too many stories, not enough time @doubleabatteriez - Tumblr Blog

so i do not have to raise the dead

pairing: jack abbot x michael "robby" robinavitch wc: 8.6k summary: it gets dark, and robby calls. cw: angst with a happy ending, suicidal thoughts, suicidal behavior, post season 2, alternating pov, road trip, emotional hurt/comfort, explicit sexual content, consensual but not safe or sane, past infidelity (apologies to the late mrs. abbot), mutual pining / pining while fucking, dirty talk, anal fingering, masturbation, anal sex, fist fights, love confessions, the author's poorly-disguised desire to be rescued a/n: title is from emily berry's poem "(i agree)" from her book unexhausted time. please mind the tags. i want to emphasize that this story deals heavily with suicidal ideation, so please proceed with caution. there are no graphic depictions of suicidal behavior, but it is a major theme. i hope my own experiences have allowed me to succeed in portraying that struggle with as much tenderness as possible. it's very close to my heart! as sarah ruhl wrote in melancholy play — if someone in your social circle becomes to melancholy that they stop moving, it is your duty as a human being to go find them. it is not enough to seek medical attention. it is not enough to ask them how they are feeling. you must go to where they are and get them. it is part of the social contract.

read on ao3 ** i prefer the look of lowercase text on tumblr, but if you prefer to read with proper capitalization, the ao3 version has that. :-)

jack's in the car less than ten minutes after robby calls him, and not for the first time, he's thankful for the backpacks he always keeps stocked for emergencies. go-bag with a full trauma kit and several thousand dollars worth of portable medical equipment. second stuffed full of everything he'd need to survive for at least a week if he's lost somewhere far from civilization or just snow-stranded in a town with one shitty motel. dehydrated food, layers of wool clothing, flashlights and batteries and cash in small bills. not that he'll need them now, but you never know. the trauma kit, maybe. he doesn't know what he's walking into. threw a bottle of his own lorazepam into the backpack. trazodone. oxy. he doesn't know.

the conversation he had with robby before he left echoes in his head, the sustained vibration of a drum. three months on that fucking dumb fucking motorcycle. can't imagine the impulse to willingly climb aboard something that makes paralytics and amputees and brain-dead cracked-skull broken-neck patients out of regular people. not even soldiers or firefighters or anybody dying for a reason, a cause, however ignoble, however stupid. told him make sure you come back, not bothering to hide the desperate crack in his voice. told him if it gets dark, you call me.

his car is parked outside his garage and the car's interior is warm now, hot leather through his cargos, the brief searing burn of the seatbelt metal on his skin as he buckles it. it's mid-august and he hasn't seen robby in six weeks.

jack pulls over on the interstate somewhere in central minnesota to throw up. it's dark now and he leans over the concrete barrier on the shoulder to spit into dry grass. he's been driving for nearly twelve hours, speeding, trying to distract himself with the radio turned up loud. robby sent him an address in north dakota, just shy of the canadian border, a motel that jack looked up pictures of at a stoplight on the way out of pittsburgh. two floors, neon sign out front. roadside place, motorcyclists and parked cars.

his entire body is flooded with so much cortisol that he's felt it for miles tingling in his fingertips, souring in his mouth. can't remember the last time he felt this way, so scared he was sick with it. maybe the night before he shipped out the first time. maybe the night he and robby don't talk about anymore, sweat and ache on a dark new orleans street, the last time he saw the man for five years. his leg fucking hurts, prosthetic pinching and digging into the skin of his residual limb.

jack opens the car door and roots around in his bag for mouthwash, which he swigs and spits. burn in the back of his throat, the headlights of passing cars. sticky faded humidity of night in summer. back in the drivers seat, he curses himself not for the first time for not installing a left-sided accelerator pedal. thinks about taking off his leg for a minute, checking for sores, and decides against it. instead, he dials robby again, watches the phone ring, stares at his contact photo. robby with light in his eyes, back when that was something he had. blue flannel shirt, the hair in his beard still all dark brown. no answer. fuck.

the call came three hours after jack got off his shift. seven p.m. to seven a.m., the usual hustle and drag of a night in the ED, periods of lull punctuated by intensity. that night was worse than usual, busier. heavy rain meant more car accidents, experienced drunk drivers no longer so confident behind the wheel. a psych patient waiting for a bed screamed and paced for hours, a woman who insisted no one laid a hand on her came in with bruises fingerprinted into her neck and a boyfriend who wouldn't meet his eyes. afterwards, jack could do nothing but shower and fall into bed immediately.

when he woke, it was around ten and he was twisted in the sheets, insistent tone of his cell phone on the bedside table, and he almost ignored it until he realized it was robby.

they hadn't spoken since he left. jack's texts gone unanswered, green bubbles that he wasn't even sure were delivering. wasn't entirely confident Robby was alive. turned the possibility over in his mind again and again when he couldn't sleep. the likelihood of him being the one to get the call. if he crashed his bike somewhere, nowhere, off-the-map, would jack even find out? would he know? would he get that feeling he sometimes hears the family of patients describe, that feeling of sudden dawning, intuition, creeping unavoidable dread? he certainly didn't get it with his wife. was waiting in line at the supermarket, debating if she'd be able to keep down a kit-kat, if he bought one. they were her favorite.

it took several seconds for robby to say anything after jack picked up the phone, and jack briefly thought the call was an accident, a pocket dial. and then he spoke, and his voice was rough through the line. "jack." Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. "i don't want to do this."

