Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Okay, that's it for me," Dr. Robby says. The red lights leave his face as the ambulance passes. With a grunt, he hauls himself onto his feet; Dr. Abbot eyes him.

"Beer for the road?" he offers.

"Yeah, why not?" Dr. Robby catches the offering tossed to him from Donnie. He weighs the beer in his hand, and he turns back to the group as part of his goodbye.

"Goodnight. Get some rest–" he tips his head to Javadi, but tells them all, "Tomorrow's another day."

There is no expression on his face. Back turned, he puts his earbuds in his ears, drowning away something he was thinking about with music. He walks away slowly, his feet scraping the sidewalk as he meanders through the park.

A horrible feeling settles in the pit of Dr. Abbot's stomach. The cold beer in his hand and the chuckles of his coworkers aren't enough to draw him away.

He waits until Dr. Robby passes the third street light, watching him intensely.

"I think I'll turn in, too," Dr. Abbot announces. He plants himself back on his leg. His sore calf protests. When it's his turn to address the others, he tries to sound wise and paternal, "The rest of you, behave yourselves. You have the weekend to sleep and cry and get hungover, but when you come back, you better be on your A-game. Got it?"

Javadi and Dr. Mohan bow their heads, the latter lifting her beer in a toast as Donnie, Mateo, and Princess look amongst themselves, seemingly ready to sleep or cry or get hungover.

He tips his half-empty can toward the group. "I'll see you when I see you."

Dr. Abbot spends the walk to Dr. Robby sipping escaped beer from around the can's top. He thinks that Dr. Robby must be more exhausted than he himself believes, because he catches up to him quickly. He just hopes that the others aren't watching them too closely.

As soon as Jack reaches Robby, he claps him on the back to announce himself.

"Nice night," Jack says as a precursor.

Robby pries an earbud out, staring at him sideways. There is still no expression on his face. The smallest strum of a guitar rings from his earbud.

"Mm-hmm," he murmurs. Then, nothing. Robby keeps walking.

Might as well rip the band-aid off. With a little prickle of anxiety in the underbelly of his jaw, Jack lowers his voice. "I'm not letting you go home alone, brother."

At this, Robby regards him fully. A knot forms between his brows.

"Come to my place, yeah?" To entice him further, he markets, "I got that fancy detachable shower head; new salt in my filter; makes the water nice and soft. Some expensive prosciutto's been sitting in my fridge in desperate need of frying. I can sprinkle rose petals on the bed, get the mood lighting going–"

Finally, he makes Robby crack a smile. He tucks his chin into his chest to hide it, but Jack already knows he's won.

"Yeah, fine."

Infected, smiling, Jack says, "My car's about a mile that way, over yonder." He points with his thumb over his shoulder; they'd have to go back through the park the way they came, walk past the others in the tangle they've found themselves in.

"Let's go the long way around."

Jack holds the door open, the house keys jingling in his free hand, letting Robby enter before he does. They toe off their shoes in unison; the pairs sit side by side. Well, two of Robby's and one of Jack's. He throws the keys in the bowl and places his backpack gently on the ottoman; Robby asks him a question with just his eyes; he gestures to the empty space, then to his mudroom table. In goes Robby's keys, and down rests his own bag.

He watches Robby scrub down the back of his neck. He says, "I got a stash of that pine-oil body wash you like in the guest bathroom."

"How you spoil me," Robby says.

"Go soak. Take your time. I'll have something hot and ready when you're out."

Jack goes to his room, following behind Robby down the hallway, leading him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades. Robby branches off into the guest room. Once inside his own room, he changes out of his bloody scrubs; he pulls a clean shirt and sweats from his pajama drawer for Robby to wear. They're older, softer, more likely to fit on Robby's larger frame. Robby receives the clothes with thanks.

In the opposite end of the house, as he hears the distant spray of his fancy detachable shower head, Jack gets to work on dinner. He turns on the TV for background noise. He chops and pan-fries the prosciutto like he would cheap bacon bits, saves half of it on a paper-towel-laden plate, and throws together a quick carbonara sauce with the rest. His stomach is growling. He had no time to eat what he would consider his breakfast before he came in. He can't imagine how hungry Robby must be.

By the time he sprinkles in what's left of his parmesan, Robby has emerged from the shower. He smells like pine oil. His still-damp hair ruffles in this or that direction. The tiredness in his eyes has lessened only somewhat, cheeks rosy from steam. The shirt is even a little loose on him, which is surprising.

