By shift’s end, Jack was exhausted, stubbornness an ache in his bones. There was no particular patient on which he could hang how he felt, no single case that had thwarted their efforts and stolen their win—only the grind of bar fights and food poisoning, a dusting of fevers, traffic accidents and crises in the night. He bumped elbows with Dana as she looked up at the board, but ducked his head and slung his backpack over one shoulder before she could say anything much.
Some days there just weren’t words enough.
Home was quiet and familiar and beautifully dim. Jack dropped his bag inside the door, avoided the kitchen and headed right to the bathroom, stripped with an efficiency of which he was proud. Sitting on the shower bench before he turned on the water he checked on his leg on some kind of autopilot, knowing by touch as much as sight that he was sore but would do.
The water felt sixteen kinds of exactly what he needed, blisteringly hot. He sluiced his disappointments down the drain as effectively as he could.
Their bedroom was dark, the curtains still drawn, but Jack didn’t need daylight to orient himself toward the bed, to lean his crutches against the nightstand or to ease beneath the sheets. Robby grumbled slightly as Jack pressed in close, as he rested his cheek against Robby’s shoulder, and Robby’s hand moved to cradle the back of Jack’s head. Robby hummed softly, shifting slightly to take Jack’s weight, nosing into his damp, curling hair. “You want to talk about it?” he asked softly, his voice a welcome rumble beneath Jack’s ear.
“No,” said Jack, and Robby was warm and pliant and sleepy against him. He was all that Jack needed. He closed his eyes and hung on.