"do what?" jack asked, already sitting up, already reaching for his prosthetic. "the trip?"

"yeah," robby said, and then immediately, "no. i don't want to do this," and jack saw it then, what he meant. whatever he was planning, however he was planning to not come back. whatever it was that he held in his hand then, the difference between robby safe and alive and something else. knife, gun, pills, the turn of his motorcycle wheels, the slightest tilt into oncoming traffic.

the last hour of the drive is the hardest. making his way across north dakota in the middle of the night, wide open blackness of the pavement in front of him, so dark and inky it looks wet. jack eats two protein bars from his bag. he picks up a disgusting coffee from a gas station even as everything in him screams to keep moving, to not waste time. styrofoam cup and grinds lingering in boiling, tasteless liquid. he doesn't want to be incapacitated with exhaustion when he gets there. wants to be able to meet whatever comes.

robby could be gone by now, he knows. he could be gone gone, dead on the thin fucking carpet of the motel room floor, or he could be gone, fled to somewhere jack won't be able to find him. he could be drunk or high or irreparably hurt. he could be fine, and he could laugh at jack's haggard exhaustion, at his frantic sixteen-hour drive, and jack wouldn't even be angry, he wouldn't, he would fall to his knees in gratitude instead. he would cry.

jack tries mostly to prepare himself for the other possibilities. resuscitating robby, calling some bum-fuck EMS that'll take forever to show, bringing him to a level iii trauma center where jack won't be able to do shit but watch. driving him to the hospital himself, unharmed but dead-eyed and incoherent, filling out the paperwork as his eyes blur. finding robby passed out drunk, throwing him into a freezing shower, washing vomit off his shirt in the bathroom sink. doing nothing, because there's no life left in him anymore, because he's empty and pulseless and white, and jack will never get to say any of the things that have been clawing their way out of his chest, because he won't be around to hear them.

the motel is nicer than it looked online, which is a weird kind of comfort. dark brick, flowers in bloom against the walls and tucked underneath the outdoor stairwell, name displayed in a sickly yellow-green. jack parks at the far end, near the line of motorcycles. spots robby's bike among them, scuffed and slightly worse for wear but still intact. black leather seat and silver on the handlebars. when he steps out of the car, he's enveloped by clammy damp air and the sky above him is so empty and unclouded he can see dozens of stars.

robby's room is on the second floor and jack takes the stairs two at a time. ignores the squeeze and bruise of his leg, the tingling of nerves, the nausea turning again in his stomach. his mouth tastes like coffee and he breathes through his nose until his lungs are full and then lets it all go at once. moths hum and buzz as they collide with the yellow glow of the ceiling lights, and jack knocks on robby's door. quiet first, then louder, insistent raps of his knuckles. a few moments later robby opens the door and jack's knees almost give out.

he's there in the motel room doorway, the room golden and behind him, and jack is relieved down to the tips of his fingers, numbing him below the wrists. "you're here," he says, words leaving his mouth without meaning anything, really. "jesus, brother, you're here, i'm so happy you're here," and then he's dropping his bags and pulling robby into his chest with enough force to hurt. the reality of him, solid and breathing and standing. alive, waiting for him.

robby's hands come up to jack's back, hesitant brush of them against his T-shirt, nervous sweat pasting it to his skin, and one moment his fingertips are barely touching jack and then the next moment they are, definitive long fingers gripping at his shirt, hands spread wide. robby bends his head, presses his face into jack's trapezius, forehead to muscle, and jack feels shaky breath against his skin. his own heart is beating like it's about to leap out of his chest and pummel robby in the face and he's certain his knees are going to collapse out from under him and then they do, and jack falls, sort of, stumbles, ends up down on the ground, on the scratchy disgusting floor, and robby's still there, still holding him, still breathing.

jack isn't sure who starts it. he isn't sure who starts it but he knows that robby is the one that continues it, the one that opens jack's mouth with his and presses himself hard against jack's body and twists his hand in his hair and pulls. and jack is hopeless against that, absolutely hopeless. so happy at the pure fact of robby in front of him unharmed that he doesn't think, that his body doesn't think, that he forgets why he's there at all.

years, since they first did this, and it feels different. they're different now, their bodies are different now. jack's residual limb throbs like a heartbeat. robby's bigger, softer. no longer the scrawny boy he'd push down onto a twin bed, thin and pale enough for his ribs to be visible through his skin, prominent collarbone jack would suck and bite and bruise. his beard scrapes at jack's skin and jack has not kissed or been kissed in two years. not since emma, her lips only just gone cold, before they pulled the sheet over her face and she became something else, a body. robby is warm. he's warm and he's alive.

they kiss like they're grappling with each other, neither willing to lead or to follow. jack's head swims. his eyes are open but everything in the room blurs together into a soupy shade of orange and so he closes them. robby makes a soft, desperate sound and jack realizes half a second later that he's unbelievably hard, harder than he's been in years, the kind of hard he thought he left behind somewhere in the middle east along with the rest of his leg, and he can feel robby's erection too, pressing up against his hip. jack's stomach swoops, dips. like standing at a great height. sudden reminder of where he is and why.

