Archive of Our Own

“Gloria emailed me.”

“Well that’s not foreboding at all.” Robby pushes around the mushroom onion mixture in front of him with a spatula, fixated on not burning the simple ingredients Jack entrusted in him, “What does she want?” He looks over his shoulder when Jack doesn’t immediately respond.

Jack’s damp around the edges from a shower, hair flat against his head. He’s in one of Robby’s designated House Use Only sweaters, it’s partially zipped over his bare chest, little drops of water still clinging to skin, a pair of sweats with the rest of the legs cut off below the knees. The threads dangle, only growing more and more threadbare with every wash. He’s leaning against a counter, palms behind himself against the marble surface like he’s about to push himself up onto it.

Immediately, Robby notes the lack of crutches or wheelchair and the prosthetic in place. His brain unhelpfully fires off a ‘what did I fuck up this time’ but he tamps it down, swallowing against the drop in his gut.

A Jack that’s wearing his prosthetic after work, in their home, when his only plans are to eat, cuddle, and knock out, is a Jack that wants to talk.

Robby cuts the flame off and pushes the pan to a cool burner, setting the spatula down on a ceramic rest. He turns to fully face Jack, keeping his hands neutrally at his side— according to a Communication & Leadership in Emergency Medicine training he was forced to take crossed arms indicate defensiveness, “What’s up?”

His aim for casually neutral must miss the mark by a mile because Jack huffs a laugh and pushes himself up to a seat on the counter. Jack must have taken the Deescalating a Conversation with Michael Robinavitch training.

“One of my old COs reached out to her.” Jack continues, eyes not breaking contact with Robby’s in Jack’s typical combination of too intense and oddly comforting, “Don’t know how that fucker’s still alive, but he’s over at a NATO base in Germany. The long and short of it is, they want me over there for a couple months to teach a seminar.”

The kitchen is suddenly too quiet.

In the pan behind him mushrooms and onions sizzle, in the living room Santana plays softly over the speaker set they invested in, but all Robby can hear is the beat of his own heart between his ears.

Jack would be gone for months.

He hasn’t spent more than a handful of days without Jack in years.

“That sounds like a great opportunity.” Robby says, forcing as much real meaning into it as he can, because it really does sound great. Everyone should learn from Jack, and Jack should get to teach in far off places like a random NATO base in Europe, “We can figure out coverage, I can even take some night shifts if need be, easy peasy.”

“Easy peasy,” Jack repeats, eyes narrowing, “your primary concern is coverage?”

Robby wishes he left the burner on. He could turn around, avoid having to face Jack with the excuse of not wanting to burn their omelet innards. Now the only thing he can do is look at an interesting whorl on the cabinet door behind Jack’s right ear, “Sure, but if Gloria already reached out to you with details then I guess she’s not too worried about it.” Robby pauses, eyebrows pulling in, “Actually, shouldn’t I have been cc’d on that email?”

Jack leans back, ear covering the whorl, and crosses his arms over his chest, “Brother, I want you to use all those degrees you have from fancy universities to think carefully about why she wouldn’t cc you on an email about this and why we’re talking about it in our kitchen, not at work.”

Robby sighs, resisting the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

A couple of weeks ago they had an awkward conversation with Gloria.

Jack lingered around the ED after his shift, haunting central and pestering Dana about it. Robby found a handful of spare minutes between wrangling his flock of interns and rounding on patients from the night before.

Gloria followed them into a family room after Jack and Robby cornered her. Jack leading the charge, Robby reflecting on all the ways being Chief has made his life harder than absolutely necessary.

It was a stilted and strained conversation.

After struggling with words Robby and Jack pulled twin chains out of their scrub tops, rings glinting in the harsh light of the family room. Gloria looked at the rings, then up at them, and back. Repeating the cycle until Jack broke the uncomfortable silence with, “We’re hitched. Send us the paperwork we need to fill out.”

And Robby tacked on, “We read the employee handbook. There’s nothing barring us from working in the ED together while being married. Lots of married doctors work together in this hospital, your own husband works in the same department as you, Gloria.”

The words ‘employee handbook’ brought Gloria out of her trance. She adjusted her smart lavender blazer, smoothing out the pockets, and nodded, “Congratulations, doctors…”

“No name change,” Jack said, dropping his chain between scrub and stark white undershirt, “we’ve got too much professional shit attached to our surnames.”

Robby let his chain hang in the open, he’d have to hide it away once they step out the door anyways, “And it’s not a full tongue lashing with only two syllables.” Robby finally relaxed, letting himself marinate in Gloria’s stunned silence, “Kept you in mind, Gloria.”

“Right,” Gloria’s smile seemed genuine enough, even if her words didn’t exactly translate it, “expect an email from me followed by an email from Trish in HR.”

Jack shook his arms out when Gloria nodded and left them two in the family room, “Feels like I just had the safe-sex talk with my mom. Unnerving, I need a nap.”

“You need sleep.” Robby corrected, pulling Jack in with a hand around his neck to press a kiss to his temple, “Go home.”

Later, Gloria would find him to relay another list of administrative nags. Unlike the usual pattern of their discussions, where Gloria and Robby parted ways with a quip about firing his ass or wondering what Adamson saw in him, she leaned in and offered a quiet ‘mazel’ before moving on to go harass some other medical professional.

“Conflict of interest.” Robby’s fingers twitch at his side to do something. Steeple behind his neck, roughly rub at his eyes, hide themselves in pockets he doesn’t have access to. He doesn’t give in to do any of that, just flexes and unflexes them, wishing that were enough.

“Uh huh,” Jack nods, “and what’s that translate to in normal people speak?”

Robby doesn’t roll his eyes at Jack’s tone, the hand-holding tilt to it. He’s being obtuse, Jack’s navigating it, “We’re in a relationship, which means we talk about things like this.”

“Exactly, so, talk to me. Initial reactions that don’t include figuring out coverage. You’re not my Chief right now, you’re my husband.”

“It does sound like a great opportunity,” Robby begins, taking a deep breath to try and get the rest of his thoughts out. Including the very real, very vulnerable, I don’t know how to be if you’re not only a phone call away. He was foolish to think talking about his emotions would magically get easier when they were bound to each other by law, beneficiaries to each others’ assets in death.

Often when Robby’s words get stuck in his throat it feels like his lungs are expanding and expanding until they can’t hold any more oxygen. It presses against his ribs, pushes up into his throat, but still his tongue and vocal cords won’t work to make sounds into words into sentences. Having a conversation with Jack shouldn’t be this difficult, and yet.

“It’s just been a long time since we’ve been apart.” It’s forced out of his throat like someone performed the heimlich on him, successfully clearing his airway, splattered on the island between them, “That’s my concern aside from coverage.”

Jack reaches a hand out, beckoning him over. For a split second, Robby hesitates, but like a dog with a tail between his legs, Robby rounds the island to fit himself in the space between Jack’s knees.

“Like pulling teeth.” Jack’s smile is small, one of his private ones, as he pulls Robby flush against the lip of the counter with hands resting at his ribs, “Correction, it’s been long as fuck since we went more than fifteen hours without seeing each other.”

Robby clings on to the fabric of his own sweater on Jack’s body. The cotton is thin between his fingers, worn down from years of use and cycles in the washer. He holds Jack’s gaze, looking into the light brown of them that first drew him in a decade ago, “I actually can’t remember the last time we went a full day without seeing each other. Maybe we should talk to psych about that.”

“Nah, there’s enough mental health professionals on payroll between the two of us.” Jack scoffs through a laugh but his expression sobers, smile fading into something more serious, intention bleeding in, “It has been a long time, though. That’s been on my mind since I got the email.”

“Do you want to go?”

Robby watches Jack mull it over. The brief chewing on his lip, the way his eyes flick somewhere over Robby’s shoulder, the flex of hands around his ribs.

The kitchen is silent again, but this time it’s not overwhelming, “I’ll be okay if- if you want to go.” Loaded in the sentence is a promise to not go where Jack can’t easily follow. Robby’s visit to the roof after PittFest and the decision to hang his steth on the railing behind him with shaking hands. It lingers on both of their minds, like Jack’s need for an escape, an unrestricted space to breathe and find proof that the world is more than a shitty twelve hours.

They rely on each other intrinsically. Called to bring each other down, bring each other back in.

“It’s a six hour difference.” Jack says softly, legs coming around Robby’s waist, prosthetic lightly pressing into his back, “Four months, max.”

Robby looks down to the sweater between his fingers, “A couple months without you will be an adjustment, but not the end of the world.” He actually believes himself when he says it. Not because it won’t suck, it absolutely will, but Robby can’t get in the way of an opportunity like this for Jack. Not as his husband, and definitely not as his Chief.

Jack tilts his chin up so they’re looking at each other again, resting his hand along the side of his neck, “I fucking hate phones, but I can be good at them.”

“Really?” Robby doesn’t mask the surprise in his voice.

“First of all, screw you for already doubting that I can be good at phones.” Jack pinches his side, tightening his legs to not let Robby bend away from him, “Second, you’re not the only one that’s gonna be missin someone, Mike. I’ll be good at phones because how else am I supposed to know what you’re up to, if not.”

A spark of validation warms Robby’s chest. Even though they have matching rings and signed court documents, months of dating, moment after moment of declarations of loyalty and affection, it’s easy for Robby to forget that Jack’s just as into him as he is Jack. Not because Jack doesn’t show it, he does, but because Robby’s still got a lot of shit to work through in therapy.