He asks, "What are you making?"

"Old-fashioned bacon carbonara." He stirs a hurricane into the pasta with tongs. Melted parmesan coats the noodles. Leading with his shoulder, he looks over to Robby and says suggestively, "I think I see a piece of bacon over there about to fall off the plate. Better go save it."

Instead of taking the bait, Robby pats his upper arm, squeezing.

Jack 'hmphs' and says, "Your loss," as he pours the crumbs into the mix. He loads their two plates with equal servings. If he were any more responsible, he would have steamed some frozen broccoli, but Robby needs something cheesy and fatty, not any virtue-signaling greens.

"Is this how you spend a night like tonight?" Robby asks.

"It's how I cope. At least cope long enough until my next session with Dr. Mayer." Taking a plate in each hand, he imparts wisdom, "Shower, scrub away all the gunk, make something to eat, find something to watch on TV, and take my pants off."

Robby smiles. Smiling back, he shoulders past the other man and sets his dinner and beer at the end table beside his lounge chair. Robby lags behind, having reunited with his road-beer, cracking it open; he mirrors the sound of the carbonation. Jack folds open a dinner tray at the couch – at the spot closest to his chair. Robby plants himself down heavily and takes the plate from his hand so he can more easily lock the tray.

"No dining table yet?" Robby asks, amused.

"What am I? Civilized?"

As promised, Jack reaches for his waistband upon meeting his lounge chair. He can see the whites of Robby's eyes, watching him as he drops his sweats in one smooth motion, but he pretends not to notice; he piles the pants on the other side of the chair for decency. Next, he sits; with a grunt of relief, pries off his leg and then the sleeve around his stump. The pressure of a long, long day immediately releases. Blood rushes into the sore limb, mildly itchy. Clad in only a sleep shirt and plaid boxers, Jack sighs into the height of luxury, cradled by his beloved lounge chair.

In the corner of his eye, Robby pretends nothing has changed. He doesn't eat in earnest until Jack takes his plate to his chest and twirls a heavy bite for himself. When he does try the pasta, his eyebrows raise off his head. He points at the meal with his fork.

"Good."

Jack says around his own mouthful, "You like it?"

"Mm-hmm." His brows come together.

Some old sitcom, Gilligan's Island, he thinks, is playing on the TV, volume so low that he has to strain himself to hear if he doesn't want to reach for the remote. The clinks of their forks – the occasional sip from a beer – the evening is quiet. Now, Gilligan's Island is not the greatest backdrop for the kind of conversation Jack wants to have, but Robby is sufficiently invested in his meal, softer after the shower. Time to strike.

Jack asks innocuously, "Do you wanna talk about today?"

He watches the other stiffen. "I thought we did."

Making a face, Jack shakes his head in consideration. A bacon bit drops onto his collar, and he saves it quickly; salt bursts in his mouth. "We did emotional triage, sure, but triage is the first step in the treatment plan."

"I already asked for your therapist's number," Robby says, as if he were reasoning, What else do you want from me?

"And I'll give it to you, don't worry," Jack says. "Emotional triage says you're stable right now, but you can crash any minute."

"You're calling me unstable now?"

"Well, seeing how upset you are at the very mention of today's events, I would hazard a guess that you're holding yourself together with earwax as glue."

"Look, I just want to eat and go to bed," Robby grumbles.

Jack just stares at him. Not with anger, though his eyes do thin, as he lets the silence stretch, watches Robby start to shift in his socks.

The skin around Robby's face sags. "If I crash now, I'll end up flatlining."

"I am a doctor," Jack says matter-of-factly.

Robby takes the medical analogy, twists it around into a knot, and drops it at Jack's feet. He says, eyebrows drawn up his head, "Are you seriously trying to goad me into having a mental breakdown right now?"

"I'm not trying to goad you into anything you don't want to do. I'm just saying that a good cry helps anybody. Especially after a day like today."

"Jack," Robby cuts himself off, exasperated. "I already did."

"No, you didn't, Mike–"

"I did." He looks down at his half-empty plate. Shame heats his cheeks red. "I broke down in Pedes earlier. I don't know what time it was. I cried then. A lot. I don't need more of it."

At this, Jack looks genuinely thoughtful. He pauses to let the words sink in, then says quietly, nodding, "Okay..."

Robby looks away. He bites his lip.

"Okay," he repeats. "What happened after that?"

