Work Text:
The slide into his late forties changes the topography of Robby’s body slowly and then all at once. A bit of tightness in his Carharts when he tugs them on in the morning leaves a deep, red indentation around his midsection when he unbuttons them at night. The waistband pops open with relief but Robby can’t find that same feeling. He prods at the skin as it blooms into a bruise as the days pass, and thinks about the time Jake showed him a YouTube video of some kids wrapping rubber band after rubber band around a watermelon. It had groaned and bulged from its midsection before shuddering and exploding in a fantastic splatter of pink flesh and seeds. He feels such sympathy for the watermelon, now.
Robby stares at his pants where they lie lifeless on the floor before borrowing a knife from Jack’s bedside table. He slashes a ruthless cut from the thigh up through the waistband, but the satisfaction only lasts for a moment. He stares at the knife and imagines slashing a similar gash on himself: not through his flesh, but across the discomfort he feels when he looks in the mirror. He could excise the disgust and allow pride or even just neutrality to grow in its place.
Instead, Robby massages his belly once more, pulling it this way and that to find the shape of what it used to be. Find in his reflection the memory of how he used to look. Ultimately he frowns, and hunts for his laptop. He starts adding things to his cart in larger sizes, but only finalizes his order in the morning when Jack lumbers home from his shift. At his inquiring look, Robby gestures at the unwearable pair of work pants laying at the foot of the bed. Jack simply shrugs, asks him to also get him a new pair in army green, and crosses the room to step into the bathroom.
When Jack returns, he smells like cedar and fresh laundry, and Robby tucks in behind him for a nap. Robby notes all the places where he and Jack press together as they lie flushed against one another. Jack is structured and solid with muscle. Robby’s hand rests on Jack’s diaphragm where a layer of soft skin protects the strength of his core underneath. In contrast, Robby is heavy, drooping, and exposed in his malleable curves. His gut is fleshy, swollen and he reaches to pull the elastic of his boxers up around his stomach. Maybe it will hold everything in, act as a protective and supportive girdle. But the fabric only stays put for a moment, then rolls back down in surrender.
Jack rolls them and cozies up behind Robby. He murmurs something into the back of his neck – sleep-dumb nonsense that must make sense in his dreams – and sneaks a hand to rest on his belly. Robby freezes, clenches his abs, and waits for Jack to recoil as his palm measures the width of his gut and the protrusion of his fat. Instead, his husband exhales deeply and contentedly, and his thumb paints lazy circles across his bellybutton.
It’s been one year since Adamson died.
One year ago, Robby turned off the ECMO that was pushing air into his lungs and blood into his heart. This year, Robby didn’t climb out of bed. He couldn’t fathom putting on his scrubs and his PPE. It felt too close to reliving a nightmare.
Jack went to work because Jack does the hard things and fights his way back to Robby every time. He took a decontamination shower at the hospital, and then another one with Robby upon his return where they held each other up under the water. Now, they are huddled together under a soft sheet in the quiet of their bedroom. Jack’s skin is still glowing rosy-pink from hot water and meticulous scrubbing. They are sharing air and misery.
“Why him?” Robby whispers.
“I don’t know.” Jack is holding Robby’s hand hostage and is playing with his fingers. “Are you going to ask, ‘why not me?’”
“No.”
“Yes.” Jack says at the same time, already knowing what Robby’s answer was going to be. Neither of them speak for a minute. They both know Jack is right.
Robby dives back in. “He had none of the markers or underlying conditions for increased risk. No chronic diseases and his blood pressure was within healthy parameters. His heart was so strong, Jack. He ate fucking salads and took the stairs-”
“Monty was sixty-seven, Robby. And he worked in the emergency room. That exposure alone is an increased risk.” Robby’s eyes are red-rimmed a lot these days and Jack can’t help but rest a palm over his heart. It’s thundering with life and grief.
“But why not me? He had a wife, kids, and grand-kids. A sister. A career. A job he loved. A community. And I just-” Robby closes his eyes on a weighted exhale that deflates his frame. His parents are long gone. No siblings. Bubbe died five years ago. He and Jack knew kids would never be a possibility because of their work. What else fills his life?
Jack snorts. “Fuck you. It’s just me. You have just me. It’s okay, you can say it. You’re wrong and an asshole, but you can say it.” Jack still has Robby’s hand and even though he tries to pull away, Jack doesn’t let him. If Robby wants to dislocate his own finger, that’s his fucking choice. “You are grieving, we are both grieving, because we both lost Monty, okay? But it’d be nice if you didn’t imply that your world–which includes me, you absolute melon-head–doesn’t have any value.”
Jack tugs hard on Robby’s wedding ring, which doesn’t budge. Their hands are swollen from the constant PPE wear. Robby feels stretched and puffy and generally miserable in his body at all times.
They don’t fight in bed. It’s one of the Rules. Robby laces their stubby fingers together and kisses Jack’s knuckles. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, you are.” Jack rubs the short end of his leg up Robby’s from his foot to thigh the way Robby hates. Not because of his scars, but because it’s against the grain of Robby’s hair and it tickles. Robby kicks him. Jack huffs a laugh. “Kiss me, spoon me, and snore me to sleep, babe. We have another day of fresh horrors tomorrow.”
Robby kisses him, flips him onto his side so they fit together like two exhausted parentheses, and lays awake, ruminating on what he deserves long after Jack goes slack in his arms.