“If you’ll get good at phones,” Robby agrees, “then I guess NATO can have you for a little bit.”

“Four months, max.” Jack repeats, closing the space between them.

Robby hums into the kiss Jack presses against his lips.

It’s only four months, they can figure out four months.

Robby’s hunching in front of a computer at central, his upper and lower back tag teaming him in ache. He presses a hand against his lumbar, arching into the pressure with a deep sigh. He needs to get on top of doing his stretches.

“Wanna heat pack?” Dana asks, passing behind him in a blur of grey, “Advil?”

“How about a new spine?” Robby leans into his hand for another moment before dropping it, focusing back on the chart in front of him, “If only you could actually grow a back-bone.”

Dana laughs, it’s a singular short burst that cuts through the late afternoon lull, “Sorry, Robby, the Black Market’s all outta spines.”

“Damn,” Robby snaps his fingers, shaking his head at the same time, “and here I was hoping they put one on hold for me.”

“No such luck.” Dana leans her hip against the counter beside him, she pauses for a moment, but he can feel a question brimming, “So, a little birdy told me Dr. Abbot’s gonna be gone for a while.”

Robby stops typing, spinning in his chair to look up at Dana over the frames of his glasses. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows raised, awaiting his response, “What little birdy?”

It’s been about a week since they talked about it—Jack leaving to teach in Germany. Once Jack agreed, and Gloria finally looped him in on a fresh email chain, the process moved fairly quickly. Now, Jack has a round trip flight to Amsterdam where a car will pick him up and drive him all the way to Geilenkirchen like the VIP he is.

He leaves in two weeks, and Robby is doing everything in his power to ignore that fact.

“The little birdy himself.” Dana replies easily, “Coverage is gonna be something, huh?”

Robby claps his hands together, pointing at the ceiling like he’s one of those Real Madrid footballers that Jack loves to scream at, “Thank you! He thought it was silly that my concerns were about coverage.”

She eyes him carefully, crossing her arms over her chest, “Was that your first concern? Because if my,” she nods pointedly at his scrub top, the ring beneath it, “was more concerned about who would cover my shifts than, ya know, me leaving for a little bit, I’d think that was stupid, too.”

“I see the little birdy told you about more than just his time away.” Robby huffs and leans back into his chair, careful not to lean too far back or he’ll end up on the floor, “Fuck me for worrying about the schedule, I guess.”

Dana rolls her eyes, used to his bullshit. She lowers her voice, away from the prying ears of bored PTMC employees looking for something to sink their teeth into, “You gonna hold up while he’s gone?”

Robby shrugs, looking away from Dana at the chart in front of him. The cursor blinks where he left off last, waiting for him to fill in the rest of the patient’s information. While he’s been steadily not thinking about Jack leaving, he has thought about the rapidly approaching lack of Jack, which is somehow a less terrifying thought. Not that he talked about it in therapy, that would be too easy, and who is Robby but incredibly difficult to his own detriment?

“I’ll be fine.” He says, still watching the blinking cursor, because he will be. Fine.

Dana hums, not convinced, “Whatever you say, Cap.” And pushes herself away from the counter, patting him on a shoulder on her way out of central.

Robby doesn’t acknowledge how little faith she has in him, and whether or not it’s completely founded. He saves the chart and rolls himself away from the computer, eyes scanning the ED, mentally cataloging patients, residents, and interns.

His back aches, Jack’s leaving, and he’s going to be fine.

The sun’s nonexistent by the time Robby gets home. Summer teases him with sunshine through eight o’clock at night, little rays bouncing off trees and through his sunglasses on his walk home. And then autumn sets in, stripping sunshine induced hope away from him.

He’s lived here long enough that he knows how the seasons work—when a crisp chill falls over the city, when he can move his parka to the back of the closet, when all of his beloved plants can make their way onto the balcony and out of the artificial grow lights.

But still, like clockwork, there’s the random day in October when the sun says ‘sayonara’ and forces him to walk home without an ounce of vitamin-D to kiss his skin.

A frown is settled into his lips, cutting lines into skin behind his beard, as he unlocks the door. It’s dark, it’s chilly, and he’s crabby.

He leans a hand on the wall as he toes off his shoes, creasing the backs of them in ways he knows his grandma can feel in her grave. Usually he’d bend down, or sit on the bench they installed by the front door for accessibility, undo his laces and set them in the tray they dedicate to their work shoes. But, the ache in his back has made its way down through his hamstring, radiating and tight, one wrong hinge and Robby’s down for the count.

Robby sets his bag down on the bench, unzips his sweater, hangs it on a hook, and looks up to the molding that was once one of the motivators to buy the condo all those years ago.

If he takes a tramadol, he’ll have immediate relief but will fall asleep and have to deal with incredible grogginess in the morning.

If he continues with naproxen he can add tiger balm and a heating pad to the regiment, but there’s no telling if he’ll even be able to get out of bed in the morning.

He really needs to do his fucking stretches.

The gentle tap of Jack’s crutches against the wooden floor make their way out of the living room, stopping at the end of the entryway, “Communing with the ceiling?”

“Tramadol or naproxen?” Robby asks, looking over at Jack. It’s the first of Jack’s three-off and he already looks refreshed, Robby can’t help but be envious.

“What’re we treating?” Jack’s eyes trace up and down his form, looking for any and all of his aches and ailments.

Robby wishes he wasn’t head to toe coated in pathogens and sick from the ED. They have a firm ‘no hugging or kissing before showering’ rule in place and Robby wants nothing more than to break it for the warmth of Jack’s hands, “My back, what’s new.”

“Well, you hate tramadol.” Jack says simply, like Robby even mentioning it as an option is ridiculous. Which it is. It was before Frank and it definitely is after, “What about naproxen and a massage?”

Just the thought of Jack giving him a massage relieves some stress from his back. He lets his shoulders drop and a heavy sigh escapes, “Please.”

Jack motions with his head down the hall, “Of course, man. Shower and get in bed.”

Robby doesn’t touch Jack like he wants to when he moves past him down the hallway. Just b-lines it to the bathroom, stripping his scrub top and undershirt as he goes, Magen David and wedding ring chains tangling as he pulls the shirts over his head. Robby presses the Magen David into his chest, but takes his wedding ring off, slipping it out of the chain and on to his finger.

He tosses his shirts into the work hamper as he enters the bathroom, turning on the shower water to just before it’s too-hot.

Bracing a hand on the sink, Robby pulls in a deep breath as he undoes his pants. A little groan slips out of his throat as his back strains when he bends to tug the pants down, letting them pool at his ankles. Boxers follow until he’s down to only his socks. The plain black of them shouldn’t be so daunting, but he still holds his breath as he yanks them off, as if depriving himself of oxygen will magically make the pain in his back significantly less.

All of the clothes stay on the floor, he kicks them as close to the hamper as he can.

His shower is quick and perfunctory. Scrubbing his body clean, washing his hair and beard, but nothing more. Not when it feels like his legs are about to go numb, or when his breathing is labored just from standing up.

Robby hobbles to their bedroom. Rivolutes of shower water slip down his bare skin, towel loosely hanging around his waist with a hand gripping the cloth at his hip.

Jack’s already sitting on their bed, legs hanging over the edge in wait. There’s a bottle of massage oil next to his hip, their bulk bottle of naproxen and a glass of water on the nightstand, “What’d you do to your back this time?” Jack asks, reaching a hand out for Robby to step into.

“Moved a patient wrong.” Dropping the towel, Robby finds himself between Jack’s knees again. Jack’s hands grip his hips, thumbs digging into the fat plush around them, “Strained my back doing it.”

“Gotta tighten that core and bend those knees.” Jack grips him tightly, pulling him in to press a chaste kiss beneath his sternum, he leers, wiggling his eyebrows, “I know you know how to do that.”

Robby snorts, bringing his hands up to card through Jack’s short curls. His scruff tickles Robby’s skin, his hands ground him, “Right now I don’t think I can even take you laying down, much less while tightening my core.”

“Old man,” Jack says against his skin, affectionate, he lets him go, pushing himself further up the bed, “Lay on your stomach.”

Getting on the bed is just as much work as Robby anticipates. He settles into the sheets slowly, pulling a pillow underneath his chin as he stretches out.

Jack’s hands are dry when they smooth up and down his calves. Touching, mapping his skin, more than massaging. It helps Robby settle further into the mattress, relaxing himself with a deep breath.

He feels Jack situate himself with a knee on either side of Robby’s right thigh, kneeling over his body. The sound of a glass dropper clinking against a bottle and the scent of tonka bean gently wafts through the room as Jack warms the oil between his hands.

Robby sighs when Jack’s hands come to his trapezius, thumbs smoothing into the tightness there. He’s always hunching his shoulders at work, whether it's leaning over a computer or while tending to a patient, he can’t help but let them climb up toward his ears.

“Gonna miss doing this for you.” Jack says softly, knuckles pressing into a knot, “Months without touching you is gonna make me go fucking insane.”

“I know the feeling.” Robby says, muffled by the pillow his face is smushed against.

Jack’s a private man, they both are. They try not to bring their personal shit into the ED, including, if not especially, their relationship. People have eyes, so they know, but the only ones with explicit confirmation about the status of them are Dana and Gloria.