"Don't do that. I know what you're doing."

Jack sets his plate aside. He leans closer, waving with his beer can for emphasis. "You told every poor soul in that trauma bay to go home and cry it out. Suddenly, that doesn't apply to you?"

He says, "I already did."

Appalled, Jack shoots back, "Look at you, man, you're already starting up again. You can't tell me you got it all out. What kind of role model are you if you don't practice what you preach?"

Finally, that seems to get through to him. The other man sighs out dragon's breath, face twisted into knots, quelling a sudden surge of emotion.

"I'll take a page from Dr. Mayer's book and ask you," Jack says, "what do you need from me right now?"

After a pause, Robby tells him, "I don't know."

"Sometimes, you just need a shoulder to cry on."

He eyes Jack's bare knees. "I'd prefer a clothed shoulder to cry on, if that's okay with you."

"Done." His sweats are recovered and wrangled over his hips in record time.

He leaves the beer with the leftover pasta and gestures for Robby to move over, who complies. He maneuvers himself onto the empty spot – wise not to comment about the warmth left behind – and rests his hand on the couch's spine, just behind the other man's neck.

A pause. Robby awkwardly wedges his hands between his knees.

"So," he says. "I just... start crying?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

Robby looks off, like he's been introduced to some new-age concept he can't comprehend. A beat passes. He shuts his eyes and looks down at his lap. Two. Jack almost thinks he's got it when he stands up, blurting, "I can't do this."

"Hey, hold on now. You're giving up before you even try?" Jack says.

"I did try. Just now."

"That was trying?" He waves vaguely in confusion. "And I suppose me thinking about the concept of drinking a beer is me trying to drink a beer?"

Bringing his shoulders up to his ears, Robby says, "Technically, yeah."

Irritated, Jack glances off and then returns to him, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

"You had it just a few minutes ago," Jack says.

"I know. I–" He strains, "I just can't."

"Sit back down."

Robby plants himself down without a word, scratching his beard.

The flats of their thighs press together. Jack feels close enough to brush the other man's cheek with his nose. He murmurs, "It's right there, Mike. I can feel it."

"You can feel it?"

With a breath of a laugh, he says, "Yeah. Shit, you act like I don't know you."

Robby sniffs – though he's smiling painfully.

He forces eye contact. It takes a few seconds. He plants both hands on his knees, aligning himself into Robby's vision like he remembers doing only an hour before, catching his gaze, staring deep into his big brown eyes. He says, "It's grief leaving the body. Like you said. And grief is a real motherfucker. It hurts like a motherfucker, it chews you up and spits you out – it makes you feel like you're dying, but you won't die. You won't."

His pupils flare with something like fear. Jack blinks. Gentler, he asks – his voice barely a breeze between his teeth, "Is that what you're afraid of?"

Robby swallows; his throat clicks. "Breaking down isn't going to kill me," he says reasonably. The red rings around his eyes deepen in color. "I just... What if I can't come back? From– from wherever this takes me?"

"You're not going anywhere without me, brother. I'll drag you back from wherever you go."

Quiet. Jack sighs out his nose, and the sound grates on his ears. Gilligan's Island's opening credits are churning beyond them, nearly silent. It might be what finally breaks Robby. He turns to the screen, trying not to laugh, trying not to lose himself too soon.

"Turn the TV off, Christ," he says as he clumsily presses his knuckles to his mouth.

"Yes, sir," Jack snickers. He takes the remote. The screen clicks off. God, it's so dark. When he returns to Robby, he can barely see the tears trembling in his eyes.

He brings his hand around Robby's shoulders, starting at his forearm and skating along his frame until he captures the opposite shoulder. Like a toppling boulder, Robby tilts into him. They wind around each other, closer, closer, until Robby has curled against his chest, ear to his heart. His head and hands are hotspots. He smells like pine oil.

He says, "Not going anywhere without me. I got you, Mikey."

"Mikey," Robby echoes, helpless, like the name is completely ridiculous.

Smiling, he gives Robby a firm pat on the back, setting a horse to run.

"I don't," Robby says, "I don't know how to do this."

Jack almost wants to remark that, of course, Michael Robinavich needs instructions on how to cry. But he doesn't. Instead, he cracks, "Just do what you did before, but on purpose."

"Not helpful."