Jack never converted to Judaism. He never felt the call. And Robby would never have pressured him into it. However, when they got married, Jack got entrusted with Bubbe's recipe cards and discovered a whole new culinary world in the process. She wrote those cards for Jack: their time together was too short to pass on all that she had inherited at the knee of her own Bubbe. In the margins of the cards she scrawled notes like double onions in winter and skip dill for jack. One card simply read for misha. Jack tucked that card in the back and kept it safe.
It wasn’t long before their home was singing the sweet and savory melodies of Robby’s childhood: buttery, sweet eggy challah hot from the oven that they picked apart with their hands while arguing over answers to the morning crossword. Fried potatoes swimming in oil and love. Kugel. Kreplech, Matzo. Blintzes. Every bite tastes like family and joy. Jack’s eyes shine as Robby tells stories of briskets past or when Gramps left the oven on while the whole family went to shul. Robby’s eyes shine as Jack sets a tray of knishes on the table with pride and thinks, yes, you are my home now.
Their kitchen table sits against a square window with a decent view of the street. As Robby picks at leftover latkes drowning in sour cream, he wonders if a doctor’s worth should be measured by the lives he saves or the lives he takes. Robby loves the tastes of home. He just isn’t sure he deserves the comfort of food anymore.
This will be the second holiday season the Adamsons celebrate - or rather, endure - without Monty.
Gloria reminds Robby again that Human Resources are awaiting his updated numbers from his annual wellness exam. Faculty are required to submit blood pressure, cholesterol, a general blood panel, and diabetes screening results for insurance purposes. They’ve been assured it would all remain confidential.
Jack sees a host of doctors at the VA, and takes care of his medical appointments in a full one-day siege: primary care in the morning, prosthetist over lunch, and physical therapist in the afternoon. All of his results are packaged up and delivered with efficiency after he refills his prescriptions.
Robby has a clinician at a primary care facility separate from PTMC, and he will only go if Jack makes the appointment and drops him off. Robby is also rewarded with ice cream afterward for his bravery.
They are already managing his cholesterol and blood pressure medically. But now Dr. Fawcett wants to address the visceral fat resting like a weighted fanny pack around his waist. Robby studies his shoes, unfamiliar with the shame that floods his system as someone else acknowledges the shape of his body. Her words are parakeet copies of the ones in his own head. Intellectually, he knows some men are genetically predisposed to store more fat in their bellies than others. Robby didn’t get a chance to learn about his father’s family before he and Robby’s mother died, but he supposes he must come from a line of these men.
But, Robby reasons, he also did this to himself. Genetics, maybe, but his body is the result of free will and the idea of cooking dinner after twelve hours on shift is untenable. Torture. He would rather turn back around and put another hour in at the Pitt.
Jack, however, is a bright-eye, red-haired, sharp-tongued marvel. The man has lived the majority of his life on what Robby has charitably termed ‘muscle-head bachelor chow’: high protein, high carbohydrates, and a diversity of oils and fats. Jack stocks a lot of beef jerky, greek yogurt, avocados, and protein powder. He quick-fries frozen meats like pork chops, turkey burgers, and salmon filet on a beat up George Foreman grill that he’s been toting around since 2012.
Robby eats what is convenient. He will eat what Jack saves for him, or he will eat what sounds good to grab on the way home. Salts, sweets, empty calories. He is a master at ordering take-out: he has memorized the schedules of all the places which will do deliveries and how reliable each of them are. Robby is perpetually exhausted and stressed. He just can’t prioritize the kitchen.
“All of this excess weight puts you at increased risk for heart disease, stroke, type two diabetes, and other metabolic syndromes. It’s past time to take action, Michael.” Dr. Fawcett sits on a wheeled stool beside him. Part of what Robby likes about her is that she doesn’t treat him like a doctor. It gives him permission to misunderstand or ignore the symptoms he should have clocked in his own body much earlier. Symptoms he would have noticed in patients immediately.
“Your BMI is pushing you into a danger zone. We need to talk about diet, exercise, and addressing the level of stress in your life. Too much cortisol and you’ll just be canceling out any lifestyle changes.” Her hands are cool and professional as she palpates his abdomen. Robby considers the ceiling while she finishes his physical exam. When was the last time he used BMI in his treatment of a patient?
Dr. Fawcett includes some glossy pamphlets on weight loss in his summary paperwork, including a tri-fold on Mental Health and your Changing Body. He glances at it while he waits on the curb for Jack to pull up - just to make sure it isn’t about puberty - and sees a recommendation that he consider himself a ‘person with obesity’ and not an ‘obese person’. Language matters, it says, particularly as he begins his journey to a healthier version of himself. Consciously or not, one hand rests at his belly button until Jack slides up to the curb and Robby slips into the passenger seat.
Message received: he has to lose weight. Doctor’s orders.
Monty didn’t smoke. He didn’t drink. He was fastidious with his diet, always walked to work, and practiced patience, humility, and balance in all things. His love was abundant, his wealth was measured in the strength of his relationships. He didn’t deserve to die.
Monty shouldn’t have died. Robby killed him when he should have saved him.
Robby, who smokes, drinks, eats from the vending machine, rarely exercises, and treats his mental health as disposable.
Jack sees his therapist once a week, which is less than when he and Robby first got together. Sometimes he adds an emergency session when he notices his triggers are stacking up. Robby slept through his psych rotation twenty-five years ago. He knows he is experiencing grief and he knows he fits the diagnostic criteria for PTSD from the global pandemic they endured, but who in healthcare doesn’t? Saying any of it out loud won’t change a thing. Might as well rub salt in a wound for an hour and pay for the privilege.