A surprise to Robby, based on Jack’s intensity with which he guards his personal life, is how tactile Jack is—how much of his security in a relationship is based on the ability to touch his partner. Little acts of intimacy along with the big ones. A hand on his shoulder, pressed to his lower back, holding his own while they’re out. Massages, running hands along his body while they’re fucking, washing his hair after a particularly grueling shift.

It’s not one-sided either. Jack’s touches are infectious, Robby can’t help but need to reciprocate them.

The difference is, Robby always pulled Jack in for a hug at work, always threw his arm over Jack’s shoulders, always mindlessly slapped his chest in motivation. Now, he does that and Jack gets to touch him to his full.

Robby, just as much as Jack, is going to go fucking insane.

Jack moves down to his latissimus dorsi, dropping more oil directly on his back, his skin greedily soaking it up. He uses his palms to push the muscle up, carefully applying his own body weight and strength so it’s the perfect amount of pressure.

“We’ll be okay, though.”

They haven’t really talked about Jack’s leaving outside of conversations at work.

Every morning Robby’s Outlook reminds him that soon Jack will be gone through a new email with an itinerary, a flight, a question, an e-introduction. Little blue dots of emails he hasn’t opened piling up in his inbox, set to the side while he focuses on other administrative tasks, while he decidedly ignores that a great opportunity comes with an empty home for weeks upon weeks.

“I know.” Robby sighs it into the pillow, “We can pretend this is like when you were still enlisted.”

Jack huffs a laugh, pressing his thumbs deeper into the muscle, “I didn’t have to be good at phones back then.”

“Nah, you just disappeared and came back like nothing.”

“Couldn’t say shit about where I was going.” Jack says, finally moving down to his lower back where the tightness radiates, “Like they thought you were gonna give my location to the enemy, stupidity, I swear.”

Robby’s voice gets caught in his throat when Jack presses against his lower back. Moving the fat and muscle between his hands, pressing tonka oil into his skin. At first the release of tightness is intense, forcing him to close his eyes and wince, but then the relief washes over him.

“Damn,” Robby breathes, melting further into the bed underneath Jack’s hands, “who needs PT when I’ve got you.”

Jack snorts, “You should still make an appointment with your PT guy. It’s not sustainable to keep being in pain like this, man.”

“Healthcare work fucks you up to just need more healthcare.”

Jack’s hands on his back sooth him into a state of mindless relaxation. The soft sounds of Jack’s breathing and the slide of oil between skin combined with the gentle scent lulling him into a twilight state, cognizant of what’s happening around him but with his guard completely dropped.

It’s like the world on his back rolls off for just a bit. Jack shouldering the weight, burdening himself with it through practiced movements and massage oils.

“You’re gonna be okay while I’m gone.” Jack says, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his ass, “I’m gonna be okay while away from you.”

Robby hums, eyelids heavy, body warm, “We’ve survived worse.”

Jack closes out his massage with a kiss to Robby’s shoulder, “Fuck the sheets, we’ll wash em later. Roll over and cuddle me.”

Robby huffs and rolls himself over, movements sluggish and content, “Thank you.” He says, eyes bleary when he looks at Jack’s face, the softness of the lines beside his eyes, the glint of oils on his lips and chin from kissing his shoulder.

“Always.” Jack replies easily, pulling him in so Robby’s head is tucked beneath his chin, “Rest for thirty and then dinner?”

There’s a chill settling over Robby’s naked form, but Jack’s clothed body is warm along his. The tension in his back has finally dissipated, and he’s more content than he’s been in weeks. Later, he’ll have to take naproxen and schedule an appointment with his PT. He’ll have to open his work laptop and finish charting, and finally read the emails detailing Jack’s departure. They’ll have to talk about Jack’s scheduled flight in two weeks, but that can hold off.

It’s dark outside, and Robby’s warm, content, curled into Jack’s embrace.

October, Day 0

“You have everything?”

They’re standing at the open hatch of Robby’s Subaru. The blink of the hazards illuminate their legs, reflecting off Jack’s suitcase and the nylon strips velcroed to his backpack. He’s got the hanger of Jack’s suit bag clutched between his fingers, like if he doesn’t hand it over then Jack can’t board the flight.

Jack pats his pockets, touches the straps of his backpack, and flicks his eyes between the suitcase, travel crutches, and suit bag, “Passport, phone, wallet, prosthetic, that’s about all I gotta have.”

“If you start feeling bad on the flight—”

“—Mike, I’m a whole ass doctor and I’ve flown before.” Jack doesn’t say it unkindly, a sharp reminder for all the other times this week Robby tried to offer a plan of care.

Robby takes a deep breath, tasting the heavy air of car exhaust and airport, he looks down at the black suit bag hanging between them and back up at Jack. He traces his features, the hair that curls around his ears, the smooth of his cheeks where he shaved before leaving, “You’ll tell me when you land?”

Jack’s eyes soften, and he steps forward, taking the hanger from Robby’s hands to set in the hatch.

Robby looks down when Jack takes both of his hands. The yellow of his hazards blinks against the metal of their twin wedding rings where their hands hang between them. He holds on, swallowing back any silly emotion because Jack will only be gone for four months. 120 days. 68 shifts. He’s not leaving forever, he’s coming back, but for whatever reason the signals in Robby’s brain can’t communicate anything other than Jack is going away forever.

“Look up at me,” Jack says, tugging him closer, “Michael.”

Robby draws his eyes away from their hands to look at Jack. His eyes are dark in the covered departures drop off, only lightning to a shade of hazel when the hazards blink yellow, “I’m coming back.” He emphasizes each word with a shake of their twined hands.

“I know.” Robby sighs, nodding.

“And we’re both gonna be okay while I’m gone.” It’s become Jack’s favorite sentence, a repeat reminder for the both of them. He’s said it between meals, before handing off shifts, into Robby’s skin.

“We are.” Robby agrees, like he always does. At this point, it’s more for Jack’s sake than his own.

Jack studies him for another moment. Cars drop off passengers around them, someone’s honking, there’s an officer yelling for people to move their vehicles out of the drop-off lane. He finds something in Robby’s features that settles him and pulls Robby forward, Robby stepping willingly into his space.

They meet each other in the middle for a kiss. Robby ignores the feeling in his gut that tells him they can’t have this, that made him hide himself away in med school, that made Jack push himself down while he was enlisted. He ignores the feeling because he won’t get this for four months.

Like breathing, Jack’s lips are chapped against his. Familiar, but missing his usual scruff. Robby doesn’t deepen it more than pecking his lips a handful of times, committing the feeling to memory, cherishing it.

“Feels like I’m going to war again,” Jack laughs against his lips, little puffs of air tickling Robby’s skin, “not fucking Geilenkirchen.”

“Geilenkirchen might as well be Mars.” Robby presses one last kiss to Jack’s lips, letting go of Jack’s hands to yank him into a hug. He breathes in the scent of his shampoo, catalogues the planes of his back through hoodie and tshirt, and commits to memory the feeling of Jack’s hands firmly gripping at his back before taking a step away.

“Go,” Robby says, picking up the suit bag and handing it to Jack, “so you can hurry up and get your ass back here.”

Jack takes the hanger, gripping the handle of his suitcase in the same hand. He steps up on to the curb, turning around to Robby again, “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Love you, Jack.” Robby replies, shutting the hatch, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants.

Jack pauses, he looks away at the sliding doors into the airport, turning back to Robby, “Love you, too, Mike.”

Robby smiles to himself, tucking the words into the safe place beneath his twelfth rib. He watches Jack take a step back, a small smile on his face, before turning around and going into the airport.

October, Day 1

Jack, 12:16AM: Landed

Jack, 12:43AM: It must be a requirement to be a model to join the Dutch armed forces

Robby, 5:03AM: They would never take you, in that case

November, Day 43

The clock is sluggish. Every second ticks and ticks, long hand moving around the clockface like it’s there just to taunt him. It’s not even near him and the clicks of the gears moving ring through his ears, worming their way into his brain like a gnat.

With absolute certainty, Robby can declare that he fucking hates night shifts.

“Perk up, princess,” Walsh bumps his shoulder as she walks past him, both of them heading toward central, “you’ll be back to the land of misfit toys soon enough.”

He raises his eyebrows at her, “If any shift’s the land of misfit toys it’s not the day shift.” Robby ignores the image of Whittaker wiping out, flat on his back, yesterday after slipping on freshly mopped floor because he didn’t notice the caution sign, Javadi about to follow in his steps if not for Collins yanking her back by the hood of her jacket.

“Whatever shift I don’t grace with my presence is the misfit shift,” Walsh shrugs a shoulder, and taps her ID to the computer, leaning over the keyboard instead of taking a seat, “because I am not a misfit.”

Robby huffs a laugh, if he had an ounce of Walsh’s confidence he’d probably be a politician, “Anyone who keeps a nocturnal schedule is a bit of a misfit.”

She looks over the computer screen at him, this time her eyebrows are raised, “Including Abbot?”

“Especially Abbot.” Robby doesn’t let any warmth bleed into his voice, a skill he’s gained over the course of their relationship. He doesn’t know what Walsh actually knows about him and Jack, or what she thinks she knows, but she’s made it apparent over the course of Robby picking up night shifts that she knows something.