"I hear it in your voice right now." No reply. He watches Robby pop each finger under his thumb. Sighing, Jack says slowly, with patience, "Breathe deep. Relax your face. Drop your hands. Listen to that pain in the back of your throat. It'll get bigger, and louder, and it'll tell you what it wants you to do. Listen to it, and let her rip."

Robby does as told. He breathes deep. His ribs separate underneath Jack's hold, then come together again. A breath catches, then another, and Robby shifts closer to his chest. He blows air through a tightened mouth. In, out, in, out, until he is audibly swallowing down whatever's coming up.

A pause. Robby sighs out again; a shudder runs through his body, the epicenter his shaking shoulders.

"That's it," Jack tells him, face close to his hair.

Terror dislodges from the lung wall, coming up in sniffles; Robby instinctually tries to hold it in, but with an affirming rub between his shoulder blades, his breath trembles. This is part of the panic response. Adrenaline courses through him, most of it leftover and locked behind his eyes. Jack can feel his knees rattle in their sockets beside his own.

"What does it want you to do?"

Robby's body jerks as the beginnings of a real sob, an ugly one, breaks past his teeth. He holds Jack tighter, and Jack affirms, squeezing. He releases each sob as they come, like he needs to force it, but soon, the pain begins to pour out of him.

"That's it. Let it all go," he murmurs. "I got you."

Before he falls under the current, Robby blubs, "Stop– stop talking, Jack."

This time, he listens. He tries not to smile.

Terror shifts to hopelessness; he coughs it out as it dislodges; tears dribble onto Jack's sweats. This emotion comes with less shaking, but he knows Robby's ribs are going to be sore – his chest collapses in on itself with every lurch.

Hopelessness shifts to pure, pure sorrow. It's wheezing. It's ugly. It's exactly what Robby needs. He cries, and cries, and cries, and cries, and cries.

Jack plants his cheek atop the crown of Robby's head. Just hearing it makes hot tears prickle in the corners of his eyes as his own emotions start to decompress. Empathy with nowhere to go. His first sniffle causes Robby to jerk suddenly.

"No, no, you–" he manages, "you can't start. Only one of us can do this at– at a time."

He teases, voice droning, "Why, 'cause you want all the attention?"

"Because– cause– I can't support you like this."

Jack pulls away just an inch, as if he could look him in the eyes when he's embedded himself so far into his chest. "You don't have to support shit. You're the one losing your mind, and you're still thinking about how you can help somebody else? You're fuckin' hopeless."

He doesn't respond. His breathing borders on hyperventilation – he can't keep a breath in his lungs for long enough to use it. He might have tried to speak, but a new wave crashes over him.

"You don't have to support shit right now," he repeats. "You hear me?" A nod; his raw cheek scrapes against his collar. "That's kinda the whole point of making you do this now. I wouldn't advise having a breakdown of this caliber alone, and I knew it was gonna happen to you whether I was there or not. I could see it in your eyes when I was talking to you out there."

Robby curls his arms around himself. His fingers fall on top of Jack's.

"You scared the shit out of me. I was afraid you were gonna throw yourself off your condo roof, man." He laughs as he says it, but he means it.

"I wasn't," he blurts.

"You never know what you're willing to do when you're that far in. To make it stop. It's where you're the most dangerous. Your survival instincts go into overdrive. Your thoughts aren't words anymore. All you wanna do is get out of there, but you can't, because once you start, it's not gonna let you out until it's chewed you up. That's the nature of it. You're not gonna die, but you feel like you are, and that maybe you'll want to because that'll get the pain in your chest to stop. At that point, you'll do anything."

Silently, Robby agrees. He forces his ribs to their full capacity and then loses the breath, catching on imaginary branches all the way down. His hands are dripping wet from wiping at his face.

He tells Robby, "You needed a safe place to land, and I knew I could be that," when another fit sneaks up on him, as some memory presses against his bruised heart. A memory from before tonight; the day before, the week before, longer. Jack keeps his hold firm. Then comes the next, and then the next – infinitely further into the night, until even Jack wonders where he's getting all these tears from. If he has a 5-years' supply locked away; maybe 10 years' worth of them. 20. Longer.

Eventually, Robby's cries sound like winces of pain. Eventually, he retires to catching breaths when he can reach them, tears dribbling endlessly, too tired to weep. Jack can feel the pulse in the seam of his bicep beating against Robby's forehead as he tips forward.

"God, my chest hurts." Robby's voice is barely there.