He’ll be fine. Stress is part of the job. Everyone is under pressure. He can handle it.
Robby stares at himself in the mirror before pulling a scrub top over his straining t-shirt. Dr. Fawcett’s words continue to roll around in his mind like loud glass marbles clacking against each other. A person with obesity. That is something treatable.
Robby sees Dr. Fawcett for another annual physical. His numbers have only worsened. She sighs as he steps off the scale and points to the paper chart tacked to the wall to show where his BMI now rests. As she discusses his lack of progress, Robby thinks about the loving and gentle way Jack holds him in the kitchen while they sway to the tinny music on Robby’s crackly AM/FM radio. Will his hands feel as kind on Robby’s hips when he gains five more pounds? Ten?
When Robby returns home, Jack takes a look at his numbers which tell the same narrative from a year ago. Increased risks. Excess weight. Shame in black typeface. But when Jack reaches the bottom of the page, his fist clenches and the paper crinkles. “Fucking BMI? Really, Robby? Is your doctor practicing medicine in the 1990’s? Did you have to enter a time machine when you checked in?”
Robby carefully packs his bag for work so that it is ready to go in the morning. “She isn’t wrong about my weight.”
Jack and Robby haven’t talked about it directly, they’ve just danced around it in small moments. Jack will catch Robby grimacing at his reflection, or he will watch Robby rifling through the clean clothes for a specific shirt that fits. No amount of touches or tender affirmations have made a difference so far. Any time Jack approaches with loving arms or caresses to the skin he adores, Robby shies away.
Jack takes a seat at their table. “Okay. Is that what’s been bothering you? Your weight doesn’t dictate your health, babe. This is just-” He waves the paper in his hand. “This is antiquated bullshit, and I know you know that as a physician. We can make some changes to how we eat. Drink water instead of nine cups of coffee in the morning.”
All Robby can do is shrug. The last time he opened social media on his phone to check the photos of Jack’s nephew, he saw advertisements for two GLP-1s and a men’s comprehensive health subscription that would “lower weight, improve hairlines, and resolve erectile dysfunction”. Every part of Robby feels heavy.
Jack smiles and points at his husband like an excited mongoose. “We got this. I am a man with a plan. We just have to start a heart-healthy regime.” He is nodding, thoughts wheeling off into the distance as he plots a course. “How are your tennis shoes? In good shape? Who am I kidding, they suck.”
Robby suffers his kindness, but he did sign up for all kinds of eternal suffering when they got married. They go to the store and he gets new shoes and athletic shorts that fit. Afterward, they eat salads in the kitchen like gerbils.
“This is stupid,” Robby says.
Jack spears a cherry tomato and bites into it with his mouth wide open. The juice splatters everywhere and he grins, young and dumb. Robby loves him desperately. “You’re stupid. Keeping you alive is fun.”
Jack works nights and Robby is an adult, so Jack tacks meal plans to the fridge, a sleep schedule to Robby’s nightstand, and then mostly leaves him to it. When their time aligns, Jack cooks balanced meals and they eat together. Jack says, ‘come to the gym’. Robby goes.
‘Come to the gym’. Robby goes.
‘Come to the gym’. Robby goes.
He weighs himself six weeks after the Health Kick began: he has gained weight. Jack stands on tiptoes to prop his head on Robby’s shoulder. He wraps his arms around Robby and rests his hands on his stomach. “Muscle weighs more than fat tissue, babe. We still haven’t checked your BP, which is what I care about. And I love all the vegetables you are eating. Turns me on.”
“One pound is the same as one pound, Jack. It’s the same. People say dumb shit to fool themselves all the time.” He shrugs away from Jack, throws his arms through his t-shirt and tugs it down. The cotton stretches uncomfortably across his midsection and Robby tsks.
“You know what I mean. You’re adding muscle mass to your body. It’s good. Your bones will thank you. Your heart is happy. I get really happy when your heart is happy.” Jack makes what he thinks is his best lecherous face. Robby leaves the bathroom silently. Jack hangs his head. “This fucking scale is going to drive me fucking insane.” He points at it and lowers his voice. “Your days are numbered, pal.” The threat is lessened by his own chuckle as he calls out to Robby, “You just missed a really good joke in here!”
Robby is already in bed when Jack flips off the bathroom light. He turns back the covers on his own side and snuggles in, but Robby freezes when Jack plasters on like a limpet. Jack sighs. “This isn’t about numbers, we talked about this. I fucking love you and your body and your tummy and-”
“Oh, please don’t. I can’t hear it again tonight, Jack.” Robby’s tone is weary, but he still settles back against Jack. Robby removes Jack’s hand from his belly, laces their fingers together, and rests them over his heart instead. He lays awake after he feels Jack surrender to the pull of sleep.
Of course it’s about numbers, Robby thinks. And there has to be a better way to get better numbers.
After that, food becomes a dance.
The choreography is intricate and learning it takes time. There are missteps, bruises, and a bit of improvisation along the way. But as he masters the dance, the weight begins to drip off.
Every morning Robby stands at his locker and stares at the box of protein bars he keeps on the top shelf. What does he need to eat today to balance the heaviness and acidity of the coffee he will drink to keep his brain stimulated? When he eats too little, he is nauseated and unfocused for hours. Sign-outs suffer, patient satisfaction scores tank, and the residents notice his lack of attention to detail.