As much as Jack and Dana thought his concerns about coverage were misplaced and silly, he did have to compromise on the schedule. Namely, on his own. For the duration of Jack’s absence while he’s in Germany, Robby picks up one night shift per week. Either at the beginning or end of his four-on to try and maintain some semblance of a sleep schedule and daily routine. Not that he can or does, but it lets Gloria pretend.

This is Robby’s fourth night shift in as many weeks, his fourth working with Walsh instead of Garcia. Where Garcia bites Langdon’s ankles, Walsh bites his. He thinks he’s getting used to it.

“How’s he doing anyway?” She’s performing being focused on the computer, typing something into a chart, but Robby can hear someone prying for more information from a mile away. He works with Perlah and Princess every morning, he knows how this goes.

“According to the weekly emails he sends,” Robby doesn’t laugh at the eyeroll she directs at the screen in front of her, “they’re keeping him busy. He seems like he’s doing fine. Guess we’ll find out when he’s back.”

Walsh stands up from the computer, hands on her hips, “Weekly emails?”

“Yep,” Robby pops the ‘p’, “hospital policy. When an employee’s away for an extended period of time they have to send a weekly email to their supervisor detailing what they did that week. I’m Abbot’s supervisor, hence the email.”

“Is ‘supervisor’ what we’re calling it now?”

Robby can duck and weave Walsh all day, Jack would be so proud of him, “I’m the Chief, so I’m his supervisor. Do you need more coffee tonight or something, Dr. Walsh? Not as sharp as you usually are.”

“You’re going to slip up one day.” Walsh says it like a promise, leaning back into the computer to type something, quick raps of her short nails against the keys, and walks away from central.

He lets out a sigh that rolls down his shoulders. As much as Robby can duck and weave Walsh’s questions and hyper-fixation on the status of he and Jack’s relationship, it doesn’t mean he necessarily wants to.

These interactions are included in the list of reasons he vehemently does not like night shifts. In addition to the lack of sleep, the off-shift it eats up from him, and the full moon crazies, Robby’s grown comfortable working the day shift. Maybe it’s a fallacy on his end, but he’s not young and spry anymore. His body doesn’t adjust as quickly as it used to, and with every night he’s had to work this past month, a headache settles itself against his temples like an uncomfortable hat.

The only relief a night shift brings is a distinct lack of Gloria. Small wins, he guesses.

Robby loses himself in seeing patients around 11PM. Pumped stomachs, burned hands from an attempted catalytic converter robbery, a couple head-lacs from slipping on black ice. He works in tandem with Shen and Ellis, offering moments of teaching where he can but mostly putting his head down and trying to clean up the board as much as possible from the previous morning shift to set the next shift up for success.

When he comes up for air again, taking a deep breath, feeling it burn all the way through his lungs until he exhales between pursed lips, it’s almost 2AM.

“I’m taking five.” Robby tells Shen, quickly passing behind him on the way toward the ambulance bay.

Shen throws him a lazy salute in return, “Aye aye.”

He walks until he’s at the mouth of the bay, late November wind biting at his bare knuckles and pushing past the fabric of his fleece. With numbing fingers, Robby taps his phone to life and goes through the necessary screens before he hits Jack’s contact and dials.

“Mornin’,” Jack greets, like he does every time Robby calls him during a night shift.

“Good morning to you.” Robby replies back, his eyes are already tearing up from the cold, soon snot will build in his nose, but Jack’s voice in his ear is worth it, “Walsh is back at it with her interrogation.”

Jack barks a laugh, it echos where he’s likely in the bathroom, finishing up getting ready before he’s due to teach, “She gettin anywhere?”

“I did refer to myself as your supervisor.” Robby grins into the phone, if Walsh smoked she’d have more data to work with by noticing his periodic five minute break around this time, a break in which he spends all four minutes on the phone, and the last minute taking a piss break. One plus one definitely equals two, in this situation.

“Didn’t know we were letting people in on our pet names.” Jack’s grin is evident over the line, and Robby can imagine it perfectly. A little crooked, some teeth, eyes leering.

“Dirty old man.” Robby chides, shaking his head, he can’t help his own smile as it breaks through chapped lips and stinging eyes.

Another win that comes with working night shift is their schedules actually line up.

Where during day shift Robby is busy and Jack’s finishing up his teaching, and Jack is asleep when Robby’s finishing up hand off, night offers them some semblance of a similar schedule. It also means that in the oddest, most time-fucked of ways, Jack adjusted to the time change like a fish to water. Unphased, his body only slightly confused by the presence of sun.

“Doing anything for tonight?”

“Nah,” Robby sighs, watching his breath twist out in a puff, “I’m on a swing shift later. I’ll eat a turkey sandwich in observance.”

“Swing after a night is going to be a bitch.” Concern threads through Jack’s voice, “You got Friday off?”

“That would be too easy, no, I’ll be back here bright and early.”

Jack’s quiet for a beat, “Mike, you takin care of yourself?”

“Yes.” He looks down at his shoes, the dinge of the white rubber, the lopsided bunny ears.

It’s a recurring discussion between them, the care and wellbeing of Michael Robinavitch. But Robby’s fine, he is. This month without Jack hasn’t felt much different to the handful of times per year where they’re ships in the night, only seeing each other while handing over shifts and sending occasional texts.

Robby eats at least one real meal a day. He hasn’t felt the need to go up to the roof. Physio kicks his ass once a week.

Jack seems fine, too. Reconnecting with the certain structure of being on a military base. Teaching at the beginning of the week, exploring Europe over his long weekends.

They’re making it work.

“Alright,” Jack doesn’t sound convinced, and Robby knows he can fit the curve of his thumb into the down turn of Jack’s lips, “they’re taking me to Landstuhl next week.”

Robby frowns, running through his mental catalog of German places of note and coming up empty, “Landstuhl?”

Jack clears his throat, “The place where I went after the IED.”

“Fuck,” Robby steps further out of the ambulance bay, “why?”

“Something commemorative or some shit.” Jack sighs, it sounds as heavy as the world, “I can’t exactly tell them no, so I just gotta sit there and take it on the chin.”

“That’s pretty warped.”

“Yeah.”

Robby knows his four minutes are basically up. His hands are numb, his eyes haven’t stopped tearing since he first walked outside, and he’s pretty sure he lost the feeling in his toes two minutes in. But, the work phone in his pocket isn’t ringing, the night charge nurse hasn’t run out to find him, and Chairs was contained before he stepped outside. He can take another handful of minutes.

“When do you go?”

Jack sighs again, his voice muffled where he’s scrubbing his hands over his face, a self-soothing habit he picked up from Robby, “Monday, come back Wednesday.”

“I’m not on shift Sunday through Wednesday, call me at any hour I’ll pick up.” Jack’s number has always been an exception to Robby’s Do Not Disturb, even before they were together—he has his own special ringtone and everything. While he’d never miss a phone call from Jack before, he definitely doesn’t miss them now while Jack’s across the Atlantic.

“I’m a big kid, I can take it.” Jack’s laugh falls flat, a humorless echo in the bathroom.

Robby wishes he could touch Jack, look him in the eyes, something, “I know, but you don’t have to do it alone. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

“Using a man’s own words against him. That’s just wrong, Mike.”

“Yeah, well,” Robby shrugs, he knows Jack can’t see it, “if it gets you to listen.”

There’s a pause over the line, long enough that Robby pulls his phone back to make sure Jack’s still connected.

“Yeah,” Jack’s voice is quiet, resigned, “I’ll call you.”

“Thank you.” Robby makes his way back up the slope into the deserted ambulance bay, stopping just before the double doors, “I gotta head back in, talk to you soon?”

“Talk soon, go fight with Walsh in my honor.”

There’s a smile in Jack’s voice, it’s contagious enough that Robby can’t help the tug at his own lips, “You can count on it. Bye, Jack.”

“Bye, Mike.”

This time, when Robby pulls his phone away from his face there’s a brief ‘call ended’ notification before his lock screen appears.

He shakes out his fingers when he steps back into the warmth of the ED, prepared to brave the next five hours of his last night shift this month.

Only eleven night shifts to go until Jack’s home.

December, Day 54

Robby, 4:27PM: I want to take a nap

Robby, 4:27PM: I have a shift tomorrow, so it’s not wise

Jack, 4:29PM: It’s about time for me to go to bed

Jack, 4:30PM: How about you take a thirty and I go to sleep

Robby, 4:31PM: We’ll sleep together

December, Day 77

To some, he and Jack’s relationship moved lightning quick.

They weren’t dating all that long before they went to the court house with matching rings.

If they were much younger, and one of them had a uterus, people would probably whisper ‘shotgun wedding’ behind their backs and wonder when the baby shower invites would show up.

This should have been their first New Year’s Eve together as a couple. Jack probably would have been working the night shift, and Robby maybe would have popped in under the guise of offering a helping hand with the true motive of ringing the year in together, side by side, in the PTMC ED. Instead, Jack’s already in the new year in Germany, and Robby’s waiting for the onslaught of drunk drivers, firecracker injuries, and alcohol or drug poisoning to welcome him into the sparkly year of 2026.

“Just cause I said I’d follow you anywhere doesn’t mean I love this night shift.” Dana’s sitting beside him behind the counter at central, her arms are crossed over her chest, puffed up and sleepy.

Robby’s basically mirroring her, his hoodie zipped all the way to the top, hands tucked underneath his pits. There’s a chill in the ED that no amount of warm blankets can shake, “Blame Jack, not me. We’re here because he’s there.”