"fuck," jack says. "robby. robby, we gotta stop."

robby groans against his mouth. "don't," he says, muffled, and he gets an arm around jack's back, strong and unyielding. jack thinks for a second that robby may pick him up, throw him onto the bed, but instead he extends a hand, pulls him to his feet and kisses him again. "don't want to," he says, and jack's not sure if he's talking about himself or trying to convince jack of something. the effect is the same either way. jack fantasizes about this, sometimes. still. feels shaky about it afterwards, and guilty. robby with all that bare naked want on his face, holding him. he never thought. he.

"okay," jack says. "okay, let me get my leg off." sits on the edge of the bed to remove it, but robby does it before he can, rolls up the leg of his pants and eases it off, wincing softly at the small fresh bruises, the blistered skin. he runs his fingers over it and it stings, hurts, but jack feels it go right to his dick anyway, robby kneeling in front of him, hands on bare skin.

"sorry," robby says, still looking at jack's leg, and jack snorts a quiet laugh that comes out breathless.

"not your fault," he says and robby shakes his head.

"you drove all this way for me," he says. "i shouldn't— i didn't—"

"i did," jack says, and he kisses robby again, messy, with tongue. His skin is buzzing. logic gone almost entirely. "robby, we have to talk after this, okay? promise me."

robby just smiles, the corner of his mouth tilting up, teeth worrying at his lower lip. "tomorrow," he says, and jack shakes his head. there's heat blooming and pulling inside him, expanding outward, growing fast like a weed.

"not good enough," he says. "i'm done with your shit, mike, i'm serious."

robby laughs then, low and sarcastic, and jack sort of wants to kill him. he grips him by the collar of his t-shirt and pulls him up in a fist, shoving him onto the bed hard enough that the mattress makes a noise when robby hits it, the sound of springs creaking. for a moment, the man is blinking at him, stunned, then his hand reaches to the front of his jeans, to the outline of his cock in them, thick and hard, and he's touching himself through his pants, neck straining as he looks up at jack, whose mouth is so full of saliva he thinks he's about to start drooling.

"you want me to be mean to you? is that it?" jack's on his hands and knees on the bed then and robby's breathing is speeding up, his face reddening. he nods, tilting his head back. there's a tightening in the muscles of his throat as he swallows, and jack grips robby's wrist, taking his hand off of himself and pinning his arms to the bed. “too bad,” he says. robby makes a noise from deep in his chest that sounds like something dying.

jack straddles him and takes his face in both hands. rough scrape of his beard against jack's palms, messy and untrimmed. flush of his sunburnt face, freckles scattered across his sharp nose. he tilts robby's face up towards his and kisses him deep and long and it's tender in a way they've never really been with each other. reminds jack a bit of being married, which makes him want to cry. it's been so long since he's been like this with anyone. feels a sob welling in his throat, choking.

"how do you want it, huh?" jack asks when he feels capable of speaking again. he leans over robby, the breadth of his body, long under him, and hard, says it again into the crook of his neck, sweat and soap and beer, and robby mumbles something unintelligible. "speak up, brother. come on." he pulls back slightly, drags robby up by the collar of his shirt, and robby's eyes are wet and black.

"i don't know," he says. "like you used to. whatever you want." he leans back on his palms, looks a bit wild. hair sticking up in every direction.

"i'm asking you what you want," jack says, and robby just groans, flops back down onto the bed and thumps his head against the mattress. once, twice.

"i want to die, jack, so i don't think we should do what i want right now."

it's hardly standard of care, robby bent in half on the bed. couldn't be farther from it. sounds he's making, rough, deep breaths from his chest. curve of his stomach and the hair on the backs of his thighs. suicidal ideation how to know. involuntary commitment long term effects. initiate 302 hold number of signatures. he's impossibly tight around jack's fingers, winces and exhales and shakes as he works him open.

"hurts?" jack asks, mouth bone-dry. guilt he feels, compounded by something else, sensation of neglect. moral conflict underneath every movement like the steady buzz of television static. they're both naked now, and robby wants to die. last day before he left, the way he said it then, the way jack heard it. shouldn't have let him leave. trauma room just empty, sterile draping and gloves on the ground, lingering smell of blood and betadine. last procedure they'd done together. might ever do. and instead of doing something, jack's fingering him. his ears are ringing. he stops moving and robby pushes himself back into his hands.

"no," he says thickly. "hurry up."

jack removes his fingers, squeezes more of robby's lube out of the bottle and works a third in alongside the other two. robby makes a soft sound, falls further forward onto his forearms.

"you're tight," jack says. hates how it sounds, like something said by a stranger. hates that he wants this so fucking bad, that he feels his cock pulse every time robby breathes, despite everything.

robby scoffs. "you have huge fucking fingers," he snaps in response, and jack responds by teasing at his prostate. all the air leaves robby's lungs in a punch. "abbot," he says, a plea, and jack groans, leans forward to press his dick against robby's ass. ruts there for a second, breathes.