When he eats too much, the bloat of breakfast makes drinking anything an uphill battle. Dehydration, chapped lips, and excessive swallowing chase him all morning. Robby catches himself cupping the swelling of his belly more than once in an obvious sign of discomfort. Dana’s attention snaps to him each time he circles the hub. He doesn’t need her worry or judgement.
Water. Water with electrolytes. Water and more water.
Lunch is an exercise in evasion tactics. He doesn’t let himself get pinned down. When he eats, he stays on the move: an apple in hand on the way from radiology to the ambulance bay, or a cup of cottage cheese while pacing in front of the board. All of it is easy to abandon as soon as a case or consult pops up. No tupperware, no microwaves. Robby is careful never to finish anything.
It’s the illusion of eating.
Anyone can say, “Yeah, I saw Robby eating a granola bar when he passed BH1.” Eye-witness testimony. No evidence, no proof. It’s hearsay. Soon no one is saying, “Yeah, I sat down with Robby and we ate lunch together.”
Dana isn’t a moron, and in her world, snitches never get stitches. They get expensive bottles of wine courtesy of Jack Abbot.
Robby does not want to die. He doesn’t. He is not going to kill himself.
He just doesn’t want to be here anymore. It’s a terrible and violent way to feel every day.
Robby wants to disappear.
So, he does. Pound by pound.
It’s Wednesday around five in the evening on Robby’s day off. Jack has just woken up and shuffled into the kitchen, sleep-ruffled and grumpy. He is rummaging inside the fridge hoping to find something to throw together for breakfast before he heads to the Pitt. Robby is having a hard time focusing on anything from his position on the couch because Jack has puffy, sleepy eyes and mussed curls flattened on one side. It’s evidence he slept well. It makes Robby proud for some reason.
Jack calls over to Robby, “You ever just wake up and want to eat your weight in vegetables?”
Robby shakes his head. “That has never happened to me.”
He can feel Jack shrug from where he is. “Must be an ‘I spent too much time in the desert’ thing. All I wanna do is eat lettuce. But, Jesus Christ,” he whistles, low and unimpressed. “The state of our fridge is a nightmare. It’s just cheese and lunch meat here. Who went grocery shopping last?”
Robby says, “I think you know the answer to that question.” Jack slams the fridge with more gusto than he needs to. He’s got milk in his hand and Robby watches with a grimace as Jack takes a swig straight from the carton. “You know I hate that.”
“And you know that I hate Pepper Jack cheese, and yet, it keeps appearing in the fridge like we’re connected to some kind of Pepper Jack Magic Portal.”
Robby waves a hand at him, returning to his journal. He can’t remember what he’d been reading. Something with homeostasis in the title. “Just have a bowl of cereal or something. I know there’s Fruit Loops in there. Pretend it’s real fruit.” There is some clattering of dishes and general kitchen sounds before Jack interrupts again.
“I ever tell you Alicia did all the cooking? I had to learn everything from her. And,” Jack raises one prim finger in the air, like he’s holding court as the only male in an Intro to Gender Studies class. Except, Jack went to West Point: he had to unlearn the gender studies taught there. “This wasn’t some bullshit hetero-normative housewife situation. She genuinely liked it. Plus she was the primary income earner too, after I went full tripod.”
Robby loves him like this: waking with the dusk and gathering his energy as the world around him winds down. His eyes shine as he picks up steam. Jack’s story washes over him, and Robby wonders if Jack realizes he defaults to the hand with Alicia’s ring on it and not Robby’s when he talks about her. He’s gesturing with it still, the tungsten sleek until it glints in the overhead light. Robby hopes he doesn’t realize. He hopes that the blood in Jack’s heart makes decisions for him and guides him in the right direction.
“I wouldn’t have survived without her. I mean it. And that’s not just me being grateful that she stuck it out or whatever. I mean physically. She did everything. It was the definition of being nursed back to health, I swear.” He taps his spoon on the edge of the bowl. “She ladled soup into my mouth like she was feeding a baby bird. An ugly, disgruntled bird. And I was so fucking mean, man. Just a ripe, pathetic bastard.”
Robby can feel the line they are toeing. He can hear Jack pushing.
“She couldn’t help it. It wasn’t about a stupid promise we made in front of our friends and family or God or anything. Alicia was just-she was just like that. She wouldn’t have given up on me.” Jack finally sets his bowl in the sink. “I’d like to think that’s one of the best things I learned from her. You think so, Robby?”
It’s there, easy, sitting on Robby's tongue. Melting, like the chocolate he has denied himself for weeks. Robby’s mouth floods with saliva, and he can’t decide what he’s going to throw up: the truth or more lies. Help, he could say. Help me.
Robby ducks away. “So, she did everything. Your role in that marriage was what, then?”
Jack spends a long moment considering Robby over the rim of a coffee mug and it’s like something fizzles out behind his eyes. He nods, adjusts his shoulders and the smirk he volleys back is playful but dimmer than normal. “Well, she didn’t want for orgasms. I’ll say that for sure. And pal, I bet you can relate.”
Robby’s eyes cut to the stairwell that leads to the third floor around one in the afternoon. There is a fast solution to his stomach problems on the days he gets the equation wrong. Too much breakfast, or the wrong balance at lunch, or too much water, or maybe he just feels too bloated.
There is a single-occupancy bathroom on the third floor that only staff and faculty have access to. The four digit code on the door rotates every academic quarter for privacy. It’s a few doors down from the small but nice office Robby barely uses. He has left it mostly unchanged from the time Adamson occupied it, only adding a few more IKEA shelves since then. Robby watched a sweaty Jack build them one morning after a shift, cursing, slamming and screwing pieces that likely weren't supposed to fit together. He stepped in before Jack could take a swing at the particle board with his carbon fiber prosthesis. And so far, the shelves are doing their job despite groaning under the weight of medical texts and publications.