“Still can’t believe he agreed to be away from you for four months.” Dana mutters, “Still can’t believe he managed to get you to marry him.”

Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, he looks away from the sliding doors of the ambulance bay to her profile, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grimaces at herself, like she’d take back the words if she could, “Sorry, Robby. It’s late and I’m grumpy.”

“It’s late and I’m grumpy, too, and I wanna know what that’s supposed to mean.” Robby uses a foot to spin her chair his way, stopping the momentum of the spin so they’re looking at each other, “I’m all ears.”

It piques Robby’s interest even more that Dana’s actually hesitating. She’s never been one to hold her tongue, not to anyone except maybe Gloria, and especially not toward Robby. It’s the foundation of their relationship, Dana’s brutal but caring honesty and Robby’s ability to hear it.

Dana purses her lips, blowing air in her cheeks before letting it out through a steady sigh, “I just didn’t think anyone would ever get you to settle down.”

“Huh,” Robby frowns, “really?”

She shrugs her shoulders, her entire upper body moving with her, “I’ve known you for a long time, Robby. It didn’t seem like something you were prioritizing, which ain’t a bad thing, you know, just different.”

He rolls her words around like a worry stone in his mind, turning it over and over. She’s not wrong, he didn’t prioritize it. Maybe it could have worked with Janey, if they had more time and he was at a different place in life.

If he’s being honest with himself, subconsciously, he probably wanted it to end up in marriage with her.

Not that they were some grand love story— he loved her and Jake, and that was enough for him— but because it would have made sense. It would have been logical. But logic does not make a marriage, no matter how much he maybe wanted it to. And loving someone, often, is not enough. At least, it wasn’t for Janey.

“I got married real young,” Dana continues, looking down at the pictures of her daughters taped to her computer screen, “old compared to my sisters and the girls in my neighborhood, but I was a baby, not even twenty yet.” A smile tugs at her lips, “High school sweetheart ‘n all, but we knew what we wanted and there was nothin stoppin us.”

“Aisde from the young part,” Robby shares a laugh with Dana, shaking his head, “it was the same for us. We, uh,” he pulls a hand from the warmth of his underarm to press the ring into his chest, “we knew what we wanted. Him more than me, at first.”

She kicks his chair with her foot, the half smile pulled into something small and warm, “How did it happen?”

“It was nothing super romantic,” Robby looks down at her tennis shoe, the neat tie of the laces, “morbid, if I’m being honest.”

Dana snorts, “I’d expect nothing less from that man.”

Robby hums, nodding, “He got a letter about his presumptive conditions benefits from being overseas and told me that if something were to happen to him he wanted me to receive the compensation. But to do that...” Robby trails off, finally looking back up at Dana.

“You’d have to be married.” She finishes.

“Needless to say, I didn’t take that thought process well.”

It wasn’t too long after PittFest. They’d only been dating a handful of weeks, at that point. One of those rare days when their off-shifts overlapped. Their schedules still didn’t align, so Robby had been up while Jack slept off his shift from the night before.

He was sweaty, walking back into Jack’s apartment after going for a quick run to relieve some residual anxiety. Jack was already in the kitchen, still in his sleep clothes, hair mussed, reading through a letter. Robby would later find out it was from the VA.

And then he looked up at Robby, and in the simplest, most logical of terms, explained that they should get married so Robby can be the beneficiary to his assets. Assets, which would come to Robby should Jack die before him.

Robby felt like he needed to run all over again, and did just that.

It took a couple miles of running, two day shifts, and one very patient Jack before Robby was able to revisit the conversation.

“Two peas in a pod,” Dana shakes her head, rolling her eyes fondly, “you sayin your concern was scheduling and him asking you to marry his ass because of benefits.”

“Got me to settle down, didn’t it?” Robby huffs, stretching his arms over his head with a sigh, dropping them back into his lap.

What Robby doesn’t tell Dana, a memory just between him and Jack, is the second attempt at an engagement. The heartfelt one that came a week after Robby said ‘yes’ to the logic-driven engagement.

Robby scheduled himself for a swing shift that day, offering coverage to both day and night shift as both were down a person. So, he was still at home when Jack got there, sleepover bag packed and exhaustion riddling his bones.

After Jack showered and settled himself on the couch, finally off his leg for the day, Robby sat himself right next to him. It wasn’t anything unusual, they caught up on the couch all the time during the moments between on and off shifts where they eclipsed one another.

Robby, scared shitless and doing a horrible job at hiding it, took Jack’s left hand and asked if it would be alright by him if he wore Robby’s ring instead. He set the simple gold band in the palm of his hand, warm from living in his pocket for hours before Jack got home, and tried his best to keep his eyes on Jack’s face and not avert them elsewhere.

Jack, not taking even a moment to think about it, agreed under the condition that Robby wear a matching one.

“Sure did,” Dana smiles at him, “I’m happy for both of ya.”

Robby returns her smile, again, mirroring her, “Thanks, Dana.”

The phone at her station rings, their moment of stillness in the shift over. He leaves her to it with a nod, pushing himself up to round the counter.

It’s only when he’s reading the board, looking over the list out in Chairs, that he realizes it’s just past midnight.

Happy new year, Jack, he says to himself, pressing his ring into his chest.

January, Day 104

Jack, 11:00AM: Fuck taps

Jack, 11:07AM: This is why I didn’t want to come to Grafenwöhr

Jack, 11:07AM: I was done with this bs so long ago none of these kids were born yet

Robby, 7:43PM They should put you in a senior home

February, Day 116

Aside from contact with various bodily fluids that don’t belong to him, Robby’s least favorite part of his job is the HR adjacent hats he’s forced to wear. If he were just an attending, he wouldn’t have to keep tabs on people, he wouldn’t have to have uncomfortable conversations or deeply care about his approach while relaying information.

He would just get to practice medicine, teach, offer feedback for growth and development. Take vacations longer than one additional day tacked on to his three-off. Do things like fuck off to the other side of the globe and run four month long seminars.

Robby pulls his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a steady breath.

Pulled up on his work laptop is Trinity Santos’ PTMC Employee Assessment and Review. It’s not due until the new fiscal year, but an incredibly tedious component of his job includes periodically updating his direct supervisees’ EARs. Not only updating them, but addressing any recurring behavioral or educational concerns.

For Santos, that seems to include calling every single intern and resident by an inappropriate nickname.

Huckleberry. Crash. Slow-Mo. McTattle.

And now, Melanoma. Melotonin. Melon. Like the fucking fruit.

He doesn’t even want to think about the nicknames she uses for attendings.

A voice that sounds distinctly like Frank’s tells him she’s not a team player. While Frank’s concerns were misdirected, centered in his own self-medicating spiral, he wasn’t wrong.

Which just makes Robby feel even more like shit for how he handled Frank. More like how he didn’t handle him. Screaming and kicking someone out of the ED is decidedly not handling a situation. Not as a Chief or friend.

Every so often, Robby will pull up his text thread to Frank and scroll through the messages. The cursor will blink at him. Frank’s last grey message was sent the day before PittFest, inviting him over in early October to celebrate his youngest’s birthday.

That day has since come and gone with Frank being in rehab during it.

At some other time in Robby and Frank’s lives, Frank may have been one of the people he and Jack told about their nuptials. Now, Robby sits and watches the expectant cursor. Like every time before, he types an apology, looks at the cursor, highlights and deletes the short string of words.

Frank probably doesn’t have his phone, anyway.

He swipes out of the text thread, and opens Jack’s contact, thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button.

Before Jack left for Germany, Robby used to wonder if their relationship could be considered long distance. Not that they were, technically. They live in the same condo, they work at the same place, they pick up coffee and breakfast pastries from the same café. There’s signs of their intermingling all over Pittsburgh, from footprints in muddy driveways on the way to the ED to photos beside each other in the hallway of PTMC.

Working opposite shifts, though, always lends itself to feeling long distance. They’re ships in the night, diurnal and nocturnal. Hardly ever sharing a bed, hardly ever going on dates, cherishing their occasional moments of overlap when the schedule works out perfectly in their favor.

Now, over three months into Jack’s absence, Robby acknowledges that no their relationship while working opposite shifts in the same city cannot be considered long distance. Because this, doing time zone math and settling for texts or phone calls or FaceTimes instead of casual touches, food left in the fridge, sleepy kisses as one of them leaves for their on-shift, fucking sucks.

Robby tosses his phone and glasses on the cushion beside him, frames and plastic case clattering against each other as they land on worn-in leather. It’s too early in Germany for him to validate calling Jack.

His laptop has long since gone to sleep. Behind the black screen is Santos’ EAR, waiting expectantly for him to fill in the details of her work ethic, collaboration, and interaction with patients.

Being chief fucking sucks.

February, Day 116

Robby, 7:51PM: PEAR is a stupid acronym

Robby, 7:51PM: And the system is stupider

Robby, 7:52PM: I should not be forced to DUO authenticate every time I save a change

Robby, 7:52PM: The union should bargain for a new EAR system

Jack, 12:04AM: The union will not waste bargaining power on the EAR system

Jack, 12:04AM: Don’t make me divorce you

February, Day 117

“Dr. Robby,”

Robby raises a finger, silently asking for a moment as he squeezes a bag of saline, motivating it to move through the IV, “I’ll be back to check in on you, Mrs. Thomas.”