"ah," he says. "shit, robby, you sure?"

robby nods and jack watches the back of his head move. has the sudden need to see his face, now, can't move forward without it.

"turn over," he says. he taps at robby's hip, and robby shakes his head. movement, again, brown hair just starting to streak through with gray. flushed all down the back of his neck. "you don't get to fuckin' dissociate on me." there's a long, impossibly weighty pause before robby groans, moving to lie on his back. he's just as red in the face as everywhere else and his pupils are huge.

"is this not already a bad enough idea as it is?" he says, and jack just nods. he gets his hands on the backs of robby's thighs, pushes them to fold in towards his body. robby winces at the stretch, as inflexible literally as he is in every other way. familiar sound, that. last time he heard it. just after emma got sick. drunk and quick against robby's front door. nauseated then relieved feeling like purging something. jack notches his cock against robby's hole, presses in just slightly and then more than slightly. "oh," robby says. "fuck."

hardly the first time between them but feels like it. blood pooling in jack's dick, hands numb again, foot numb. brain fizzing like fireworks. he enters robby then, slow like wading into hot water, and the sensation is so intense that he has to close his eyes.

"fucking shit," jack says, and it comes out on a wheeze. wonders briefly if he's dreaming. vivid dream like he had when he was discharged, will wake up soon screaming, clutching at the pillows. when he opens his eyes, robby is there in front of him, real. fifty-four and twenty-three and forty-eight and thirty-seven all at once, chest heaving.

"you feel so—" robby's voice is wet, clinging to his throat. "jack, I can't—"

"yeah, you can," he says, starting to move his hips. "i know what you can take." growling sound from his chest. practically unbearable. not going to be long before he comes. nothing else has. nobody else. second nature almost to do it the way robby likes. riding a bike, or whatever. "touch yourself for me, yeah? i miss watching you do that."

"you do?" robby's reaching for his dick between them right away, big hand fast and rough on it. easier for him to listen, here, always has been. makes jack feel heat gathering in his belly, pulling everything taut. "you think about me still?"

jack laughs, rough and surprised. "fucking— always, mike, jesus. never stopped." he's sweating now, feeling it dampen the curls at his temples. "think about you like that." his next thrust shoves robby's pillow into the headboard. squeak of the mattress under them, the rumpled sheets. "like this. on your back. on your knees, too. inside me." he takes another desperate breath. "fuck, you have no idea. no—oh, fuck—idea."

"yeah?" robby's the one that's got his eyes closed now, head back, that practiced steady grip gone clumsy. teenage abandon on his face almost, chasing it. "you jerk off?" the air leaves his lungs in a desperate huff. "you touch that dick and think about me, abbot? huh?"

fuck. jack stills his hips for half a second, clenches his jaw tight enough to break a tooth. could come. might, immediately, barely inside him thirty seconds. "yeah," he says, all he can manage. might cry too. come and cry.

"me too," robby says, and his free hand grabs at jack's hip, his lower back, presses him in harder, deeper. they move together, tension coiling up, electric.

"you know what i like most though?" jack braces his arms, brackets robby's body, closes him in. the wet harsh slide of their bodies together. "you can't—" he bites back a moan, and robby grips his hip, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. "you can't hide from me like this," he says. the words feel like something that should be a joke, light, teasing, and jack tries, but it comes out as serious as he means it. robby makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a sob, turning his head away.

"fuck off," he says, voice shaking, but when he looks back at jack his eyes are glassy like they get right when he's about to come and his breath hitches. jack feels his own orgasm building too, barrelling towards him, a trainwreck of a thing. robby made him come so hard he blacked out, once. he said he was dehydrated but he wasn't really. he wasn't at all.

"i wish you'd let me see you like this all the time," jack says. the words catch in his diaphragm, come out strangled. "i like it, robby."

"you do not like it." that same screwed-up face he always makes when he's trying to be avoidant. blinking fast, wetness darkening his eyelashes. "no one likes it."

"i like it." he does. every time, now and before and before and before. fumbling in dorm beds and then less fumbling in hotel rooms at medical conferences and then the pattern of it, lasting long after he got married, lasting until the guilt turned too much, made it all sour. "you ask for things. you let me take care of you."

robby at a loss for words. just stares at him, wide-eyed, and jack can't take it, starts fucking him harder, faster, punching ragged breaths out of both of them. it's too good, too much. he doesn't want it to end ever, not ever.

"can't lose you," jack says, voice pulled hoarse and raw. "can't. want you like this every day." he rubs his thumb over robby's cheek, up to pull at his hair, and robby's hips buck towards him.

"i'm close," he says instead of a reciprocation, turning his face to the side. "i'm gonna come, i'm—" he's blushing hot and red across his cheeks and neck. jack grabs robby's chin, turns it back.