"It'll do that to you." Jack draws his hand down the ladder of ribs, instinctually counting each rung; his body is hotter than it was before. "How's your head?"

"Worse."

"I'll get you a compress and some Tylenol in a second."

Hiding his face with a forearm, Robby peels himself off his chest; a tear touches his own sweatpants for the first time. He curses under his breath. Jack can't help but smile. He drops his arm, revealing the swollen, nearly blood-red dark circles under his eyes.

"I think–" he says bravely, "I think I'm done."

"Yeah?"

He nods like a little kid would. Clears his throat – sniffles again, groans, sways as his head flares. Finally, he plants a hand on each knee, looking into the blackened TV screen.

Jack looks down to assess the damage. His shirt has a head-sized blotch down the front. His knees are damp. He's cold now, without the embrace.

"Sorry for ruining your shirt." Robby can barely laugh, still hitched by the occasional hiccup.

Weary of the other man, he stretches over for his leg and gets onto his feet. His own chest is sore. Empathy with nowhere to go. He says, "Don't worry about it, man. Just saltwater."

He takes the plates and beers to the sink and trash respectively, trading the plates for one of the larger water bottles he owns. As Robby watches him over the couch's spine, like he might disappear if he ever looks away, he preps a cold compress – just a washcloth he runs under the faucet – and a little medicine cup that carries two 500mg Tylenol pills, the maximum dose he can medically advise; he pours an electrolyte powder into the water.

The water is presented to Robby first, as he orders, "Drink all of it. I'mna get you more when you're done."

"Yes, Doc." Robby's voice is unbelievably sore. He takes the bottle with shaking hands. Then, he swings back the Tylenol, chasing it with a glug.

Jack presses the compress to his eye without a needed warning, and the man beneath him winces like he's been burned.

"Sorry," Jack says, not sorry. He switches eyes as he sits down.

Sighing, Robby accepts his fate; his fingers curl around the bottle weakly, unable to drink with Jack's arm in his way. The free half of his gaze bounces around Jack's face.

He asks, "You okay?"

And Robby looks like he's about to lose it all over again; his mouth curls into a watery smile, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "No."

"That's expected; completely okay."

Back to the first eye. Jack holds the back of his head, keeping him in place; the pressure has to be doing something. His shoulders relax a little farther. "Feels like my whole body is a... raw wound."

"I mean," Jack says, "You tore open your emotional scar tissue so it could heal back correctly. Believe me, brother, about a hundred times in the past three years I've been in the exact place you are right now. Hurts like hell."

"Like a motherfucker." He sneaks a few more gulps when Jack draws away to refold the compress. "What time is it?"

Jack flips over his watch. The surprise leaves him in a single laugh. He announces, "It's midnight." Robby whistles. "And you, Robinavich, have been bawling your eyes out for two hours straight."

"Mm. New record. What's yours?"

"Three and a half." He debates whether or not to tell the story, but he keeps it at, "It was the last time I owned a gun."

His confession catches the other man so off-kilter that he visibly sways. When Jack returns to him, he wipes down the delicate skin around his eyes and cheekbones, distant from the memory, looking blank-faced.

"Anything to get it to stop," he adds quietly.

Robby's eyebrows knot together. His eyes shine all over again – Jack shrugs it off. A hand, firm, warm, captures his shoulder. It's not his turn to cry. It is his turn to weasle away from the other man's gaze. "It was a long time ago. Don't worry about it."

When he returns to the task at hand, he can't meet his eyes; Robby hisses every time the compress meets his face, until he ducks away entirely, and Jack surrenders. He finally discards the washcloth onto the TV tray, having warmed with the heat of Robby's reddened skin and his own palm.

Again, Jack parts from the couch. He drapes the cloth halfway into the sink basin. Robby sniffles once in the background. He walks back to the front door, where the ottoman sharing two backpacks sits, and their one and a half pairs of shoes, and the side table with their bowl full of keys. He rummages through the bowl, taking Robby's keys in hand; he splits the ring with a thumbnail and feeds the spare house key into it, joining the family.

"Going somewhere?" Robby asks.

"Nope. I'm putting my spare on your key ring." Jack keeps his back to him. "It's the golden one. Has the house number on it."

"Why?"

He deadpans, "'Cause I want you to have it." He thinks about tossing him the keys, but the exhaustion would have most likely delayed his reaction time. Instead, he puts the bundle back with his own.