Jack also bought Robby corner lamps, suggesting they would make for a softer, more approachable atmosphere, since the space lacks a window. Robby has to concede that Jack had been right. Now, his office is both comfortable and functional.
The bathroom is the real prize. It’s always clean, for one, since Robby estimates only about five people ever use it in a day. Dr. Henderson from neuro stocks it with a scented candle for ambiance, and someone added a bathmat last year. It’s private. No interruptions. No one banging on the door yelling for him to hurry the fuck up, or dragging him away for a consult. No one uses all the toilet paper without restocking it. The bathroom is also close enough to the ED that he can jog down the stairs and be back in a minute. Robby has a convenient, logical reason to be on that floor at any time. An alibi.
In short, Robby has found the perfect place to purge at work.
He treats himself to a slice of cheesecake from the hospital cafeteria when he slips from the Obese to the Overweight category on the BMI chart. It’s a short lived victory as the sugar and dairy settle like rocks in his shrunken stomach, but after a visit to the third floor, he is back to work.
As his numbers drop, Robby runs the BMI calculations in his head. When will his numbers finally be low enough?
Robby knows it is impossible to lose weight in just one place on the body. Fat is fat, and now that he is choking nutrients from his body, it is clawing after food wherever it could get it.
But, he starts to like the way he looks. Maybe even as much as the way he feels looking at the scale each morning.
His normal routine of ducking the bathroom mirror changes, and he lingers longer on his post-shower tasks. His collarbones are more prominent: they are emphasized but not ghastly. The effect seems to broaden his torso in a masculine way. Robby stands taller and admires the way his scrub top lays across his chest without tension, no longer straining from his armpits or up his shoulders.
His gut shrinks. When he looks down, he can see his toes. He can see his cock. On his lower right abdomen, above his hipbone, is a five centimeter curved line of faded scar tissue from the appendectomy Robby had in 1983. For the first time in two decades, Robby can see the scar when he looks down the plane of his body. He had forgotten all about it.
His face loses some of its roundness which accentuates the shape of his nose and the cut of his jaw. He can see the parts of himself that he inherited from his grandparents, from his ancestors.
His clothes fit again. And then they get comfortably loose. Robby drops another pant size and rather than order more pants, he works a new hole through the leather of his belt with a screw driver.
A nurse on the night shift says, “Looking good, Dr. Robby,” as he is heading out the door one night, and it sends him staggering into the door jam. The flush on his cheeks isn’t embarrassment: it’s pride.
Not everything goes smoothly. His body rebels at the pace of his weight-loss, which, as a physician, he anticipated.
He tries all the flavors of gum - even the disgusting cinnamon kind - but none of them helps with the tangy, after-acid taste of bile in his throat when he finishes throwing up. Robby has an excuse for the gum anyway since he is known around the ED for chewing the nicotine kind.
He keeps a toothbrush and paste in his office, but the mint is cloying in his nasal passage.
The only thing that truly does anything is Tums, which he needs anyway for the acid and heartburn. It helps with the sick sour scent that clings to him.
Some of his muscles begin to atrophy. Lifting patients at just the wrong angle becomes agony for the rest of the shift. Taking the stairs leaves him gasping like a man twenty years older. Robby’s digestive system suffers too; constipated one week and relying on immodium to get him through the night the next one.
He can’t prescribe himself anything stronger to alleviate his symptoms. Robby picks up more fiber supplements and a bottle of laxatives at CVS before clocking in for another twelve hour shift.
He doesn’t visit his bathroom every day, but the frequency definitely increases after Pittfest.
Everything is worse after Pittfest.
Jack brings up therapy again seventeen days after the MCI.
“Maybe.” Robby is not trying to be dismissive, but Jack is mentioning it as they are exchanging kisses for car keys in the parking lot outside PTMC. They have just finished handoff and Jack is walking him out to the car to say goodnight. “You’re about to go on shift and I just spent twelve hours on my feet. Let’s talk later, okay?”
Jack nods. For the third day in a row, Jack watched Robby pack tupperware full of untouched food into his backpack before they walked out. “No time for lunch today? Board looked pretty quiet to me.”
Robby ignores Jack’s pointed look by not looking at Jack. He is annoyed at himself: usually there’s time to at least eat a bit, or throw some out, or eat more and then get rid of the evidence on the third-floor. “There were some flares of activity in the afternoon. Things got away from me. I’m headed home to eat.”
“Okay. There are a few options in the fridge, but I did finish the lasagna. You could also order something.”
Robby knows he is being handled and he doesn’t like it. “I’m fifty-two, Jack. I know how to feed myself.” Jack doesn’t say anything about the absurdity of that statement, which is worse than if he had spoken. He opens the driver’s side door and steps back so Robby can get in. Robby swallows. “Good shift.” Jack gifts him a kiss and bonks their foreheads together.
“Goodnight.”
On a bright, sunny afternoon with the drapes wide open, Robby pulls Jack into the bedroom by the collar of his shirt and kisses him breathless. Robby strips Jack’s clothes off slowly and savors every inch of skin he reveals before tipping Jack onto the bed with an oof.