"look at me," jack says, practically rasps it, a sound he doesn't recognize that feels like it comes from the hot core of him. "c'mon, baby, don't look away."

robby's looking right into jack's eyes when he comes in his hand, mouth wet and open. the sight of it sends a shiver through jack's whole body, and then he's joining him, pulling out to spill on robby's chest, groaning.

he's lightheaded, everything swimming in color and shadow. doesn't remember the last time he came like that. his own hand or anybody else's. takes the breath out of him like a punctured lung.

from his position on top of robby, jack can see the exact moment that his shoulders fall and his face crumbles, creasing in on itself. he lies down next to him and pulls him in. nose to his neck, gripping him across his back, fingers pressed into his ribcage. cool metal of his magen david chain against jack's cheek. rough polyester of the motel room duvet. somewhere in the distance, a car alarm. in his arms, robby cries.

robby's not sure how long it's been. time feels stretchy and pliable as taffy. the tears come in nauseous waves, sweeping him under and spitting him out, gasping. jack hasn't moved, just breathes into the crook of robby's neck, rubs soothing circles into his side. he's warm, always, like a fucking heated blanket. comfort of it digs further into robby's chest, scraping out the bottom of whatever he has left to give.

he can't remember the last time he was held while he cried. doesn't have memories of it from when he was a kid. his mother fuzzy at the edges of his recollections now, his father never there at all. his grandfather stoic and then dead, his grandmother warm but not like that. he would have never cried in front of her anyway, felt too guilty always. his fault she had someone to take care of at all, his fault that his mother dumped him on his grandparents' doorstep one day when he was eight years old. didn't matter. he'd grown up fine. he had a nice life. he just doesn't want to have it anymore.

he sobs again, like it's been ripped out of him. exhausting. he's so tired. so fucking tired. this, everything. existing inside of his skin. remembers what he always said to his staff. someone shaken at the loss of a patient, something triggering their own bullshit. he knows it well. it's just grief leaving the body. robby's tried to get all his grief out. kept filling with more instead, water line rising.

robby reaches up a hand to wipe at his face and it comes away soaked. dim realization that he's still covered in come, sticky and dried now into the hair of his chest and abdomen and right hand, fucking disgusting. he sniffles. his skull feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, headache throbbing behind his eyes.

"hey," jack says, voice soft and hoarse, not quite a whisper. "how're you doing?"

robby tries to laugh but it doesn't come. opens his mouth then to speak and isn't sure what to say. i'm fine? i'm bad? i am incredibly embarrassed and incredibly lonely and i'm not sure which impulse is going to win out? he just shakes his head. jack moves his hand to robby's shoulder and squeezes it.

"you gonna let me take care of you?" he asks, leaning down to chase robby's gaze with his own, and the idea of any of it makes his skin itch, his chest ache. he deals with things himself. mess only his own, no one else's. but he's so tired, and jack is here, and he doesn't have fight left. and this was supposed to be the last night anyway. anyway. might as well.

"yeah," he says. like their handoff. here's the wreck i'll be leaving you with.

dawn comes, pink streaking the sky outside their windows, birds chirping on the staircase railing. they shower together and it's tender, jack soaping up a washcloth and running it across robby's stomach, the back of his neck. robby faces the shower head, hot water against his closed eyes. too exhausted now to even feel shame at the pathetic state of his body, flabby and wrinkled under jack's hands. it feels so good to be touched. didn't realize how much he's needed it. by himself on the road all this time. nothing more than words in passing and no one's palms like this.

robby realizes he's crying again, but his tears mix with the water. He hears silicone against the tile, the squeaking sound of the cover on jack's waterproof prosthetic as he moves, and then he's reaching up and massaging shampoo into robby's hair. robby tilts his head back, and jack's free hand makes its way to his throat, strokes the vulnerable thin skin there with his thumb. like saying i got you, and he lets him. an animal showing its belly.

when they're dried off and dressed, jack takes him to the diner across the road. they're the first in, bell tolling brightly above the door, floors still smelling vaguely of bleach. they sit in a corner booth and jack orders for both of them, eggs and bacon and chocolate chip pancakes like they're kids. hot coffee with milk. orange juice. a muffin too, why not. robby hasn't looked in the mirror in two days. let jack run a comb through his hair, hand him a t-shirt. he's sure the dark circles under his eyes are red now, dry flaking skin.

they eat, and jack talks, unspooling some long story about an army buddy of his who was a picky eater, looking up the scores for last night's pirates game and putting his phone down flat on the table so they can watch the highlights together. robby's starving all of a sudden, forkfuls of warm eggs in his mouth, sickly sweet syrup over the pancakes. the sun comes hot through the window. jack across from him, his freckled forearms. foot pressed against his under the table. enough, right then. surging feeling in his chest for the first time in a long time. their crooked smiles meeting across the table.

when they get back to his room, robby's headache has taken on an almost rhythmic quality, pounding. black spots in his vision and little shimmering lights. he lies down on the bed, drapes his arms over his face. hears jack shuffling around and then feels the mattress adjust as he sits down. solid, comforting weight of him.

"you still like the tv on?" jack asks, and the softness of it makes his eyes tear. Instead of crying he nods and then jack's up again, retrieving the remote. cable channel playing a sitcom, something with a laugh track. turned down low and quiet, the dialogue just a rumble.

"thank you," he mumbles, turning over to press his face into the pillow. jack rests his hand between robby's shoulder blades, those gentle precise fingers.

"anytime, brother," he says. then, "you want me to— can i—?" his voice rasps a little and robby cracks an eye open to see jack's face. he's looking away like he doesn't want to see robby's indecision. but there isn't any, he wants to say. he wants to say of course, yes, always.