She smiles up at him sleepily, dehydration from marathon training gone wrong, still kicking her ass, “Okay, thank you.”

He offers her a polite smile, stepping away from her bed. Robby draws the curtain partially close, and shuts the sliding door behind him. The thrum of the ED flows back into his ears, a reliable buzz at midday.

Perlah’s lips are pressed into a thin line, different from her usual neutral expression or playful grin. It sets off the alarm bells in his head and he immediately casts a quick glance over the floor while pulling off a blue pair of gloves, “What can I do for you, Perlah?”

She takes in a deep breath, eyes flicking to the side for a split second, “I know doctors and nurses alike all have jokes or nicknames as a form of camaraderie, and usually I wouldn’t say anything about them, but...” She trails off, lips returning to their thin line.

Robby motions for her to follow him with a nod of his head, navigating them away from the open floor of the ED toward the family room.

When the door shuts behind them Robby takes a seat, offering Perlah to do the same. He leans forward with elbows on his knees, trying to make himself less imposing to such a petite woman, “What’s going on?”

Perlah sits down, leaving two chairs between them. She smooths down the forest green hijab that matches the stripes on her long sleeve, and meets his eyes directly, “Santos has a habit for calling people by nicknames, and like I said, usually I don’t care. But, for Dr. King she uses words starting with ‘Mel’, and over the past week she’s been getting more pointed with them."

Robby nods, a headache blooms at his temples along with the ache in his back, “I have noticed that, yes.”

“Mel confronted her about it today,” Perlah continues, “and Santos’ reaction was to just call her ‘Melodrama’ instead of apologizing. I don’t think Mel would come to you with a complaint about a colleague, especially if Santos is passing this off as how she makes friends.”

“Thank you for telling me, Perlah.” Robby’s smile is strained, and from Perlah’s expression he’s doing a bad job at being neutral in the face of an employee complaint.

“No problem,” She nods once and stands, “I just don’t want anyone here having an uncomfortable time because they’re essentially being bullied.”

“Send me an email with more or less what you just told me.” Robby rubs a hand down his face, “You’ll remain anonymous, but I need it for documentation.”

“Will do.”

Robby sits back in the plastic chair when she leaves the room. He closes his eyes, sighing as he presses head into the wall.

Santos giving people inappropriate nicknames and him overhearing it is one thing. Santos giving people inappropriate nicknames, and him receiving a formal complaint about it, is another.

There’s two gentle raps on the door before Dana pokes her head in, “Perlah said you were in here. Incoming MVC off the 579. Six patients, two adult women, one adult man, and three children. Others have been routed to Presby. Eight minutes out.”

“Condition?” Robby asks, pushing himself out of the chair and following Dana into the hallway. His hands grip around the tubing of his stethoscope, tugging it against his neck.

“The guy and three kids were riding in the back of a truck.” Dana shakes her head, pushing the double doors open to the ED, “Truck collided with car, ejecting everyone from the bed, and sending one of the ladies through a window, no seat belt.”

“Fucking people.” Robby groans, letting go of his stethoscope before he damages the tool.

“Okay, everyone,” Robby projects his voice over the mill of the ED, laying his eyes on all his interns and residents, “six patients incoming. It’s likely that most are critical so we’ll have to put three to a trauma room and get them up to the OR as soon as possible. Someone make sure Dr. Garcia is notified.”

“On it.” Dana’s already picking up her phone, dialing the extension.

“Everyone gown up,” Robby hits the hand sanitizer, rubbing his hands together as he organizes the two trauma room teams, “Mel and Santos you’re with me. Collins, take Whittaker and McKay. Mohan and Javadi keep everything afloat out here but don’t hesitate to get me if you need me.”

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, “Three of the patients are young children. We don’t know their condition, we don’t know the state of them, but we do know they were tossed out of a moving truck on the highway. Take the next couple minutes before the ambulances get here to prepare yourselves. Kiara will be available to talk to anyone after.”

Robby’s already in the bay by the time the ambulances pull in, lights blaring and sirens dying.

Each team of residents, interns, and nurses move efficiently. Muscle memory from years of experience or from the traumatic learning opportunity of PittFest working to determine priority.

It’s all burnt skin, broken bones, blood loss from the trauma of a collision. Robby forces himself to compartmentalize the little bones beneath his fingers, the tiny veins that require tinier needles and small doses of powerful medicine. He shoves it away, deep into the recesses of his mind to deal with later or not deal with at all.

If these are just people, humans he’s in charge of the care for, then he can work without distress clawing at his throat. But if these are kids? It’s New Orleans, it’s med school, it’s his childhood flashing behind his eyes and that can’t happen. Not while he’s in charge, and not while there’s nobody here to bring him out of it.

“Melancholy,” Santos shouts across the trauma room, panicked and thready, “this airway isn’t letting me in.”

“Santos,” Robby warns, stepping beside her to take the laryngoscope, “we call doctors by their names here. Now, this is how you intubate a child.”

The fight to keep all six patients alive is grueling.

There’s sweat beading on their hairlines, PPE clinging uncomfortably to skin and glasses slipping down noses. The pain in his back radiates down to his thighs, tight, forcing him to hold his breath while hinging and swallow back grunts of pain.

After Robby stabilizes his patient and the peds surgery team takes her up, he moves between the two trauma rooms. It’s a blur of adrenaline, quick thinking, and sets of blue gloves tossed to the floor as he assists with the remaining five patients.

When the last patient is wheeled to the OR it’s like the ED lets out a collective sigh. Both teams worked together to stabilize all six patients, and with trust in medicine and hope in powers greater than him, Robby’s confident everyone will make it.

“Good job,” Robby says quietly, repeating the two words over and over to members of both teams, offering individual squeezes of shoulders as he makes his way out of the trauma room, peeling PPE off as he goes.

He stops beside Mel and Santos to offer direct feedback, pointers, things to remember for next time but Santos speaks before he can.

“That was fucking awesone,” Santos’ grin is wide, all teeth, she raises a gloved hand to Mel, “up top, Mesothelioma.”

Mel bristles visibly, her shoulders rising up to her ears, eyes squeezing shut, “I asked you to not call me that.”

Santos huffs, “It’s just a joke, come on. You can call me something, too if you want. You call me Santeria and I’ll call you Marsh-Mel-low.”

“I don’t want to be called—”

“Take a joke, Mel.”

It’s a combination of the pain in Robby’s back, rapidly fading adrenaline, Perlah’s formal complaint, the simple fact that Robby got on Santos no less than three times while they were stabilizing all six patients, and the sarcastic intonation of Dr. King’s name that snaps the end of his rope.

“Santos,” Robby’s voice is sharp, loud, silencing both trauma rooms and drawing eyes in from the ED, “do you think you’re the first person to come through this teaching hospital with condescension instead of compassion?” He stoops himself so they’re almost eye to eye, “Hm? Do you think your poor life experiences entitle you to treat everyone else this way because you think your defense mechanisms are more important than their dignity?"

Santos’ mouth opens and closes. She blinks rapidly, the strands of hair that fell out of her up-do getting caught in her lashes.

“Well?” Robby prompts, raising his eyebrows at her, “You had so many witty comments earlier and now you don’t even have one?”

“I—” Santos' eyes are wide like a spooked dog, “it’s just some fun.”

Robby barks a laugh, righting himself to his full height, “Oh ho ho, you have a pretty concerning definition of ‘fun’ if you think bullying your peers because you don’t like yourself is considered fun.”

He gives her a beat to respond, cutting her off before she can get out a single syllable, “Let me disabuse you of the notion that you can get away with calling people shitty nicknames— I don’t care what your reasoning might be, what happened in your childhood or who bullied you in high school, what behaviors your therapist validates. All of that? It gets left at the door. Got it?”

Santos finally reacts, swallowing and rolling back her shoulders, “Yes, Dr. Robby.”

“Good,” He pulls off his gown, crumpling it between his hands, “you’re just an intern, Santos, don’t let this be the end of your road because you couldn’t figure out how to be a decent human being.”

Robby shoves the rest of his PPE in the waste bin, briskly walking out of the trauma room.

“I’m going to get air,” Robby tells Dana, ignoring the raise of her eyebrows, ignoring everyone looking at him, “call my work extension if you need me.”

“Shift was over thirty minutes ago.” Dana replies easily, tamping down her expression, “McKay and Javadi caught night shift up. Take a long breather, Dr. Robby, but hand off when you’re done.” There’s an unspoken ‘your ass better come down from that roof through stairs or elevator and no other way or so help me G-d’ in her voice.

He doesn’t reply, just nods once, eyes fixed on the floor from the entire journey to the lockers for his coat, out of the ED, and up to the roof.

There’s plush padding of snow across the roof. Untampered with, reflecting the lights of the city off its surface. Robby trudges through it, his footprints marking his way from the door to the railing.

Drawing in a deep inhale sends icy shards down his throat, drying and cloying at the same time. It feels like he’s trying to breathe out of a narrow tube, only pulling in enough oxygen to live but not enough to actually survive.

His hands shake as he grips the railing, the icy cold of it grounding him.

It feels like Frank, again.

A reaction bubbling to the surface because he’s at the end of his rope with nothing left to give and nobody to belay him to the ground. But he knows better. He is better. He’s better than blowing up at people, adding unnecessary bumps in the road to healing, scaring interns, being a spectacle of the ED.

