian… well. He knows he has to do them, but all he could think about are whispers, repeated a thousand times until he thought them true.
“not a real man, not a real man, you’re a disgrace to Hashem and to His name, you’re lost, you’re lost, not a real man, not a real man”
A ping gets him out of his spiral.
It’s Jack.
“hey babe got a cool burn case. u’ll see him tmrw. Look for the guy with bandages on his ass and a pyrotechnic detail outside the room”
Another ping.
“tbh I jus wanted to text u”
“i mean abt the appointment”
“how’d it go?”
“Good. Got the all clear”
“that’s fuckin amazing babe”
“can’t wait to see u tmrw handsome”
“get a scratchy kiss”
And just like that, Michael David Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine let out a giggle. Because he had a bad, no-good evening, and his boyfriend just called him handsome. And asked for a scratchy kiss because he loved Robby’s beard and he loved robby and he loved hima s his man and nothing else, nothing but that.
Intrusive thoughts could shut the hell up – at least for a moment.
He pulled up the GPS on his phone to avoid the traffic and saw the opened chicken piccata recipe.
So, he changed the destination and set it to the Costco closest to his place.
If he was going to buy genetically impaired olives, at least he can do so with a discount.
At home, he made it and cursed because it was damn good, and now he’ll actually expect his own cooking to taste – well, not terrible. So, he packs the chicken and some rice into thermic containers. Tosses some salad so they can both pretend to be healthy and a baggy of Takis Jack loves but the hospital didn’t carry the flavor of (he might’ve gotten a deal for 40 bags at Costco, but that’s a sweet surprise Jack’ll get tomorrow morning).
He walks to the hospital – it’s only a 15-minute walk. Walks in at seven minutes past midnight, and since it’s Wednesday there are actually not that many people, and Jack’s break starts in ten.
He sees Jack. Waves to get his attention. Sees the mix of happiness and concern on Jack’s face, because Robby should not be here, his shift finished hours ago.
- Hi.
- Hey baby, what are you doing here?
- You wanted to see me tomorrow. It’s tomorrow. Got you lunch
- Baby, it’s midnight.
- Semantics. Made the chicken from that show Dana wants us to watch
- The Bear?
- Yeah, that one.
- Oh, it does smell fun-fucking-tastic. What’d you put in it?
- Don’t ask.
- Babe… what’d you put in my lunch?
- Baby olives.
- Do you mean capers?
- Does everyone know that but me?
- Apparently.
Jack looks at him. Really looks at him. With the eyes of the man who knows him best in the world, knew even before they got together
- You okay? Like… really okay?
- Yeah. Well, getting there. Just wanted to see you.
- I wanted to see you too.
- I love you, Jack.
- Love you too, Robby. Love you so fucking much.
Maybe next time he'll take Jack to the exam. He's good at this comfort thing. Even though he still swears he's a "lone wolf".
And if they had 15 minutes to eat a dish that took Robby half a day to figure out and about an hour to prepare (he never said he was a good cook, okay?) then that was 15 minutes he’d cherish. Because on the couch in the break room, Jack smiled, said it was really fucking good, and that the next time he had to make his famous chilli cheese poppers for Robby. Because he never made Robby doubt there’d be a next time.
They sat on the couch, Robby leaning into Jack’s side. Eating weirdly good chicken made with a mummified vegetable.
Jack wasn’t going anywhere.
The pager would beep, Jack’d get called to a code, and he’d go.
And he’d come back.
Again and again and again and again and again and again.
He’d come back.
Because he thought Robby was someone worth staying for.
And the weight on Robby’s chest eased, just a little.