"mm." robby nods, covering his eyes again, room going dark. there's the rustle of sheets and the sound of jack removing his prosthetic and its liner and then he's back, pulling robby close against his front, sliding a hand underneath his t-shirt, across his stomach, his chest. so many years since they slept like this in a tiny dorm room bed, robby's gangly limbs hanging practically over the end, jack's sturdy smallness, his breath, the bite of his teeth on robby's earlobe. he leans back into jack, connecting their bodies at every point. together, like one person.

"no funny business now," jack says, voice low and hoarse against his ear. "we gotta sleep, okay?"

robby groans. "don't call it funny business," he says, and hears jack snort out a laugh. to lay with him like this again. to want again. "in the morning," he says, feeling oddly light, "i'm gonna get my mouth on you."

"it is the morning," jack says into his neck, smirking, but robby's too tired to say anything back, too tired to even move the muscles that would open his mouth, and the tv is droning, quiet, and jack is there, and then he's asleep and it's good, finally. it's so good.

the sky is just starting to darken when robby wakes again, sweating through his shirt from the heat of jack at his back, his arm still flung across robby's body. the tv is still on and jack is snoring, softly, and he sounds exactly the same. same look on his face too, lips slightly parted, wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out with sleep. robby turns carefully to face him, trying not to jostle the bed, and presses his head to jack's chest. gentle thud of his heartbeat there under robby's ear, the smell of his laundry detergent, and it's all there again, not in pieces but in entirety, an impossible, crushing weight.

the plan when he left pittsburgh was to try to tie up as many loose ends as he could. spent a week of nights cleaning his apartment, boxing up everything to make it easier for whoever will have to deal with it later. whitaker, with his house keys, empty hangers in the closet. tried to make amends. langdon, mohan. have two senior residents ever hated their chief attending as much as they hate him? unlikely. standing outside in the ambulance bay with mohan in the dark still-humid air. pure fucking recognition and irritation at the fact of him in front of her. resonant depth to her voice despite it, wishing him well. and then langdon. had been hoping he'd never have to see him again. showing up to his first shift back fresh-faced and quoting self-help mantras, not slinking around enough for robby's liking, not grateful enough at a second chance. you need help. shut the fuck up. robby thought about leaving a note, but he wasn't sure who for. there's something implicit in death, anyway. an implied apology. sorry for leaving early. sorry for being here at all.

he wore his helmet when he left that night. couldn't be rolling back into PTMC via ambulance. humiliation of that. bones of his face all mangled, scalp separated from his head by the drag of the pavement. everyone cutting his clothes off. no, there's no way it's him. oh god. i fucking told you he wasn't wearing his helmet. no, he'd wait until he was further away, and then.

and then, yesterday, he'd meant to. get on his motorcycle and drive himself straight off of the freeway. enough to make it look like an accident, inevitable. wouldn't veer into traffic, doesn't want to take anyone out with him. just a brick wall, just the side of a highway ramp. picked a few spots when he rode in. nice and anonymous. instead, something in him. jack and the way they'd hugged goodbye, the soft familiar tone of his voice saying if it gets dark, you call me, and then robby's fingers were moving independently of his brain somehow, selecting jack's name on his phone.

the hours spent waiting for abbot felt borrowed, like they'd never belonged to him in the first place. wasn't even sure what he did. sat on the floor. smoked in the parking lot until his throat felt raw and disgusting. and then, fuck. jack there in the doorway. jack bending him over on the bed. jack's dick, jack's hands, jack's mouth. crying afterwards and eating pancakes. hope bright and golden.

he feels sapped of it now.

delusional, this entire thing. like some make-a-wish dream. i'm going to kill myself tomorrow; here's what i'd like for my last day on this mortal plane. to be fucked by a man who hasn't seen him that way in years. to stand in the shower and have someone wash his hair. to eat one last breakfast. to be held. and jack, pitying him, always, because robby's always been the one of the two of them who can't handle shit.

jack lost both of his parents before he'd even gotten to med school, survived two tours in afghanistan, had his leg blown to pieces by an IED, married a woman who got cancer that spread to her bones, and still he's the same. stupid, sometimes, an adrenaline junkie who loves putting himself in the line of fire, but relentlessly fucking optimistic. and robby there in front of him, pathetic, undone by nothing but work and loneliness and death. the basic human things. he can't even take those.

robby gets out of bed quietly. grabs his jeans from the chair in the corner and dresses in the bathroom under the yellowish ceiling light. looks at himself in the mirror and there's a hickey jack sucked into his collarbone. something alternately grasps and lets go deep in his chest. this is for the best. always has been. for him but really for everyone else. even jack, he's sure. relief there. if not at first then eventually. definitely.

he doesn't touch jack on his way out the door. wants to, hesitates by the side of the bed. last and final kiss on the curve of his shoulder. instead, he laces his boots. puts his wallet in his pocket for ID but leaves his phone. heaviness in his chest impossible. to step off the edge finally. to do it alone.