Robby shucks his pants and follows him down. Jack stretches him on two, three patient, slick fingers and when he’s sure Robby’s ready, he enters him in an agonizingly slow grind. It takes ages for him to fill Robby up. They both grunt and Robby keens when Jack stills with his hips flush with Robby’s ass. Sun streams through their bedroom window and Jack takes a selfish moment to admire the strength and curve of muscles in Robby’s arms. He curls one hand into the bottom hem of Robby’s t-shirt.
Robby is splayed on his stomach, a pillow under his hips and one leg shoved up to open him wide. Jack finds a rolling, tortuous rhythm that he loves and Robby hates. His toes curl. This intimacy feels special. Robby feels connected, like his skin fits in just the right way against Jack’s and he wants more. He chases the feeling.
Robby pushes up and gets his elbows and knees under him. Jack grunts and is almost unseated, but keeps his hold on Robby’s hips and slams back in with more force than usual. It hasn’t been like this in ages. “Fuck, Robby. What-”
“Like this, like this. C’mon.” Robby hangs his head and when he peers down, his t-shirt hangs loose from his torso. His body looks younger, looks fitter, looks like it did when they used to fuck around all over the house: blow jobs in the kitchen, taking each other rough and fast over the back of the couch. Sex in the shower has always been a little fraught, but not impossible. Robby can blow Jack just fine in his shower chair.
They are in their fifties now and they work opposite shifts. They are a little less creative and a little more exhausted. They make love in the dark, sometimes. Robby leaves his shirt on. They trade handjobs under the covers before falling asleep. Condoms are back on the shopping list: not because they need them, but because clean-up is easier. It’s marital bliss and Robby has never had a complaint. But now his stomach doesn’t hang low, his hips are trim, and he feels beautiful. He feels desirable.
Jack adjusts his weight forward, one hand clamps on a hip and the other sneaks up Robby’s shirt to fit itself, loosely, around his neck. The heat of their skin sliding together nearly distracts him from the fact that Robby’s hip is more bone than love-handle. “Yeah, baby? You want it hard?” Robby’s moan is answer enough.
So Jack takes him like that, sweaty and rough. Robby’s shoulders are firm and his gut is tight and when he widens his knees to arch his back just a bit, Jack growls and grips Robby’s throat harder and comes with stuttering breath. Robby follows him over untouched and makes a mess of the sheets.
Jack topples to the side, chest heaving like he’s just been chased. When he stops staring into the face of God, he huffs out, “That was different. Good, but different.” He slants his eyes to Robby, who is also gasping for breath. “What’s got you gagging for it, man?”
Robby laughs, full and joyous. “Can’t I just want to have sex with my husband?”
Jack smiles at the ceiling. “There’s sex and then there’s sex. This was outright fucking.”
Robby can’t help but mirror his smile. “If you are complaining, I can take my business elsewhere.”
Jack flings his body on top of his husband and rolls them into the wet spot. They kiss and cuddle and revel in the warmth of their skin. When Robby drops to sleep, Jack extracts himself and slips onto the balcony to dial Dana. While the phone rings, he flexes his hand and feels the echo of Robby’s bones in his palm.
“-make yourself sick because you feel uncomfortably full?” Dr. Santos is speaking softly, but the position of her body allows the sound to travel toward the door. Robby pauses on his way past the exam room.
Santos’ bedside manner has improved exceptionally since Pittfest, and Robby trusts her to take on more sensitive cases. He can’t hear what the patient says in reply, but does hear how Santos follows up.
“That’s okay, thanks for answering honestly. I just have a few more questions, okay? Do you worry that you have lost control over how much you eat?” Again, the voice of the patient is quiet, but Robby can tell when she begins to cry. The gentle fwoosh of a kleenex being pulled from a box precedes Santos’ next question.
“You are doing really well. I can tell how hard this is for you. If you think about the last three months, could you guess how much weight you’ve lost? It’s okay if you don’t know the exact amount; an estimate is totally fine.”
Robby takes a step back and then another. The realization that he could be in that room as a patient with Santos almost knocks him sideways. It’s a slimy, chilling bodyblow. He doesn’t want to listen to Santos run through the rest of the questions he knows by heart. He needs to go. He needs to not be in this fucking hospital.
Robby blinks and he’s upstairs standing outside his third floor bathroom, keying in the four-digit code, fist pressed to his mouth. He makes it inside just in time. There isn’t much to bring up - he hasn’t been on shift very long - but crouching over the bowl is instinct by now. The chill of the porcelain is no longer comforting and the scent of Dr. Henderson’s fucking candle no longer enjoyable. Robby can’t even look at himself in the mirror as he cleans up.
Dana is where she usually is, commanding traffic from Central and doing it with poise and power. Robby gestures for her to walk with him. “Listen, I’m coming down with something. I need you to call Dr. Montlake with an ASAP on-call page.” Dana opens her mouth and Robby holds up his hand. “Before you ask, I’m fine, and I don’t need you to call Jack. It’s his day off, he needs to sleep. I just need to go home and do the same.”
Dana can’t and won’t be dismissed. She cares too much and is not accustomed to being shushed, not even from Robby. “Christ, you look terrible. Let me call you a car. Come, sit.” Her arm reaches out to curve around his shoulder and he jerks back from her touch.
“Stop. Just, page Dr. Montlake.” Robby pivots so he doesn’t have to see the look on her face. He imagines it is similar to the one Jack has been wearing lately when Robby turns away his offers to go out to eat or to go on dates. Betrayal, hurt, frustration which then smooths into placid acceptance.
He jerks his backpack out from under the desk and is out of the hospital before she can say anything else.