Robby scratches the back of his neck. He sniffles again. Blinks slowly. Confused, maybe. Arms folded over the couch's spine, Robby plants his cheek down. His eyelashes flutter closed, then he forces himself awake. Jack can imagine how heavy his entire body must feel.

"Is it time for bed already?" he says.

"Think so."

"You finish your water?"

A little laugh. "No."

Jack gives him a fond look, not answering. Facing him, against the wall, he folds his arms and bows his head, just to let the moment soak. Then, he jerks, as if to say, Come on.

Just two hours before, he was leading Robby to the guest room with a hand between his shoulder blades; it's deja vu. He overhears Robby blowing his nose in the guest bathroom as he changes out of his clothes for the second time that night.

Footsteps pass the doorway. Robby lingers. The light from the hall drowns him, causing a corona around his head. His hand ghosts the door frame, as if to say May I come in?

Jack smiles.

They practically fall into bed. Robby settles, topless, into the normally empty half. A healthy spat of fur coats his chest. The scruff on his chin is still damp. Jack, indecent by normal standards, comfortable by his own, only in boxers, his leg forgotten against the bedside table, stretches his arms over his head. A golden Star of David shines around the other man's neck, even against the dark bedroom. Blackout curtains disallow the very mention of light. Still, it glitters. Dog tags jingle at his own sternum. They stare at the ceiling, side by side.

The sides of their bodies are flush, skin to skin; Robby's labored breathing echoes through his arm and brushes Jack's ribs on each inhale. He tries not to think about it.

"You are going to sleep like the dead."

"Oh, I know. It'll be the best sleep I've gotten in months," Robby chuckles.

Hushed, he says, "The new and improved coping strategy, à la Michael Robinavitch; Shower, make something to eat, find something to watch on the TV, take your pants off, put them back on–" Robby barks a laugh– "and cry until you can't anymore."

"Then find the strength to cry some more." A quiet scrape against his beard. Wiping a straggling tear, maybe.

"Definitely doesn't help that 'raw wound' feeling."

"No," he agrees. Jack feels his presence shift just that much closer; he brushes the exposed underside of his arm with his nose, the peach hair just beneath the elbow. "I feel like... everything that could go wrong went wrong today."

Jack says with a sigh, "Murphy's Law," as he drapes the other arm over his stomach. "One of the dictating laws of the universe."

A mirrored sigh, troubled this time. A sniffle. "We lost so many people."

"Even if God himself scrubbed in and got in there, we would still have lost everyone we did."

"Still wanted to ask Him for– for a couple favors." His voice breaks.

"Mike."

"Shit, I thought I was done–" he grunts– "'m sorry."

"God, you don't listen to anything I say, do you? Get over here, you big lug." He feeds his arm underneath Robby's head, turning his bicep into a makeshift pillow, arm curling until his fingers brush his hairline. Now pliable, Robby forces himself onto his side – rests a hand on Jack's stomach just above his.

Robby cries. It's more subdued this time. It's quiet. Tired. It's not the adrenaline surge of terror, or the crushing wails of hopelessness, or the weak whistling breaths that come with sorrow.

Finally, he's reached grief.

Tears tap onto the inseam of Jack's arm, rivering down either side how they see fit; he can barely hear him. He isn't even sure if Robby's breathing until he breaks out of the holding spell to suck in a breath that precedes the next wave. In intervals, he curls in on himself, compressing his body, and then releases in a gasp for breath.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Jack feels for his alarm clock, taps the screen. 0043. The intervals have distanced themselves long enough that he guesses Robby has mostly calmed down.

"I want you to listen to what I have to say right now," he murmurs.

Robby's voice shakes. "Mm– mm-hmm?"

Mouth close, he says, "If you ever, ever, feel like getting up on the roof, or just need a good cry, or a meal, or – or anything, you go to my place instead, okay? You got my spare. Use it. Doesn't matter if I'm asleep. Doesn't matter if I'm not home. Just walk in and sit down, and I'll be there. In some way or another." He intertwines his fingers atop the other man's outer shoulder. "You don't have to stand on your own two feet anymore, Mike."

Sniffling, nodding, Robby scrapes his arm with his beard. His hand fits snug wedged underneath Jack's. Something else dislodges when he sighs, like somebody plucked the pin from a stabbed balloon, and he deflates.

He says after a minute-long pause, "Does that mean I can stay for the weekend?"