"sorry," robby whispers in jack's general direction, and goes.

jack wakes to the sound of footsteps on the stairs out front, the creak and settle of old wood. he's bleary-eyed, limbs heavy with the residual exhaustion of deep sleep, and he reaches his arm across the bed, searching out robby's frame. he'd startled awake a couple times during the night, breathing hard, afraid he'd been dreaming, but robby was always there, still snoring into the pillow, still with his long body stretched out in the sheets.

he doesn't know why he's not scared this time. extends his hand lazily, certain it will meet robby's back, and when it doesn't it takes jack half a second too long to understand what's happening. robby gone, his side of the bed rumpled and empty. the bathroom dark, door open.

"fuck," jack says out loud. "oh, fuck, fuck, fuck."

he's up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, grabbing for his prosthetic and his jeans. doesn't bother with the liner or with his belt and he's sore from the previous days' drive, residual limb stinging, but it registers only as a dim light in the back of his mind as he stands, limps over to the door. he's still buttoning his pants with one hand as he yanks it open, shouting something that he intends to be either mike or robby but comes out more like a strangled combination of the two, a panicked non-word without meaning. motherfucker. feels like a nightmare where his mouth is open to scream and nothing's coming out. robby, robby, robby. michael. mike. mikey. jesus. he can't feel his hands.

jack practically throws himself down the stairs, head swiveling in both directions as he strides towards the parking lot, around the edge of the building, and then he. robby. there, climbing onto his fucking bonneville, no helmet, nothing in his hands or on his back. "robby!" jack shouts again, and it comes out this time, it comes out right.

robby looks up, startled, but jack's next to him too fast for him to do anything but stare.

"what the fuck is wrong with you, man?" he grabs robby by the shoulders, looking him up and down, turning him roughly in his hands, checking for damage. seeing none, he fixes his eyes on him. stare that robby calls brutal. used to say it made him hard, cracked him open. "where are you going, huh?"

"it's fine," robby says, but he's speaking at the top of his breath, shoulders up by his ears, the way he does when he's lying. "just going for a ride, abbot."

"like hell you are. where the fuck are you riding to? no helmet, no jacket, nothing?" jack feels like he might be breathing too fast. "you're gonna go without saying goodbye? you really think i deserve that little respect?"

robby scoffs. "sorry, major abbot," he shoots back. "that better? should I salute, too? i remember you used to really give a shit about that."

jack's hands twitch at his sides, the back of his throat is pulling like it does before tears. "i drove sixteen hours," he says. "i didn't do that to fuck you, i did it because i'm worried, and you made me feel like i should be, alright? so sorry, but you're not going anywhere."

he can't tell if robby is about to laugh or cry. "sure," he says, and turns his keys in the ignition. the bike roars to life, and jack grabs his arm, wrenching them out of the bike and robby's hand in one gesture, like disarming someone. easier, maybe, and worse because it's robby and he's looking up at jack with a face so utterly achingly open that he looks about twenty-four years old again. "give me those back, jack, jesus. i'm not doing this with you."

"too bad," jack says again, same as the night before, and robby reaches for him, swinging his leg off of the bike and standing. rare that he puts the full breadth of his body behind something, the broadness of him, towering. jack steels himself, that old tingle of adrenaline running up from the base of his spine. he doesn't want to have to tackle robby to the fucking ground in a parking lot in north dakota, but he will. feels like nothing in comparison to what jack has to lose if he goes. robby grasps at him again, gets him by the shoulder, a fistful of t-shirt, and jack grabs his arm, twisting it and pinning it behind his back, pressing robby up against the side of his motorcycle. he can hear robby breathing hard and for one impossibly tiny moment jack has him again, can smell him, feel him under his hands, and then he feels a sharp kick to the shin of his good leg and stumbles back, landing on his ass, gravel pressing into his palms, keys still clutched in his fist.

robby's on top of him then, shoving at him, grabbing, fighting like a fucking animal and jack would almost be impressed if he wasn't so mad so he manages to flip robby onto his back, pin him with an arm against his throat, spit out, "you will literally have to beat me unconscious for me to let you leave, and i don't think you have that in you."

robby's voice is strained and hoarse from the pressure of jack's forearm against his throat. "you don't know what I have in me," he says, grabbing jack's hair hard with his hand, pulling it and twisting in his fingers until jack's head is yanked back, neck tight, and then robby's fist connects with his cheekbone. again, again harder, pain blooming bright and hot, and jack's thinking all of a sudden of the night he's made it a rule to absolutely never think about, and its unfolding in front of him with alarming clarity.

note he wrote, it's nobody's fault, left it on his kitchen table next to the medals he hadn't gotten around to hanging or framing. same as his father, and his grandfather before him. service weapon turned back in at landstuhl with his paperwork, but he had his own guns still, back then. knew that was easiest, quickest. not cleanest, but he'd do his best to minimize the damage. everything laid out, and then his phone rang. he thinks sometimes his life didn't start until that day.

another hit to the side of his face then, his jaw, and then jack sobs deep and loud and robby goes abruptly still on top of him. "jack? jesus, jack, fuck, i'm so fucking sorry, oh my god, i'm so sorry," and he's scrambling off of him, jack's face in his hands, cradling it, gentle, and jack's shaking his head but the sound keeps getting caught in his throat and he can't say what he means which is that it barely hurts, it doesn't hurt at all, i just don't want you to die, you're the only reason i'm still here.