Jack finds Robby in the bedroom in his sleep pants lying on his front, diagonal on their bed. Robby feels the press of his hipbones into the duvet when he inhales and holds. Jack watches him breathe before climbing up to sit at Robby’s hip. He doesn’t think he can go another minute without touching Robby, so he doesn’t. The skin of Robby’s back is shower-warm and soft. Jack avoids the piano keys of his ribs.
“Dana said you didn’t finish your shift. Doesn’t sound like you.”
Robby has his chin resting on his folded forearms. “I don’t think I’m okay.”
Jack waits for the count of two good inhales and exhales. “Do you wanna say more about that?” He feels Robby shrug, and when he slides a hand up to play with the hair at his nape, Robby whispers, “You know what I mean.”
Jack does, and he has known for a while, but he thinks it would be good if Robby tells him anyway. “I want us to be on the same page here, babe.” Robby turns his head away from Jack and partially hides in the safety of his elbow. One of them forgot to zip a hoodie before throwing it into the dryer because there’s a steady click click click of a metal zipper as the laundry tumbles. The sound filters in from the hallway. It’s the only noise in the room beyond their breathing and Jack’s soft massage.
Finally, Robby elaborates. “I can’t-I don’t. It’s the eating. I don’t remember how to be hungry. I don’t like how anything tastes.”
Jack stills his hand between Robby’s shoulder blades. He drums his fingers as if he were chewing on something before resuming the slow, reassuring sweep across Robby’s back. “Can I ask some questions?” Robby nods his head into his arms. “How is your blood pressure? Are you checking it?”
“Could be a little low. I stopped the lisinopril. I was dizzy all the time.” That makes sense: if the lisinopril was dropping his blood pressure and lack of essential nutrients was causing the heart to pump slower and slower, of course he would be suffering side effects.
“Have you been throwing up?” Jack thinks he knows this answer too, and there’s a little confirmation in the way Robby’s muscles all stiffen and he rolls away from Jack’s touch. He stands and puts physical distance between them.
“I said this was about eating. If you aren’t going to listen to me-”
“I’m listening. I am right here, just a guy listening.” Jack doesn’t move from his place on the bed and doesn’t let his eyes trace over Robby’s torso or stomach. “Hypokalemia. Metabolic alkalosis. QT prolongation. That’s all I’m talking about. Can you just answer the question?”
“Electrolytes are under control, and potassium was in the normal range on my last blood draw.”
“Robby. Are you throwing up after you eat?” He watches Robby begin to pace, his shoulders rising. Jack is glad he has the energy to be upset. Robby yanks a drawer open and shoves himself into a sweatshirt. It’s one of Jacks and it sags on Robby’s larger frame.
“Fuck you.”
“Okay. I know this is difficult-”
Robby cuts in, sharp and bitter. “Oh, do not fucking doctor voice me right now.”
Jack stands up then, stripping away some of his clinical composure and letting himself react the way his heart wants to. “Fine. You’ve lost what, twenty-five? Thirty pounds in the last four months? That’s way too fast. I know you are skipping meals. I know you are throwing up - Dana confirmed it. There’s something going on in your head and I don’t understand it. But I want to, Robby.”
“So you’ve got Dana spying on me now?” Robby actually looks stricken.
“You are a lot of things, Robinavitch, but subtle is not one of them. Santos and Whitaker went up to the third floor just to see what the hell you were doing up there. They thought there was some secret faculty-only vending machine.”
Robby smiles down at the carpet, brittle and broken. “I’ve been subtle enough to get this far.”
It’s Jack’s turn to be angry. “Fuck you.”
They stare at each other for a long moment before Robby runs a hand through his hair and Jack rolls his shoulders.
“Could you just come over here?” Jack asks and Robby shuffles over like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done. Jack loops his arms all the way around his body and thunks his head into Robby’s collarbone. “This is serious. I’m worried. You must be worried. But I don’t know how we do this alone. We can’t do this by ourselves.”
Robby hates how scared Jack sounds. The feeling in his stomach plummets to humiliation, and the triumphant curves of his ribcage against his clothing suddenly turn frightening.
Jack Abbot takes three days off and gets down to business.
He is a man of action. He survived three tours. Mostly. He coached his nieces’ peewee soccer team to a winless season. And still, the Jackalopes had an amazing time.
And for fuck’s sake, he is going to stare Robby’s eating disorder in the face - because that’s what it fucking is - and rip it to shreds.
Jack starts at home. The bathroom scale soars through the air like a poisonous, ruinous metal Frisbee when Jack hurls it into the dumpster in the alley. It’s so satisfying he wants to climb in there just to fish it out and do it again.
Or maybe he will jump in and lay down. Throw himself away. A slow rotting decay in a heap of garbage seems like a fitting farewell to a guy who didn’t intercede sooner. For a husband who stood by while his partner was fading more and more day after day. Can Jack even justify himself? That he didn’t want to step on a landmine, not again? The Commander who presented Jack his Purple Heart went on and on about courage and duty. Seems like he ought to send it back. He doesn't deserve it. He never did.
He has to come to you, Jack. It needs to be his choice, Jack. Give him a safe environment to fall back on, Jack, Jack, Jack. Fucking motherfucking Jack.
He knew better. He did. But he stayed on opposite schedules and let his own shit distract him. He felt Robby pulling away, he felt the anger and the shame.