But it’s hard to be better when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

Jack comes home in three days, and truly, Robby’s surprised he managed this long without some other episode. As the weeks ticked to months, Robby’s temper got shorter and shorter. He blamed it on an epidemic of chronic incompetence, blamed it on the news cycle, on the lack of funding to healthcare. All the while craving Jack’s company, longing for the smell of his shampoo lingering in the bathroom after a shower, missing the dirty coffee cups he’d never rinse out and leave in the sink.

It’s not that Robby didn’t miss the larger things that Jack contributed to his life, like a tether away from the ledge of mortality, rather he deeply missed all the little things. All the seemingly insignificant signifiers that Jack was therehis Jack.

“Can’t see you.” Jack says, his voice thick, eyes squinting against the bright screen, “You got something over the camera?”

Robby laughs once, it’s punched out of him and thick with emotion, “Sorry, man, I meant to call not to FaceTime.”

Jack’s eyes dart around the screen, his eyebrows pulling in as the sleep slides away from his vision, “Where you at, Mike?”

The wind whips through Robby’s ears. His hands squeeze around the phone, pinpricks numbing the tips of them. He doesn’t think Jack can see much of him, maybe the glint of his eyes, maybe the soft glow of the city around him, “The roof.”

Jack sits up a bit straighter, obviously still in bed but now with his back to the short headboard and the wall, “Over the railing?”

“No, behind it. It’s—” Robby lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head, “it’s not that kind of roof visit.”

“What kind of roof visit is it, then?” His voice is careful, unsure of what vines he’s going to trip over.

“I needed to breathe.” Robby looks out to the city beyond him, the twinkle of cars driving by, the lights still in offices, long since deserted by nine to five workers.

He used to not understand Jack’s draw to the roof as anything other than an active attempt at taking his own life. And, sure, that’s part of it. The option to, but he also understands feeling grounded by it.

Up here, Robby’s nobody. He’s small, insignificant in all the ways that Atlas wishes he was. Weight of the world off his shoulders because it’s a world he finally gets to stand on.

“Wanna tell me what happened that you needed a roof breather?” Jack’s crooked on the screen, his phone obviously held lopsided in his hand.

“Nothing devastating.” Robby sighs, leaning his elbows against the railing again, one hand holding his phone and the other pressing into his forehead, “Work fucking sucked. Some kids came through after being ejected from the bed of a moving truck. On top of that, Santos’ name calling has gotten worse, formal complaint-level. And I just—”

He drags his hand down his face, nails scratching at wind-bitten skin, “I just snapped. Completely went off on her, not that she didn’t deserve some of it, but I’m better than that. I’ve handled racist, homophobic assholes who mean actual harm with more care than I handled some innocuous name-calling.”

Jack nods along slowly with his words, silent for a beat, giving Robby the space to go on. Sometimes that’s all he needs. The ability to take a breath, an inhale after the painful exhale, “And I fucking miss you, man.”

“Santos will be okay,” Jack shrugs, the corners of his lips turning down, “talk to her again when you’re more level-headed, offer her a formal plan of action, but she’ll be fine. I’ll be back home in three days and no money or opportunity in the world will get me to leave for this long ever again because I fuckin’ miss you too. Haven’t had a good night of sleep since October, swear to Christ.”

“Me, either.” Robby admits it quietly, so low the wind could sweep up his words and take them away, “I knew it was going to be a change, but I think I’ve been going crazy this last month.”

Jack’s features soften and Robby wishes the phone would pick up the exact shade of his eyes, the depths and tones in his hair, the little wrinkles beside his eyes, “Long distance ain’t for the weak, huh?”

“Sure is not.” Robby sighs, a shiver rolling through his chest, “Your wife was a strong woman to endure your deployments.”

“She hated them. She told me once that my leg gettin blown off was the best thing that happened to her.” Jack’s laugh is sweet, warm, grounding, “Pissed me off at the time, but she wasn’t wrong, kept my ass state-side for good.”

“Until now.” Robby corrects gently.

“Until now.” Jack agrees, “Three more days, baby, and then I’m home.”

They don’t often use pet names for each other. It never came naturally to their relationship, but occasionally Jack will call him ‘baby’ or ‘babe’ and every time it unravels something in Robby. Unwinds him, brings him all the way back down, settles something in his chest.

Robby lets out a shaky breath, slow and steady, his shoulders falling away from his ears at the same time, “Get your ass back to me, please.”

“I will.” Jack nods, “Now, can you please get your ass off that roof.”

They stay connected until Robby’s inside the building again, elevator doors in front of him, a button waiting for him to push it.

It’s the first time his face has been fully visible. There’s little flakes of snow and ice attached to his eyebrows and beard, any visible skin is raw and red from the wind, and fatigue lines his eyes. He looks like shit, but he’s back inside the building.

“Call me when you get home.” Jack tells him, “I don’t care what time it is.”

Robby presses the ‘down’ button, “I will. Talk soon?”

“Talk soon. Hand off and get out of there.”

Robby does just that.

February, Day 120

Jack, 7:14AM: Waiting at my gate

Jack, 7:52AM: Flight’s delayed

Jack, 8:09AM: The jet bridge hit the plane. How does that even happen in 2026?

Jack, 8:44AM: Said they have to check everything because if not we could become a statistic

Jack, 9:04AM: I’d take my chances as a statistic, right about now

Jack, 9:28AM: Finally boarding

Jack, 9:28AM: For once in my life I will be using my military personnel privilege and my one-legged privilege, get me on this fucking plane

Jack, 10:03AM: See you soon

Robby pushes himself out of the elevator, using his shoulder blades against the wall to propel him forward.

The walk down the hallway is relatively quiet. Just his breathing, the soft sounds of his shoes against carpeted flooring, and the jingle from his keys and keychains clinking together.

He doesn’t look up from the carpet until he’s a couple doors down from their unit. Robby pauses, blinks the fatigue out of his eyes, looks behind himself, and then back to the welcome mat that Jack bought at IKEA years ago. Because the man in question, Jack Abbot, is standing right there.

It’s like a breath of fresh air, elating and dizzying, seeing him again for the first time.

It’s been four months, sixteen weeks, one hundred and twenty days since Robby’s been in the same orbit as Jack. And there he is, distracted, fighting with the lock of the door like he always does, suitcase slowly rolling away from him down the slope of the hall.

“Jack,” Robby breathes, cutting through the scrapes of key to door knob.

Jack’s head snaps up from the door, key forgotten, and the feeling of elation that courses through Robby’s arteries up to his brain, down his veins to his heart, is mirrored on Jack. It’s a look of surprise, his mouth parted in a breath, followed by the relax of his body as he enters a state of calm. Perhaps for the first time in weeks.

“I know we have a rule about pathogens—” Robby starts, taking a step forward.

“—Right now, I don’t give a fuck about that rule.” Jack cuts him off, keys falling to the floor as he crosses the short length of the hallway to barrel into Robby.

Hands grip at shirts, skirting over skin through cloth, running over backpack straps that are still over shoulders. Robby’s hands shake as they come up to Jack’s face, the familiar warmth of his scruff and skin permeating through Robby’s dry hands. He catalogues the hues he never got to see through camera, the worry and laugh lines he missed kissing, the sharp bow of Jack’s lip.

“You grew your hair out.” Robby cards his fingers through it, the grey curls parting softly, “I haven’t seen it this long in years.”

Jack’s eyes flutter close as he leans into the touch, hands gripping at Robby’s waist like they haven’t done in months, “You think I was gonna let anyone cut my hair out there?” Jack snorts, still relaxed into the hold, “They’d get clipper-happy and make me look like I should be back in uniform. Some old brass fucker would have probably chewed me out.”

Robby twirls his finger around a curl, “I can cut it for you later, if you want.” It was a product of COVID, Robby cutting Jack’s hair. At first it was out of necessity, Jack didn’t feel like himself without manicured hair and no barbers were open, so Robby offered. Then it became a bonding ritual, a simple act of care and affection that Robby could get away with and that Jack continued to accept. Jack’s never gone to anyone else to cut his hair, since.

“I’d like that.” Jack sighs, opening his eyes, taking his time looking over Robby.

He doesn’t think much has changed about him in the four months that Jack’s been away. His beard is about the same length, he kept up with his own haircuts, he didn’t lose or gain any weight. He’s pretty much the same Michael Robinavitch that left Jack at Pittsburgh International Airport back in October. But Robby lets him look, standing still under Jack’s intense gaze that he longed for daily.

“I’d kiss you,” Jack says, taking a step back but keeping a hand on Robby’s waist, “but I haven’t brushed my teeth since yesterday morning.”

Robby laughs, letting his hands fall away from Jack’s face, “I wouldn’t mind it. Haven’t taken your leg off since then, huh?”

Jack grimaces, rolling his suitcase back toward the door, “Guilty. Feel too exposed in an airport, you know how it is.”

“I do.” Robby collects Jack’s duffle and spare crutches, bending to pick his keys up from the welcome mat and using them to open the front door, “Welcome home.”

Jack steps through the entryway like he’s unfamiliar, like his name isn’t on the mortgage.

As with Robby’s person, not much has changed about their home. He got a new throw blanket, a couple new candles, but otherwise everything’s the same. Their shoes are still by the front door, the mail still piles up on the kitchen island, the guest bathroom shower still has a leak that Robby will one day get around to addressing.