Jack nearly can't believe what he's hearing; he lifts his head, as if he could see Robby's expression in the darkness. "You thought I was gonna let you leave? After all that? Hell no."

It takes the last of his strength to laugh. His chest settles. Jack tests the waters, curling and returning his thumb, back and forth, over where he's captured his shoulder. It seems to help. What it helps, he doesn't know.

"I think I'm... going to talk to Kiara when I get back. See what resources she has," Robby murmurs. Eyelashes brush his inner arm. He's closed his eyes.

"Good."

A pause. Jack thinks he might have dozed off when he suddenly says, "Are you coming back to the hospital at 2:00?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jack says. "I'll probably call for somebody to cover me."

"You don't have to do that."

He wants to say, Of course I do. Instead, he looks into the darkness where Robby's face should be, imposing a peaceful, if swollen, exhaustion; he pretends that his arm isn't beginning to throb underneath the other man's temple.

Instead, he says, soft as air, "Go to sleep, Mikey."

Robby doesn't reply.

Corporal Abbot supposes he should have expected to have a nightmare.

His ears are ringing. He is blinking blood from his eyelashes. The world is a miasma of smoke. The transport truck has been toppled over. Corporal Abbot was closest to the blast, foot on the pedal, just underneath the wheel that was unlucky enough to discover a present.

Logically, Corporal Abbot knows that this is not how he lost his leg.

The film is still turning. Corporal Abbot, fifteen years younger, is lying on his side, bent over the central console in a way that should not be possible for a human body. Breaking open the window with his elbow, he is heaving his way out, head exposed until the rest of him is leveling onto the side plane of the truck. He isn't sure where the rest of his crew is. Where his medical bag is. There should have been a caravan behind him.

Corporal Abbot is trying to place down a foot that no longer exists. The pain should have shocked him awake, but it doesn't. There is only blood.

The dream is not stopping.

Screaming without sound, he is prying off his belt, the closest thing to a tourniquet he can find, and is tightening it at the top of his thigh, like how he was taught.

Corporal Abbot is reaching into the quarter-destroyed truck, fumbling for his medic bag, for his walkie, for anything. The truck is empty. His nose is bleeding. A clot falls from his nose and splatters onto the opposite window beneath him. His ears are bleeding. Droplets, like the rain, follow. There has been no sound. There is only blood, and the dream is not stopping.

Hands on his shoulder.

Corporal Abbot opens his eyes into blackness; his thoughts aren't words. He throws himself upright – a hand hooks around his elbow.

"Easy," Robby says. "Easy."

Robby's hands move to capture his shoulders, the frontal plane, pinkies brushing his pecs, easing him back down onto his side, against the fur of his own chest. Gritting his teeth, Corporal Abbot wills his breath calm. He flexes his fingers out from their fists.

Mouth close to his ear, Robby whispers to him, "Breathe. I got you, Jack."

Jack blinks imaginary blood out of his eyes. He breathes in until his lungs threaten to burst– his back pops – and then releases in one long gust. There is an itch in a limb that once existed fifteen years ago. It throbs. He swallows thickly. In his now-freed arm, static fizzles. Robby ushers him closer, fingers finding his clavicles as a landmark; one palm shields his heart.

Their synchronized breathing is the only sound in the room. Like rain, it soothes the creature in the back of his head that feeds on fear; the muscles there release.

His own tears surprise him. A tear completes its journey from his eye to the bridge of his nose. He blinks the onslaught away.

"I'm glad you're here, even if you... you didn't have anybody to catch you," Robby murmurs.

A pause, then he kisses the soft, worn spot behind Jack's ear. The press of his mouth stretches for what feels like forever, pure reverence. Jack wonders if he's going into cardiac arrest.

He feels his own pulse thumping as Robby settles into his shoulder, head resting against his neck. His breath catches when he inhales.

"I'm good," he whispers, before Robby can even ask. "Go back to sleep."

Robby sounds breathless. "You're such a fucking hypocrite."

They laugh together for a moment. Jack's chuckles curdle, and he clamps his mouth shut; his leg still hurts. He can still feel a blood clot in his nose. Maybe that's real. He doesn't want to put his head up to check.

"What was it you said?" Robby brings his mouth to that soft spot again, not touching it, only instructing, "Breathe deep, relax your face, drop your hands. Listen to the pain in the back of your throat. Let her rip."

Jack nearly cracks right there. One end of his mouth pitches in a smile.

He breathes deep. Relaxes his face. Drops his hands.