robby's head is filled with a low, insistent buzzing. his hand is throbbing, knuckles scraped and reddened, and jack's got a bruise forming purple on his cheekbone and a rip in the collar of his shirt and he's crying and it's horrifying, the way his face is all screwed up and mouth downturned, the way he's gasping for air. robby staggers to his feet. he'll go. he'll go now, and he knows the right punishment, the only punishment fitting for making jack hurt like that. that's it, the final piece of evidence. he is irredeemably broken. nothing could fix it, not even jack. and then he realizes that jack is still holding onto his keys, and he can't leave, he can't go anywhere, and the knowledge hits him with such force that he sinks to the ground.

they're both there then, on the cooling pavement, and robby tastes the salt of a tear in his mouth before he realizes he's crying too. they sit, distant whooshing sound of cars on the highway an exit road away, and after a while jack's sobs quiet to a sniffle.

"holy shit," he wheezes eventually, sitting up and wiping the back of his hand across his face, robby's keys still clutched in his palm. "you ever think about trying MMA? or you only fight like that when you're mad at me?"

the joke surprises him. robby laughs weakly. "i don't know," he admits.

"i know a good coach," jack says. "i can get you into a gym in pittsburgh, just say the word."

"jesus, jack." robby's heart is thudding in his ears. he inhales deeply, exhales slow through his mouth. jack pulls up the hem of his shirt to swipe at his eyes and it comes off damp.

"i was going to kill myself," he says. "when i got back. after— my leg, and… i wanted to stay. i'm glad now, that i didn't, but when it happened, i'd wanted to stay in the middle east so fuckin' bad. i couldn't stand it. i felt like— it's stupid, but i felt like people were dying just because i wasn't there. like my friends would die, more of them, and i could have stopped it if i was there, but i wasn't able to. i don't know what i thought would happen over there, but i think i didn't realize i would ever come back." jack exhales hard. "and then i did, and i wasn't anywhere close to a whole person anymore. i didn't even feel like a man. i couldn't sleep, and i was in pain all the time, and i was alone."

"jack." robby feels like his stomach has dropped into the soles of his feet. foundation of everything shaken. thinks for the first time, if jack can. maybe i, too. "i'm so sorry."

jack shakes his head. "i had a plan, and a day. i wrote—" he laughs softly. "there was a note. and then when the moment came, guess what happened?"

it's robby's turn to shake his head, then, helpless. "what?"

"you called me."

jack remembers it like it hasn't been fifteen years. his phone ringing, the fucking landline, and his shaking hands. doesn't know who he even thought it was, just picked it up on autopilot. no one called him those days, really. sometimes the VA. would you like to. counseling services available. PTSD group meeting every. no. the rest of the time, families of guys he served with. just wanted to let you know that. services will be held on. was bracing himself for that, and then instead there was robby's voice, low and warm and familiar.

"hey," he'd said. "i heard you landed back in pittsburgh. if you're still in the old spot, i've actually got a place a couple blocks away now if you want to get a beer sometime."

in the present, robby's staring at him from the parking lot ground, eyes wide. "i barely even remember that," he says, voice streaked with guilt, and jack laughs.

"it's okay," he says. "you don't have to. that's my point. all it took for things to change was an outstretched hand at the right moment. to be reminded that i existed, and i'd be missed."

"you would have been," robby says, jaw tightening. "i mean, fuck. i already did miss you."

"i know," jack says easily. "i know that now." he runs a palm over his face. "that's what i want to be for you, man. the hand."

robby swallows, and jack watches the movement of his throat. he's beautiful in the warm fading sunlight, the outdoor bulbs turning on above each motel room door. he can see every year they've known each other in the hollows and lines of robby's face, the sunburned skin of his neck. "i don't know," he says. "aren't you not supposed to stay alive for other people?"

"i'm not asking you to," jack says easily. "what i want is for you to decide to stick around for a day, because i did it for you once. and i'm so glad i did. and then tomorrow, i'm gonna ask you to do the same thing. every single day until it sticks." he feels tears hot and stinging welling in his eyes again, and lets them come. "and because i think more than you want to die, you want to know that at least one person would not be alive without you." robby opens his mouth, and jack stops him with a stare. "not because you were their doctor. because you were their friend. you were more than that. you are."

robby hangs his head. "fuck," he says, half-muffled, and then his shoulders start to shake. jack pushes himself to his feet, shoving the keys to robby's motorcycle deep into his pocket. he steps towards him, bloody nose and aching cheek and fifty years of baggage, and holds out his hand.

"what do you say?" he says, palm open, and robby looks at him for a long moment. those big sad eyes through tears. jack feels like he's stared into them more often than he's stared into the mirror. that face. that slightly ragged, untrimmed beard. robby. jack wants to reach out and grab his chin, kiss him so deep and long that it's enough to keep him. when he stands, if he stands, he will. jack is shaking a little, and he isn't sure if it's fear or anticipation.

it feels like forever passes in the humid air between them, wide dark sky gaping open above their heads, and then robby grabs jack's hand and lets him pull him to his feet.

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