It’s the same space, has been technically since October, and now with Jack in the entry way, it finally feels like it. For a couple weeks leading up to Jack’s return, their condo felt devoid of anything worth calling home. It became a reminder of what was missing, of Jack’s absence, and of Robby’s life before Jack. It became the place Robby took a shower at, crashed at, ate some sad meal at, but not a place he very much enjoyed.

The condo, while Jack was away, reminded Robby of the person he used to be. Not the person he tries his best to be now.

“Wanna shower first?” Robby asks, nodding down to Jack’s leg, “You must literally be itching to get that off.”

Jack pauses, biting his bottom lip in thought, tilting his head to the side in question, “Shower together?”

They ditch their backpacks and shoes at the door, Jack flipping the lock before taking Robby by the hand and leading him through the bedroom into the ensuite.

Undressing is a slow process, layers slowly joining each other at their feet. Both resist the urge to kiss naked skin, because while they may be ignoring the ‘no touching before showering’ rule, kissing is one step too far.

Sweaters and t-shirts go first, Jack’s fingers press into Amor Fati and Memento Mori, Robby’s into defined muscle and freckled shoulders.

Jack lifts the chain off Robby’s neck and undoes the clasp. Robby watches as he looks down at the gold band in his palm, turning it over a couple times like he’s committing it to memory. Silently, Jack takes Robby’s hand and slips the ring on his finger, holding on to him gently before letting go.

Robby’s pants are undone next, an easy flick of the button from muscle memory done time and time over but without any of the sexual charge. Neither of them have the energy for that, not right now.

“Let me take your leg off?” Robby asks, hands dancing up and down Jack’s bare shoulders.

Jack lets out a deep breath, “Sure.”

Robby kneels on the tile as Jack settles himself into the chair they keep in the bathroom. His knees are bare, caps digging into the lines of grout, but the pain later will be worth it. He pulls Jack’s jeans down and off, dropping them to the floor with the rest of their clothes, and hums when Jack’s fingers card through his hair.

Removing Jack’s prosthetic is simple. Turning a latch, releasing a valve, and easing it off. He leans it against the wall to be disinfected later, and returns to Jack, unrolling the padded gel sleeve Jack uses when he’s going to have his leg on for an extended period of time. The scent of sweat stuck to skin for hours is thick, but Robby doesn’t mind. Not when it’s Jack, not when he gets to do this for him.

“Looks good, little irritated from the prosthetic being on for so long but there’s no broken skin or blistering. It’s nothing a little rest can’t fix, how do you feel?”

Jack’s hands pull away from his hair, coming to the stump and doing his own check, “Tender, but nothing out of the norm.”

Robby heaves himself off the floor, grunting at the pull in his back. He opens the shower door and turns the knob, keeping his hand under the water until it’s hot but not overbearing.

When Jack moved in, Robby didn’t waste time investing in a bathroom renovation. Gone is the clawfoot tub Robby liked for the charm, in its place is a perfectly stylish walk-in shower complete with rainfall sprays, railings, and a built-in bench. They found out pretty soon after the installation that the bench can easily hold both of their weight, a feature they frequently enjoy.

Boxers finally join the rest of their clothes, leaving both of them naked in the rapidly steaming bathroom.

Robby helps Jack into the shower, less because he needs to and more because he wants to. They pause beneath the spray, Jack leaning back into Robby’s chest and Robby holding him there.

Hot water pours over both of their bodies, turning their skin shades of blush and pink, flattening hair against the tops of their heads.

“Showers sucked on base,” Jack hums, eyes closed against the spray, “the water pressure was shit and they had to rig an accessible one for me. It’s like they brought me over to teach trauma med and forgot I had a whole fucking trauma in the field.”

“Yet another reason for you to never leave again.” Robby reaches over to gather a pump of Jack’s shampoo into the palm of his hand, keeping his other tight against Jack’s hip. He massages his fingers into the roots of Jack’s hair, smiling softly when Jack pushes up into his hand, “I think I’m gonna miss this hair when I cut it for you.”

“Could keep it this length for a bit,” Jack says, his voice thick with contentment, “can’t imagine what folks at the Pitt would say, though.”

Robby rinses the shampoo out of Jack’s hair, going back in with the daily conditioner he uses, a light scent of rose filling the shower, “Do you want to keep it long?”

Jack’s silent for a beat, considering, “I have a couple days till I go back in to figure that out.”

Robby holds his hand up to the spray to rinse off the conditioner and grabs a wash cloth. It’s his from earlier this week but it’ll do for now, and pumps a dollop of body wash on it. He rubs the soap into the fibers, lathering it up, and brings the cloth to Jack’s body.

Jack’s neck is first, delicate swipes down the length of it, rougher against the back where his backpack sat. He runs the cloth over his clavicles and across his chest, watching as the suds slink down his body and into the drain.

If Robby weren’t dead on his feet, he’d ask if Jack wanted something more. A calming jerk off where they breathe into each other’s mouths more than kiss and they’re both sated after. But they have all the time in the world, right now it can be just this. Faded blue terry cloth against Jack’s skin, Jack leaning his weight back into Robby’s body, and Robby holding both of them up.

“Sit so I can get your legs?” Robby says into Jack’s ear, water slipping into his mouth.

They carefully rearrange themselves so Jack can take a seat on the bench, knees parted wide for Robby to fit himself into. It’s one of his favorite places, sexual and not, to be between Jack’s knees.

Robby gets more soap on the cloth, and like earlier kneels in front of Jack. He gently washes away any residual grime from his stump, careful and delicate with the rough texture of the cloth. The little sighs of relief from Jack motivate him, somehow loud in the quiet of the shower.

Neither of them have had intimacy like this in months. Sure, they tried the phone and FaceTime sex thing, and it was fine, but getting off and being taken care of aren’t necessarily the same thing. So Jack’s little hums, the way his fingers hold at Robby’s elbows, the roll of his head against the tile wall, it warms Robby. It settles something in him that’s been overturned since he left Jack at the airport, and if this is doing it for him, then it’s probably tenfold for Jack. Jack, who needs to be tactile, who values physicality with a partner in ways that Robby is still learning and understanding.

“Stay there.” Jack says when Robby finishes with his legs, making sure to wash around his penis and underneath the arch of his foot.

Robby settles back into his haunches, watching as Jack leans over to get Robby’s shampoo between his hands. He closes his eyes when Jack’s fingers card through his hair, letting out a deep and heavy sigh at the feeling of nails digging into his scalp. It’s not necessarily rough, but thorough. The kind of wash that hair needs after being in hospital air all day, collecting who knows what from who knows who.

Jack works the soap through the strands of his hair, tipping his head back to rinse off in the direct spray of the shower. He goes where Jack’s hands move him, turning his face to the side so Jack can scrub at his beard, from underneath his ears, over his lip, to the bit under his chin. Laughing just a little when Jack gets suds up his nose, trusting him to not accidentally waterboard him in their shower.

He sits up further when he feels the rough of terry cloth to his neck and shoulders, keeping his eyes closed as he tracks the movements through feeling alone, sighing when Jack puts them practically chest to chest so he can scrub over his back.

“Stand up for me?” Jack asks quietly, and Robby complies, carefully rising as to not slip, leaning an arm against the shower wall for support.

Cloth resumes across his body. Over the soft of his tummy, Jack following the movement with a kiss above his belly button, and down his hips. Carefully around his penis, lathering around his pubes. Thighs follow, the crown of Jack’s head pressing into his hipbone, tapping either of Robby’s knees to lift a foot.

Robby opens his eyes when he hears the splat of the cloth to the shower floor, finally letting himself lean down into Jack.

Their mouths are slippery with shower water, tasting gently of soap suds and morning-evening breath. Tongues relearn the feeling of each other, dance over canines and incisors, lap at dried and pruning lips. Robby leans back to pepper kisses across Jack’s face, to the corner of his lip, the side of his nose, to the crows-feet he loves beside Jack’s eyes. And Jack returns the favor, pulling Robby in to kiss his forehead, the mark underneath his eye, the dimples hidden behind his beard.

Eventually, when they find the will to get their mouths off each other, the shower water’s turned off. They dry each other off, Robby leaves and brings them back sets of clothes and Jack’s crutches. Himself sweats and a sweater because he runs cold, Jack boxers and one of Robby’s faded Feinberg shirts because he knows it’s a favorite.

Teeth finally get brushed, medicines get taken, and phones get put on chargers, Do Not Disturb in place for both of them.

It’s too early for Jack to go to sleep, but now he’s time-fucked in a completely different way and Robby doesn’t have the will to convince him to stay up a couple more hours. Not when it means they get under the covers together, not when he and Jack immediately find each other’s bodies across the California King mattress, not when this is the most at home Robby’s felt in over a hundred days.

“I think,” Robby says into Jack’s chest, already drowsy with the gentle drag of Jack’s fingers across his back, “I want to start wearing my ring at work.”

Jack’s fingers don’t stutter or stop, they don’t pause or hesitate, they keep their drift up and down the length of his spine. Easy, certain, “I’m ready if you are.”

Robby swallows the thick emotion that bubbles in his throat, “It’s nice being yours.”

“It’s nice being yours, too.” Jack leans forward, curling awkwardly to press a kiss into the crown of his head, “Told everyone on base who asked that I was. Felt good to be out like that since I couldn’t before.”

Robby responds with a kiss to Jack’s sternum, to his heart.

February, Day 0