Might as well have provided Robby a weapon and stood by while he pulled the trigger. Might as well-
Something primal rips out of Jack’s chest that he didn’t know had been festering. It cracks up from below his ribs and Jack screams, long and guttural, until there are tears in the corners of his eyes. His lungs are heaving for air and his body doesn’t feel any better, but maybe his soul does. He only returns to the house when he notices Mrs. Kagan staring at him from her living room window, holding a phone like she might be ready to call for help.
Jack does what can: he falls back on his routines and books an emergency session with his therapist Steve, who refers Robby to a therapist (Gail) and a nutritionist (Kyle). Robby sees Gail without complaint that night after his shift, but he does come home so emotionally depleted that he cries when Jack mildly suggests soup for dinner. Robby slams the door to their bedroom and doesn’t speak to Jack for the rest of the evening. Jack sits against the closed bedroom door and reads Robby articles from Reader's Digest long after he hears the nightstand light click off.
On the second day, Jack meets with Gloria. Robby eyes him as he strides through the ED on his way to the elevator, but whatever Robby might be feeling, he still reaches up to catch the kiss that Jack blows to him across the room. He squints in suspicion as he tucks the kiss into the breast pocket of his scrubs. Jack smiles and salutes as the elevator doors slide shut.
Gloria is waiting for him in her office. He takes a seat opposite her and slides a sealed letter from his therapist across the desk.
“I’m requesting accommodations for a pre-existing mental health condition that has recently been exacerbated. All of the details are in there, but I would call it a personal favor if you would take my word for it.” Jack has discussed with his therapist how caring for Robby might bring up his own relationship with his body. Being self-aware and decently-adjusted is exhausting.
“A lot of the information in there is about Robby. His shit can’t be separated from my shit because of the whole ‘death-do-us-part’ situation, but his shit shouldn’t be shared just because mine needs to be. A bit of a marital shit storm, if you will.”
Gloria blinks at him for a few seconds and then opens a filing cabinet to retrieve a folder. Jack can see it’s labeled with his name, and it is significantly thicker than the folders around it. He wants to ask what the hell that is all about, but before he can, he watches as Gloria picks up his unopened letter and plops it into the folder. Setting it aside, she looks back at Jack and says, “Okay. What do you need?”
Pittfest took everyone for a ride, Gloria included. Jack realizes it really has only been a few months, and Gloria’s ‘PTMC is a Family’ speech doesn’t feel as hollow these days. Over the course of the next half hour, Jack leads the negotiations. Gloria agrees to him switching to day shifts if he will pick up on-call night shifts every other weekend. It’s an easy yes: spending more time with Robby is the top priority. Jack signs off on it.
Robby is going to feel as though Jack is babysitting him, but Robby can go kick rocks. Jack is babysitting him.
On day three, they have Robby's appointment with the nutritionist. Kyle specializes in geriatric eating disorders and when Robby sees that on the website, he stays rooted at the kitchen table for twenty minutes. It almost makes them late to the appointment, and he absolutely does not appreciate any of Jack’s jokes. (“Are they gonna fit you for dentures, you think?”)
The first half of the appointment goes about as poorly as Jack anticipated. Robby is recalcitrant, embarrassed, and evasive. Kyle isn’t put off, even when Robby’s anger boils over to cover the discomfort of being under scrutiny.
Everything Kyle has to say in the last ten minutes of the appointment is directed at Jack. “This is going to involve extreme changes to both of your lifestyles and the way you communicate with each other. It will be as much your journey as it is Robby’s.” Jack nods, already feeling his desire to protect and provide rising. There’s a wave of fear radiating from Robby through their joined hands, but Jack just squeezes tighter.
The weight came off Robby quickly. Dangerously so. Jack has treated patients with complex mental health conditions and eating disorders. Diabulimia and anorexia. ARFID and bulimia. None of it looked like this: like his own beating heart withering in fear and despair. Jack would give anything if he could flip out his prescription pad and set Robby on a course of medication to resolve this by next week. Beg, borrow, pawn, steal, break, sell - Jack doubts there is a limit to what he would do to make this right. To give Robby his hope back, or-
No. This isn't about Robby. Okay, it is about Robby - his Robby - but society helped do this to him. It was a perfect storm of conditions, alright, that put him as risk. Made him vulnerable to the sirens in his head that muffled any positivity or love. Diet culture. Weight stigma. Healthcare bias. Stress. General distrust and-
Jack startles when Robby lays a hand on his shoulder. His other hand smooths the lines between his eyebrows where they'd been furrowed in concentration. "You look like you are waging a war in your head. All good?" He's holding out a stack of pamphlets for Jack and already has his coat shrugged on. Jack takes the papers and flips to the meal planning booklet like a prize he has won at the state fair - eyes shining with excitement - and he can tell Robby hates him just as much as he loves him for it.
When they get to the car, Jack spins Robby until he’s pinned to the sun-warmed metal and crowds against him. “You did a good job. I’m proud of you.”
Robby rolls his eyes to the sky and lets out a beleaguered breath. “It’s not going to be like this, is it? Positive reinforcement? Sticker charts?”
“There are a few reward systems I could drum up, yeah.” Jack grins and exhales. Robby’s cheeks are pink where the sun paints him in light. His cheekbones are pronounced. Jack wants to cup his face and kiss every inch of him until his love has been layered into Robby’s skin permanently.
Robby let's a small smile bloom. He can’t help it with this guy. “Let’s just go home.”
Jack sneaks a single kiss, slightly off center, to Robby’s quirked lips. “Buckle up, pal. You think you’ve seen ‘through sickness and health’? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”